Part 2

For four years, he had been persuading himself that he had come from Kansas Province. He had gone on thinking that, all the while subliminally aware that there was no rational reason for that belief, that he had no memories of his earlier life whatever.

Kansas Province had seemed as likely a homeland as any, and he had clung to the idea. As each year passed, it had seemed more and more the truth to him--until van Alen came.

Now he was ready to believe anything. The barriers were down.

"Antarctica?" he repeated.

Van Alen nodded. "You've been the subject of the most intensive manhunt in the history of humanity." That seemed to amuse him; he stopped, chuckled. "A history, to be sure, that stretches back all of four hundred years--but a history, nevertheless. Dale, we've searched through every one of the Twelve Empires for you. You were finally located here, in Iowa Province. The search is over; it took four years."

"I'm happy for you," Kesley said. "You must be pleased to have found me." His voice was restrained, matter-of-fact. "So the search is over?"

"Partially," van Alen said. "We have the treasure, now; we lack only the key to the box. Daveen the Singer, the blind man. The search for him continues."

Kesley frowned impatiently. "What the hell is this all about, van Alen?"

Van Alen smiled warmly. "I'm sorry, Dale. I can't tell you anything, not until Daveen has been found. But that can't take long, now that we've located you."

"Who's this Daveen?"

"A poet," van Alen said. "Also a remarkably skilled hypnotist. We'll find him soon, and then the search will really be over." The Antarctican seemed to be gazing _through_ Kesley, as if he were staring all the way to his distant homeland. His eyes had turned cold again; his face had hardened.

"Suppose I tell you you're a lunatic?" Kesley asked.

"Suppose you do," van Alen said animatedly. "You'd have every right to the opinion. Care to join me in lunacy?"

"Eh?"

"Will you come with me--to Antarctica?"

"I'm not _that_ crazy," Kesley said. He laughed. "You want me to drop everything--the farm, my whole life, just to go off with you to--to _Antarctica_?"

"This is not your life," van Alen said. "Antarctica is. Will you come?"

Kesley laughed contemptuously, but said nothing.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come on," he said roughly. "Enter."

Tina came in and looked defiantly at both of them. She was a tall, red-haired girl in her late twenties, wide-shouldered and high-bosomed, and her eyes held the flash and fire that must have belonged to old Lester once. She and Kesley had been sharing a room for six months.

"Still talking?" Tina asked.

"Is there anything special you want?" Kesley snapped.

"Just wanted to tell you lunch is getting cold, that's all. And you left your plough standing in the field. That crazy mutie horse of yours looks like it's asleep on its feet."

Kesley frowned. "Tell Tim to go down there and finish the furrow, will you? I'll be in for lunch in a couple of minutes."

Tina glanced curiously toward van Alen and said, "With or without company?"

"I'll be leaving in a few minutes," van Alen told her. "You needn't prepare anything for me."

"Sorry to hear that," Tina said acidly. "We were looking forward to feeding you." She turned and flounced out.

"Who's that?" van Alen asked.

"Lester's daughter--Lester's the old man. Her name's Tina. She lives with me."

There was a visible stiffening of van Alen's manner. Leaning forward anxiously, he said, "You--have no children yet, have you?"

"You kidding? That's all I need. Things are complicated enough around here without--"

Van Alen rose abruptly. "I see. Well, I'll have to be leaving now, Dale." He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders tightly and walked across the living room. "It's going to be a long hard journey to the Pole; I must begin at once."

He put his hand to the door. Kesley watched him open it.

"Hold it, van Alen. Don't go."

"Why?"

Kesley shook his head without replying. Van Alen looked at him for a moment, shrugged, and turned a second time to leave.

Without really knowing why he was doing what he was about to do, Kesley cupped his hands. "_Tina!_"

The girl reappeared and confronted him quizzically.

"Get upstairs and pack my things," Kesley ordered her. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Right this minute," he said. "I'm leaving with _him_." He pointed squarely at van Alen.

II

City noises--the dizzying chaos of the metropolis. Kesley and van Alen reined in their mounts at the gates of the city of Galveston, capital of Texas Province and a main bastion of Duke Winslow of North America.

