Dumarest sprawled on the shadowed ground. "We'll rest," he said. "Cool down, and replace our filters while we're at it." He looked sharply at Clemdish. "Are you alright?"
"I'm beat." Clemdish scraped a mass of crushed fungi from his suit's diaphragm. "This is knocking the hell out of me," he admitted. "We ought to get out of these suits, Earl, sleep, maybe. Have something to eat at least. Much more of this, and we won't be much good when we hit the top."
Clemdish made sense. Dumarest leaned back, conscious of the quiver of overstrained muscles, the jerk of overtired nerves and knowing that he had driven them both too hard. The worst part of the journey was still before them: the steep, treacherous slope on the far side of the hills and the cliff falling to the sea. Tired men could easily make mistakes and one could be fatal.
"All right," he said. "Well set up the tent, check the suits and have something to eat."
"Something good," said Clemdish, reviving a little. "I've got a can of meat in the pack."
It was good meat. They followed it with a cup of basic, spacemen's rations, a creamy liquid thick with protein, laced with vitamins and sickly with glucose. Moving awkwardly in the limited confines of the tent, Clemdish stripped and laved his body with a numbing compound to kill the irritation of sensitive skin.
As he worked, Dumarest looked back over the plain. The sun was swinging down to the far horizon, past its zenith now, but still with a quarter of the way to go. Already he thought he could see a tinge of growing cloud on the skyline. He thought it his imagination, probably, for when the rain clouds gathered, they came rolling from the sea to hang in crimson menace before shedding their tons of water.
In the distance, he could see the tiny motes of rafts as harvesters gathered their crop. As he watched, one seemed to grow, almost swelling as it rode high above the plain.
"It's coming towards us." Clemdish finished wriggling back into his clothes and suit to be fully protected aside from his helmet. "What's it doing this far out from the station?"
"Scouting, probably." Dumarest frowned as the raft came steadily closer. They were a long way from the harvesting sheds, and scouts worked in a circle rather than a straight line. Distance equaled money when it came to collecting the crop, and never before, to his knowledge, had they ever harvested close to the hills.
Clemdish scowled at the nearing vehicle. "It's a scout, right enough," he admitted. "One of Zopolis's machines. But who the hell ever heard of a scout carrying three men?" He looked at his partner. "Are they looking for us. Earl? Is that what you think?"
"They could be."
"That rope." Clemdish bit his lower lip. "I must have been crazy, Earl. I'm sorry."
Dumarest didn't answer. It was too late for regret. If the men in the raft were searching for them, they would either find them or not. Nothing else really mattered.
He watched as the raft came closer, then veered along the line of the hills, the men inside using binoculars to examine the terrain. It rose, circled and returned, dropping towards the plain as if those inside had seen something of interest.
Clemdish sighed as it turned and went back the way it had come. "They didn't see us, Earl," he said. "They didn't find what they were looking for."
Dumarest wasn't sure.
* * *
Wandara glowered at the pilot of the raft. "Come on!" he yelled. "What you waiting for?"
The man scowled but lowered the vehicle carefully to the weighing plate of the scale. He cut the anti-gravs and sat, waiting.
The overseer checked the weight, made a notation on his clipboard and climbed up to the open control bench. Behind a low seat, the loading well of the raft was open to the sky. He looked at the mass of fungi, then glared at the pilot.
"You're cutting too far down the stalk," he said. "We want the caps and don't you forget it. Return with a load like this again, and I'll knock it off your pay. Understand?"
"Why tell me?" The man was overtired, jumpy and quick to take offense. "I just drive this thing."
"That's why I'm telling you," snapped Wandara. "You tell the others. Now get unloaded and remember what I said."
He jumped down as the raft lifted and rose above a hopper. The under-flaps opened and the mass of fungi fell into the chute. Two men with poles rammed it down as the raft drifted away, under-flaps closing as it went.
Zopolis came out of the processing shed, a blast of cold air following him into the sunshine. He looked at the raft and then at the overseer. "I heard you shouting. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing I can't handle, Boss."
"They trying to load us up with stalk instead of caps?"
"The usual. Boss. Nothing to worry about. They're just getting a little tired."
Tired and greedy, thought Zopolis, but that's to be expected. The five-percent cut hadn't been popular and the men were probably trying to get their own back by careless work. Up to a point it could be tolerated, but beyond that he'd have to clamp down.
"How's the new man, the one on the scout," he said.
Wandara didn't look at the agent. "No complaints as yet, Boss."
"I hope there won't be any," said Zopolis. "I didn't like putting a brand-new worker on a job like that. You sure he knows what it's all about?"
"I checked him out good." Wandara was sullen. "Tested him on twenty-three types, and he could name them all; knows about harvesting, too. He did the same kind of work on Jamish."
Zopolis frowned. "That's an aquatic world."
"That's right, Boss," agreed Wandara. "He was scouting for fish and weed. Underwater work, but the same in principle: hunt and find, find and report, report and lead. Only here he doesn't have to lead, just send in the coordinates."
"As long as he does that," said Zopolis. "I don't want the men to be idle. They won't like losing pay, and the company won't like losing produce." He dabbed at his sweating face. "How are we on bulk?"
"On schedule, Boss."
"Let me see your board." Zopolis took it and pursed his lips as he read the figures. "We're running too high on candystalk. Better cut down and concentrate on bella-pellara. Get that scout of yours to locate it for us." He looked up as the raft came drifting towards the weighing plate. "What the hell's happened there?"
A man sat slumped beside the pilot. He whimpered as the overseer jumped up beside him. A tourniquet was bound about his left arm above the stump of his wrist. His left hand had been neatly severed.
"What is it?" demanded Zopolis. "What's wrong with him."
"Hand gone, Boss." Wandara looked at the pilot. "Quarrel?"
"Accident. They were chopping a bole and someone took one cut too many. That or he didn't move fast enough. Do we get another helper?"
"You just wait a while." Wandara helped down the injured man, his face shining with sweat and exertion. "Take it easy, man, you'll be all right," he soothed. "You got insurance?"
"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?"