"Meaning?" Vardoon's face twisted in a snarl. "If you've something on your mind spit it out."
"Nothing, but-"
"We worked, we saved, we didn't gamble. You figure that's wrong?"
Dumarest said, "Forget it, Hart."
"Why? Do we have to take his sneers? I guess he thinks we're company spies or gamblers' shills." Vardoon lifted a hand, closed it into a fist. "I know just what to do about that."
"Forget it," said Dumarest again. He had no wish to draw attention, and a fight in the confines of the raft would be both stupid and dangerous. He frowned as the vehicle lurched, the whine becoming louder. "Something wrong?"
"No." The driver looked back, face strained. "Just the wind. It caught us and we veered."
A lie; there had been no gust and they had not veered. The motion had been more of a dip, a checked fall. Dumarest rose and closed the gap between himself and the driver. Facing him, the row of basic controls was bathed in a yellowish glow.
"Higher." Dumarest looked at the wavering needle of the altimeter. "Put some distance between us and the ground."
"I-"
"What's wrong with this thing?" Dumarest gripped the man's shoulder as he made no answer. "Why the small load?"
"I told you."
"Not me. Hart?" Dumarest looked at the man as he came close. "What lies did this man feed you? The raft," he snapped as Vardoon hesitated, "what did he say about it?"
"A light load makes for a quicker journey. I agree with him."
Dumarest said, "Listen to the engine. The antigrav units. You ever hear them sound like that before? And look at the ground; we're traveling too low and too slow." His hand closed on the driver's shoulder, the fingers meeting bone. "The truth," he said coldly. "I want the truth."
"Please!" The man winced at the pain. "The synch's out. That's all, I swear it!"
"Then lift!"
Dumarest eased his grip and waited as the man tried to obey. The instruments told of his failure. The raft rose, dipped, turned to tilt a little before settling even. Below, the whiteness seemed to stream like smoke as it was blasted by a gusting wind which battered at the raft as it reared like a dying creature.
"Down!" Dumarest glanced to the north, saw the sky filled with the onrushing fury of the storm, turned to look ahead, the ground below. "Down, you fool! Land while you've got the chance!"
A chance lost even as mentioned. The wind hit them before the driver could obey, caught them, ripped the vehicle from any semblance of control. Turned it, tilted it, sent it rolling to smash in the streaming white hell below.
Chapter Two
Somewhere a man was crying; small sounds like the whimpering of a child, a lost, hurt and terrified sound. Dumarest heard it as he struggled from darkness, aware of cold and pain, a sticky something on his face. Cautiously he moved, felt a resistance against his leg, pressed and felt the barrier yield. Turning, he saw light.
It came from one side; a pale luminous glow as of crushed and scattered pearls. A ghostly shine which revealed a battered shambles. Rising, he looked at a face with wide and staring eyes that rested on a head twisted at an impossible angle. The mouth was open in the parody of a smile, the lips curved in the rictus of death. One, at least, no longer had cause for worry.
"Earl?" Vardoon calling from somewhere out of sight. "You alive, Earl? Answer me, damn you! Are you alive?"
He was buried beneath limp bodies, his head against another, mouth pressed hard against matted hair. He groaned as Dumarest pulled him free, blinking, wincing as he touched his head. "What happened?"
"We crashed." Dumarest looked at some of the others. Two were dead, one moaned from the pain of a broken arm, all were dazed. "Get up and help."
He moved off as the man climbed to his feet. The raft had settled on one side, the canopy, he guessed, facing the west and the sun. A wild guess and unimportant; it was enough they had light in which to work. The driver was dead, lolling in his seat, neck broken, eyes still holding his final terror-a greedy fool who had risked too much and had lost the gamble. Flying an unfit vehicle for the sake of hire-money. Dead, he was beyond revenge.
Dumarest pulled him from his seat and crouched before the controls. Lights winked as he touched switches but that was all. The engines remained dead as did the antigrav units. The heaters stayed cold. There was no operating radio and no emergency beacon. He knew there would be no emergency supplies.
"Well?" Vardoon frowned as he heard the news. "No radio so no hope of rescue. So it's up to us if we hope to make it."
"There'll be others." A man was reluctant to accept the obvious. "They'll find us."
Dumarest said, "We must be covered in snow so how could they see us?"
"We'll be missed. They'll come looking."
"Like hell they will!" Vardoon boomed his contempt. "Who gives a damn about a load of scudgers from the mines? We make it on our own or we don't make it at all."
Listening, a man said bitterly, "So what do we do, walk?"
"We survive," said Dumarest. "That's all we can do until the storm is over. We strip the dead and get them outside and share their clothing between us. Is anyone carrying a bowl? Food of any kind? Liquor? You!" He pointed to a face streaked, like his own, with dried blood. "Find a bag of some kind, a container. Fill it with snow and bring it inside to thaw. The rest of you clean up this place. Move!"
Later, as the light beyond the canopy dimmed and the temperature fell, Vardoon said, "What do you figure our chances, Earl?"
"I've had less."
"And survived, naturally, but how many of these could have done the same?" He looked from one to the other, silent shapes wrapped in clothing, huddled for mutual warmth, conserving their energy as Dumarest had advised. Some, numbed by their injuries, dozed with fitful wakenings. More were awake, engrossed with their own thoughts, eager for the escape sleep would bring but as yet unable to gain it. A few had succumbed and lay breathing with ragged echoes.
"Well?" Vardoon asked.
Dumarest chose not to answer. He eased his bruised leg and tried to ignore the throbbing of his lacerated temple. Small discomforts lost in the greater problem.
There had been no food and only a small bottle of brandy recovered from the body of one of the dead. He had it now tucked beneath his robe where it would be safe. There was no other medication, no other source of aid for the cold and starving.
"Thirty miles to town," mused Vardoon. "How far have we covered? Ten? Fifteen? Five? That driver! I wish the bastard had lived!"
Dumarest said, "Call it five. That leaves one day's march. Call it two. Easy."
"In snow God knows how deep. In freezing conditions. Without food or heat of any kind. With no way to guide us-Earl, why try to take me for a fool?"
"Two days," said Dumarest. "Call it three. Once the storm is over we'll have the sun and stars to use as markers. Movement will keep us warm. There could be game-animals will be as hungry as we will be. Fur and bone will burn and we can make soup using the stomach as a pot. Have you never hunted, Hart? Used a sling? Killed and eaten a beast over a fire fueled from its body in a pot made of its guts?" He was speaking loudly, small echoes murmuring from the diaphragm of the canopy. "We'll make it easy. No trouble at all."
Lies to soothe the listeners, Vardoon guessed, and he added his own. Not until the canopy had grown dark and the raft filled with an almost solid darkness did his lips find Dumarest's ear.
"Have you been in a situation like this before?"
"Yes."
"I guessed as much. You knew just what to do. Now tell me the truth-can we make it?"
"If you want to-yes."