It seemed to Kesley that they had been riding for months. Actually, it had been only a matter of weeks for the long ride through the farmlands, down through Texas to the Gulf.

They moved along now at a slow canter, guiding their horses into a line that disappeared between the heavy copper gates surrounding the walled city. Galveston was an encircled peninsula, guarded by land, open to the sea.

Men in the green-and-gold uniforms of Duke Winslow's guard rode alongside the line, keeping the jostling crowd in order.

"Better get your coins ready," van Alen muttered, as they drew near the gate.

"Coins?"

"This is a fee city. A dollar a head to enter the gate."

Kesley made a face and dug a golden dollar from his pocket. He looked at the tiny, well-worn coin almost wistfully. "The good Duke takes care that his subjects are never weighted with overmuch coinage," he observed. "The Duke's men relieve us of it joyfully."

They rode past the gate. A sleepy-eyed toll-keeper sat, impassively watching, as each newcomer to the city deposited his dollar in the till.

As Kesley passed the tollbox, he flipped the coin in casually. It clinked against several of the others, spun, and bounced out, rolling some ten feet away. Kesley shrugged apologetically and continued ahead.

"Hey there!" The guard's voice was loud and harsh. "Get down there and--"

The voice of the toll-keeper died away. Kesley looked around and saw van Alen down on his knees in the well-trampled mud, rooting in the filth for the coin. The nobleman seemed to show no compunction about crawling before the toll-keeper.

"Here you are, sir." Van Alen obsequiously deposited Kesley's dollar in the tollbox, added one of his own, and handed a third coin to the toll-keeper.

"The boy is sick," van Alen murmured, gesturing significantly. "He does not know what he does."

The toll-keeper nodded curtly and pocketed the dollar. "Get moving, both of you," he snapped.

Kesley, who had trotted a few feet further, halted to let van Alen catch up with him.

"That's a good way to assure a short life," the Antarctican said. "Toll-keepers are notorious for their quick triggers. Don't make needless trouble for yourself, boy."

"Sorry," Kesley said. "It riled me to see him sitting there so smug and taking our money. I didn't really mean to throw the coin on the ground."

Van Alen shook his head sadly. "It riled you," he repeated, his voice mocking. "You've been lucky so far--each time you've lost your temper, you've survived. But better learn to curb it. These people are your superiors, whether you like it or not, and if a Duke wants a dollar to enter his city, you put down your dollar or you ride the other way."

"Superiors, hell! They've got no right--"

"You're just so much dirt, Kesley," the Antarctican said with sudden force. Oddly, the words did not stir Kesley to anger. "Learn that lesson now. Whatever you may think you are, that doesn't alter the fact that you're nothing more than dirt."

Kesley swallowed hard, but said nothing. Van Alen was right, he was forced to admit. The Twelve Dukes ruled supreme, and beneath them came a complex and sharply-defined hierarchy in which, as a farmer, Kesley was close to the bottom. He had no call to flare up at toll-keepers.

But yet--

He shook his head. The fact of his insignificance was one he could accept intellectually, but he couldn't _believe_ in it. And he never would. He had never been able to master the trick of lying to himself.

"What's on the schedule in Galveston?" Kesley asked, as they rode into the town. They entered a wide, crowded thoroughfare; mechanical transportation was forbidden in most parts of North America, but there were plenty of horsecarts and carriages--most of them drawn by variegated mutants of one sort or another, but a few by authentic horses of the Old Kind.

"We'll stay here overnight," van Alen said. "Tomorrow we pick up the steamer for South America. From there it's straight down to Antarctica."

"And then?" Kesley prodded.

"And then you'll be in Antarctica."

That was all the information van Alen would ever give. From time to time on the trip down from Iowa, Kesley had found himself wondering just why he had pulled up roots and struck off with van Alen.

It was probably a combination of factors. Curiosity, certainly. Antarctica was the world's great mystery, keeping itself utterly aloof from the doings of the Twelve Empires. And then there was the vague unease he had felt during his stay in Iowa, the knowledge that he belonged somewhere else. And there was a third factor, too--a kind of randomness, a compulsive but seemingly unmotivated action whose nature he did not understand. He had agreed to come--that was all. _Why_ never entered into it for long.

He was being led. Well, he would follow, and wait for the threads to untangle themselves.

