"The air-cell would continue to work under all conditions, sir."
"And suppose, at the same time, a fungi exploded and coated me with dangerous spores?"
"The filters would take care of that. Spores down to microscopic dimensions would be caught in one or the other of the treble filters. I am perfectly willing to demonstrate the suit under any conditions you may select, sir."
"Do that," suggested Dumarest. "Wear one and follow an expedition; test it as they order. If you remain alive and well you may possibly sell them- next year."
The vendor gave a pained smile. "Surely you jest, sir?"
"No," said Dumarest flatly. "I am perfectly serious. It is you who must be joking to ask men to buy your suits and risk their lives on your unsupported word. These men," he gestured to the other sellers of suits, "live here; they know the conditions. They know they will have to answer for every malfunction of any suit they sell, to the buyer or to his friends. Before you can hope to compete with them, you must equal their reputation."
Dropping the suit, he moved to where the man who had lifted his hand waited. "Hello, Zegun, you looked worried. Has he been stealing your business?"
"Not yet, Earl, but when you showed interest I was anxious," Zegun picked up one of his suits. "He's a smart talker with a flashy line of goods. Cheap too. I can't begin to get near him."
"You don't have to," said Dumarest. "Not until he changes his design. With the filters where he has them and the air cell way back on the shoulders, it's impossible for one man alone to change either the filters or the battery. If the cell does keep working no matter what that isn't important, but who wants to risk his life on a thing like that?"
"No one," said Zegun emphatically. "I'll pass the word. You ready to be suited up now?"
"Later," said Dumarest. "Keep me one by."
He walked on, moving through the crowd, catching the vibrant air of expectancy which pervaded the place. It was always like this just before summer; men would boast a little, make plans, find partners and try to learn from those who had been there before.
A buyer stood on a low platform calling for those willing to sign up with his organization. He offered the basic cost plus a percentage of what was gained but neglected to stress that the basic cost had first to be met before profits could be earned. If a man worked hard and long, he could just make enough to last until the next season.
Another offered a guaranteed sum against a deposited investment.
A third knew exactly where to find a clump of golden spore.
Deafened by the drone of voices, Dumarest passed through the vestibule and out into the fog. It was thinning now, the ruby-tinted mist dissolving beneath the growing heat of the swollen sun. It hung just over the horizon, a monstrous expanse of writhing flame and dull coruscations spotted with black penumbra. It was dying as Scar was dying, as the universe was dying. But Scar and its sun would be among the first to go.
He turned and walked to where the screaming whine of blowers tore the mist to shreds. A cleared space opened before him beyond the fans and the neat paths and colored domes of Hightown, each dome interconnected so that it was possible to stay completely under cover. Men wearing heavy clothing walked the paths with their sprays.
Suddenly restless, he turned to the landing field. Already the ships were arriving loaded with stores, supplies, exotic foods and manufactured goods. There were people too: the hard-eyed buyers, entrepreneurs, entertainers, vendors of a dozen kinds, young hopefuls intent on making a quick fortune and old prospectors unable to stay away.
There were travelers also, those who were willing to ride on a low passage doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate tor the sake of cheap travel. A few would be lucky; many would not live through the summer; most would end in Lowtown, human debris at the end of the line.
"The fools!" said a voice behind him. "The stupid, ignorant fools! Why do they do it?"
"For adventure," said Dumarest. "Because they need to know what lies beyond; because it's a way of life." He turned. "Your way of life, Clemdish. How else did you come to Scar?"
Clemdish was a small, wiry man, barely coming up to Dumarest's shoulder, with angry, deep-set eyes and a flattened nose. He scowled at the ship and the handful of travelers coming from it.
"I was cheated," he said. "The handler lied; he told me the ship was bound for Wain." His scowl deepened. "Some people have a peculiar sense of humor."
"You were lucky," said Dumarest. "He could have cut the dope and let you wake screaming." He stared at the advancing group. The chance of seeing someone he knew was astronomically small, but they were his kind, restless, eager to keep traveling, always on the move.
"Fools," said Clemdish again. "Walking into a setup like this. How the hell do they expect to get a stake? They're stranded and don't yet know it." He rubbed at his nose. "But they'll find out," he promised. "Crazy fools."
"Shut up," said Dumarest.
"You feel sorry for them?" Clemdish shrugged. "Then go ahead and hold their hands, wipe their noses, give them the big hello."
"You talk too much," said Dumarest, "and mostly about the wrong things. Have you anything fixed for the summer?"
"Why? Are you offering me a job?"
"I could be. Interested?"
"If you're thinking of prospecting, then I'm interested," said Clemdish. "On a share basis only. If you're thinking of taking wages, then I don't know. Something else may come up, and it's certain that you'll never get rich working for someone else." He tilted his head as something cracked the sky. "What the hell-"
A ship dropped down from space, held by the magic of its Erhaft drive, aimed arrowlike at the field below. Clemdish whistled.
"Look at that, Earl! A private if ever I saw one! How much money do you need before you can own your own ship?"
"A lot," said Dumarest.
"Then you're looking at real money." Clemdish narrowed his eyes. "What's that blazoned on the hull? Some crazy pattern, but I can't quite make it out. It's familiar though; I've seen it before."
"In a deck of cards," said Dumarest wonderingly. "I've seen it too; it's a joker."
Together they watched the ship as it came to rest.
Chapter Three
Jellag Haig rested cautiously on the edge of his chair and looked thoughtfully at his goblet of wine. It was a deep blue, sparkling as it swirled in its crystal container, reflecting the light in sapphire glitters.
"Our own vintage," said Jocelyn, "from mutated berries grown under rigid control. I would appreciate your opinion."
The trader settled a little deeper into his chair. He was expected to flatter, of course. It was not every day that he was the guest of royalty, but he was experienced enough to know that a wise man never criticized his superiors, certainly not when they had invited him into their vessel, not when there seemed to be a strong possibility of doing business.
Carefully he waved the goblet beneath his nostrils, exaggerating the gesture a little but not enough to make it an obvious farce. The wine had a sharp, clean scent, reminiscent of ice and snow and a polar wind, with an undercurrent of something else which eluded him. He tasted it, holding the tart astringency against his tongue before allowing it to trickle gently down his throat.
It was unnecessary to flatter.
"My father worked for ten years to perfect the formula," said Jocelyn as he poured the trader more wine. "He based it on an old recipe he found in an ancient book and I think he made something in the region of a thousand experiments before he was satisfied. We call it Temporal Fire."
Jellag raised his eyebrows. "For what reason, my lord?"
"You will find out," promised Jocelyn. He smiled at the trader's startled expression. "You see? The full effects are not immediately apparent. Young lovers find the vintage particularly suited to their needs. Would you care for more?"