Right now he was in a city for, supposedly, the third time in his life. He had the biographical data down pat: three years ago he had gone to market in Des Moines for his horse, and a year later he had made the trek down to St. Louis to sell grain. Both times he had been repelled by the bigness and squalor of the city. He felt the same emotion now.

But, as had happened the two previous times, there was also the feeling that the city, not the farm, was his natural habitat.

The street before them seemed familiar, though he knew he had never been in Galveston before. It stretched far out of sight, bordered on both sides by low, square, old houses and brightly-colored shops. Hawkers yelled stridently in the roadway, peddling fruits and vegetables and here and there some comely wench's favors.

Van Alen pointed toward a rickety building on their right and said, "There's a hotel. Let's room up for the night."

"Good enough," Kesley agreed.

The proprietor of the hotel was a short man in his early fifties, chubby and prosperous-looking, with an oily stubble of beard darkening his face. His bald head gleamed; it had been newly waxed.

"Hail, friends. In search of lodgings?"

"Indeed we are," van Alen said. "My friend and I are tired, and can use some rest."

The hotelman chuckled. "One room?"

"Suitable," van Alen said.

A thick eyebrow lifted. "Will you boys be needing a double bed?"

"What the hell do you mean--" Kesley began hotly, but van Alen cut him off and said in a calm voice, "Twin beds will be fine, if you've got them."

"Of course," the proprietor said. "Beg pardon." He reached behind him and fumbled on a board laden with keys, mumbling cheerfully to himself. Finally he decided on an appropriate room and unhooked the keys.

"Three-fifty," he said.

Van Alen placed four one-dollar pieces face upward on the desk. The hotelman looked at the coins, grinned, and scooped them up, putting a fifty-cent piece in their place. Van Alen ignored it, and after a moment the hotelman scooped that up as well.

"Come this way, please."

He showed them to a room on the third floor, which was the topmost. It was a boxy, green-walled room with a single naked fluorescent running along its ceiling. Kesley had vaguely hoped that the room would have floor-to-ceiling luminescence, as some of the oldest city hotels were reputed to have, but no such luck. This one had been built since the Blast; no fancy trimmings here.

There were two beds, both without spreads. The part of the sheet that was visible at the top was gray and frayed, though apparently clean. A slatted screen stood folded between the beds.

"Cozy, isn't it?" the proprietor asked. He seemed to be oozing filth. "It's one of our best doubles."

"Glad to hear it," van Alen said. "We've traveled far. We're tired."

"You'll rest well here," the hotelman said, and backed out the door.

"A greasy customer," Kesley commented when he was gone.

"No more so than usual," said van Alen. "They seem to be a breed. He means well, though." The Antarctican shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over a chair. Casually he unfolded the screen, dividing the room in half.

"Economy calls for a single room," he explained. "But privacy is still a fine thing."

Kesley shrugged. He had no intention of violating any of van Alen's personal crotchets. Approaching his own bed, he turned down the sheet, slipped off his clothing, and climbed in.

He discovered he had no desire to sleep. After tossing restlessly for a while, he rolled over on his back and sat up. "Van Alen?"

"What is it, Kesley?"

"How big is Galveston?"

"About a hundred thousand people," van Alen said. "It's a very big city."

"Oh." After a pause: "Bet New York was much bigger, wasn't it?"

"Cities were bigger in the old days. Too big. It drove people mad to live in them. That's why the cities were destroyed. Your Dukes make sure the same thing doesn't happen again by building walls around the cities. Galveston won't ever get any bigger than it is."

"Is that the way things are in Antarctica, too?"

"You'll find out about Antarctica when you get there. Go to sleep--or at least let me sleep."

Van Alen sounded irritated. The Antarctican was a queer duck, Kesley thought, as he lay awake in the silence. Van Alen was a slick operator, calm and self-assured, but there were strange chinks in his armor. He blew up, occasionally, lost his temper--not often, but sometimes. And there were many questions he would not answer, and others that seemed to disturb him more than they should.

He conducted himself strangely, too--doing things almost without motivation, it seemed, though Kesley felt that deep calculations lay behind the seemingly gratuitous acts. Such things as picking the first hotel they saw, or tipping the proprietor a needless half dollar. They stood out sharply against the fabric of reality. They were unnecessary actions--or were they?

Kesley didn't know. And Kesley resolved, in that moment, not to try to find out. He would abrogate all responsibility, let happen what might. It was the only way to ward off the terrors of unanswerable questions. Away from his home, away from the farm, he simply was not equipped to act independently--_yet_. He decided to sit tight, ask no questions, and look for no answers.

* * * * *

They left Galveston early the next morning, via the _Snowden_, a creaky old second-class freight-steamer, carrying eight other passengers and a small herd of cattle on their way to Cuba. Van Alen had made all the traveling arrangements; Kesley, having no idea how such things were managed, had done nothing.

The ship docked at Havana, discharged its load of kine, and moved unsteadily southward. From Havana to Merida, in Yucatan; from Merida to Panama. The charred wreckage of the old canal was gauntly visible as they steamed past the Isthmus.

Skirting the east coast of South America, the _Snowden_ pulled into port at Bahia Blanca, in Argentina Province--and here, van Alen and Kesley disembarked.

"This is as far south as any ship goes," van Alen said, as the tug drew them toward the dreary harbor. "The rest of the trip is overland."

"To Antarctica? How?"

Van Alen smiled. "Overland through Argentina, at any rate, and down into Patagonia. There'll be transportation waiting for us there."

Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the customs shed for their horses. A bored-looking little customs official in blue shorts and gold brocaded jacket approached them, clutching a clipboard and a stubby pencil.

"Where are you from?" His voice was thickly accented but understandable.

"North America," van Alen said. "We're vassals of His Liege Duke Winslow."

The customs man scribbled something on his clipboard. "You are now in the lands of His Highness Don Miguel, Sovereign Ruler and Duke of South and Central America. Entrance fee to His Highness' lands is for you ten dollar American. You have?"

Kesley scowled but produced the fee without question. Van Alen handed money over as well. The customs officer smiled coldly and nodded.

"Very well. You may enter. There will be no inspection of your belongings."

"Trusting fellow, isn't he?" Kesley asked, as they saddled their animals. "No customs inspection."

"They're very trusting down here, especially when you give them ten dollars too many. Don Miguel's Dukedom isn't particularly noted for its high ethical standards, Kesley. Everyone's fantastically loyal to the Duke, but they stay loyal to themselves as well. See?"

"You know, you've spent more cash in bribes on this trip than I've ever seen in my life," Kesley said.

"A well-greased road makes for a smooth journey," van Alen intoned. "Another important lesson for you."

Kesley smiled and goaded his horse on. The road out of Bahia Blanca was a long and winding one; from this vantage-point, Argentina Province looked limitless. The air was cold and clear, down in this continent where winter came in July. Kesley let the constant rhythm of his galloping horse lull him into a veiled patience; he rode impassively, listening to the repeated _clickety-clack_ of well-shod hooves coming from van Alen's Old-Kind horse, and the less distinct, thumping sound of his own mutant steed's three-toed paws pounding the roadway. The sounds tended to hypnotize him. At any rate, they kept him from thinking too seriously about the unknown destination that lay ahead.

The journey continued. By evening of the next day they had left the city far behind and had ridden into the heart of a broad, apparently endless, green plain covered thickly with coarse, matted grass and dotted with short, heavy-boled trees. Conversation between the two men had long since dwindled to a mere interchange of grunts.

But the monotony of the journey was short-lived. Near midnight, from over a slight rise in the plain, eight men appeared, riding lowslung mutant ponies. They were heading straight for van Alen and Kesley.

Kesley saw them first. He nudged van Alen.

"Bandits," the Antarctican said immediately. "Let's split up. You go to the east; I'll head the other way."

"And how do we get together again?"

"I'll find you afterward. Get going!"

Kesley dug in his spurs and the horse leaped forward. The bandits bore down on them as the two men rode in opposite directions. And, to Kesley's horror, he saw the bandit group splitting in two.

Instantly, van Alen doubled back and beckoned to Kesley to do the same. If the bandits had detected the maneuver and were sweeping off to intercept them, there was nothing gained by dividing. They stood a better chance back-to-back.

Together, then, they struck out along a side-path toward a thick copse. Kesley's hand slipped down from the bridle to feel the comforting hilt of his knife at his waist. He glanced at van Alen, and saw that the Antarctican's blaster gleamed dully, ready for use, in the man's hand.

The eight bandits drew up in a tight phalanx facing the copse. They were swarthy, dark-skinned men with heavy mustaches.

"Off your horse," van Alen whispered.

Kesley slipped to the ground and began to tether the mutant to a low-hanging branch.

"No," the Antarctican said harshly. "Let the animals roam free. Their noise will confuse the bandits."

"Right."

He released his grip on the reins and slapped the beast affectionately. The swaybacked mutant began to amble off into the depths of the copse, crashing down on fallen branches as it went. Van Alen's horse struck out in another direction. Kesley grinned suddenly; the sight of his clumsy old horse thrashing away into the darkness was utterly ludicrous.

Then Kesley glanced back at van Alen. The Antarctican was kneeling in a soft mossbank, aiming his blaster.

He squeezed the firing stud. A bright beam of light licked out. The horse of the leading bandit whinnied and looked down in amazement at the pastern that was no longer there, and then toppled, dropping its rider.

Van Alen fired again and a second horse went down. At that the bandits scattered. The two men on foot hit the ground; the other six rode off around the copse.

A loud report sounded from the left, followed by an agonized neigh of pain. Kesley stiffened. _They shot my horse_, he thought. For some reason, hot tears of rage came to his eyes. The awkward-looking mutant horse had been a good friend for four years. Kesley felt as if his last bond with Iowa Province had just been severed.

He yanked out his knife. Pale moonlight flickered on the polished blade. Van Alen tapped Kesley's arm, shook his head cautioningly. Kesley saw the Antarctican aim the blaster.

Another spurt of light. The smell of singed leaves, sharp and acrid--and then, the smell of singed human flesh. A dull groan.

"That's one," van Alen muttered. "Seven to go."

Branches rustled behind them. Kesley whirled and raised his knife, but it was only van Alen's horse returning to its master. At a gesture from van Alen, Kesley slapped the steed's rump and sent it roaming again. Overhead, hoarse-voiced birds chattered their angry commentary on the conflict below.

The blaster spurted again, and in its sudden light Kesley saw a shadowed figure outside the copse char and fall.

Kesley began to perspire. There were still six bandits at large out there, and eventually van Alen's blaster would run out of charges.

Another bullet came whistling through the woods and thunked into a tree overhead.

"They've spotted the source of the beam," van Alen said. "Let's get moving."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere. We've got to misdirect them. I've only got two charges left."

Again came the rustling of branches behind them. _Van Alen's horse again_, Kesley thought, but this time he was wrong. The bandits were upon them.

All six at once--making a suicide charge on the man with the blaster. They came piling into the copse on foot, swarming around Kesley and van Alen, leaping and clawing and punching.

Van Alen's blaster spurted once, and a sharp-featured bandit took the charge in his stomach. He pitched forward on the Antarctican, who tried desperately to wriggle out from under the corpse. He did--but not before another bandit had seized the hand that held the blaster. There was a bright flare overhead suddenly, and the birds shrieked wildly. With an angry curse at having wasted the last charge, van Alen broke free of the man and hurled the useless blaster away.

Meanwhile Kesley found himself busy. His knife dripped red; he had slashed it into one man's arm, then ripped downward. Another had seized his wrist as he drew back for a second thrust.

Kesley grimaced and groped for the other man's eyes. In the darkness of the copse not even the moon aided vision; it was impossible to see more than a foot or so, and Kesley contended with half-seen shapes rather than men.

The bandit twisted upward sharply. A bolt of pain shot through Kesley's arm. Numbed, he let the knife slip from his grasp. It vanished underfoot.

"Dale?" The half-grunt came from van Alen, somewhere to the left. "The blaster's dead."

"And I've lost my knife!"

"Try to get free. If we can slip through them and outside the copse, we can grab their horses and--"

"We also speak English, _norteamericano_," a wry voice said suddenly. "Your strategy is no secret."

Kesley turned and jammed a fist into someone's stomach. He felt arms groping for his arms, and shrugged himself free. He stepped back, kicking out with his heavy boot.