hue had deepened on the horizon and now, high above, thin streamers of wispiness trailed in faded color. Mauve? Green? It made no difference. No matter from which direction the storm came it would be as bad.
'See something?' Kemmer had turned and seen the tilt of Dumarest's head. 'More rafts?'
'No.'
'Are you sure?' His voice was wistful. 'A raft would save us.'
As would the others they had seen since starting the journey. Vehicles apparently searching and from which Dumarest had hidden for reasons he hadn't chosen to explain.
'Earl?' Santis slowed to allow Dumarest to catch up and talk beside him. 'How do we handle it?'
'The storm?'
'Yes. Rope up so as to stay in contact? Dig in and wait?'
'Both if we have to. The best thing would be to reach the city before it breaks.'
'And then what?' Santis touched the bag at his waist. It held his share of what they had found. 'If it's blowing we'll have no chance to strip and hide some of these. We won't even be able to swallow any. Once we crack open a helmet in a storm we'll be missing a face.'
'I know.' Dumarest again studied the sky. 'I've an idea about that.'
'I thought you might,' said the mercenary, dryly. 'I figured there had to be a reason why you wanted to walk. Wanted it enough to make us lie down covered with sand to avoid being spotted by those rafts. Is there anything I should know?'
'Such as?'
'Marta didn't have any jewels in pawn and what we got from selling her stuff wouldn't have paid for the equipment. The money for that came from those things you managed to find. They could have been stolen.'
'Would that worry you?'
'Hell, no, Earl! I'm thinking about what could be waiting for us in the city. If they were stolen and if the guards are after you-well, that jail could stand some improvement. There might be a way out. Zarl is dead and could take the blame. The license was in his name. If we all tell the same story and stick to it, use bribery, even, we'll all be in the clear.'
Dumarest said, 'The things weren't stolen, but thanks for the offer. I just don't want to be skinned at the gate. We've worked too hard for these things just to hand them over. Remember what Zarl said? The first five and half the rest go to the Cinque. That's too big a cut.'
He looked at the sky again as, satisfied, the mercenary plodded ahead. The wisps of color were stronger now and little plumes of sand danced about them, lifting to spin to fall and rise again. A sudden gust sent streamers traveling over the desert like smoke from a fire, the same gust blasting a fitful shower of dust against the three men. A gentle breeze compared to what was coming, but strong enough for the dust to scour the tough material of the suits. Dumarest examined his gloves, ran them over the scraped arms, and checked the overlays of his helmet. Three thin, detachable layers covering the main transparency, each of which could be pulled free if too badly scoured to allow vision.
'Run!' Dumarest forged ahead, setting the pace. 'Come on, damn you! Run!'
The city lay ahead, he could see glitters from where sunlight reflected off windows, the domed summits of the towers, the swell of the main complex. A hive buried deep, walls the color of sand, only the shape betraying the life within. A shape which blurred even as he forced tired and aching legs into a run.
'Hurry! The storm's about to break!'
He slowed, waiting for the others, running beside them as he attached short lengths of rope to their belts, attaching the loose end to his own. Even over the rising wind he could hear the pant of laboring lungs, the ugly rasp of breath through gaping mouths. Both were too close to exhaustion for safety but, unless they kept up the pace, they were dead.
'Keep running! Move, you idle bastards! Move!'
His voice was a lash to stimulate flagging energies. Santis responded to it, a reaction born of youth when he had trained on a parade ground. Kemmer responded too, from anger or simple fear. Both using the last dregs of their strength, making the last, final effort Dumarest had known was in them. One needed now to carry them over the sand toward the city.
Again it blurred, vanished beneath a pluming cloud, reappearing for a brief moment, then disappearing as the storm broke and the world became a screaming nightmare.
Immediately they were blind. Dumarest saw the outer layer of his transparency become frosted with the countless scratches born of the impact of dust and was too conscious of what could be happening to his suit. One weak spot and it would fray, yield, open to the storm. A stream of tiny bullets would blast in to strip his flesh as driven sand could wear away steel.
'Down!' He shouted but it was useless over the roar of wind. Fumbling he hauled at the rope and felt another figure, the shape of a helmet. He pressed his own to it and yelled again. 'Down! Get down!'
He dropped without waiting, feeling the other join him, Santis, he guessed, followed by Kemmer. Beneath him the sand streamed away before the thrust of the wind but he dug, using both hands, making a shallow trench into which he lay. The others did the same, sand heaping on the windward side of their suits, shifting to pile again and giving a small measure of protection.
Fumbling, Dumarest found a helmet and shouted as he made contact. 'Carl?'
'That you, Earl?'
'Yes. Get hold of Kemmer. Lock him in. We may not get another chance to talk.'
When the storm gained its full strength, the wind, made almost solid by the dust it carried, became a smashing force against which it would be impossible to stand or even lie in one position.
'We've got to reach the city,' said Dumarest as Kemmer's helmet joined the others. 'Get into the lee if nothing else. With it to block the wind we'll stand a chance.'
'For how long?' Kemmer was bitter. 'A storm can last for days. We'll be dead of thirst before it's over.'
Santis, more practical, said, 'Can you find it, Earl?'
'I think so. It's big and, close to it, there could be eddies. They could guide us. Anyway, we've no choice. We find it or we die.' He added, 'Well find it. It isn't far.'
In the storm anything out of touch was too far. Senses, disturbed by the wind, couldn't be trusted. In the swirling dust orientation was lost and all directions became the same. Blind, deafened, they could only crawl and trust to luck.
Dumarest took the lead. He kept low, equalizing each movement, jerking at the rope when he felt it begin to veer to one side. Santis, doing his best, becoming even more confused but, for lack of anything else, willing to follow. Kemmer, behind him, managed to keep in line.
As he crawled Dumarest counted, measuring distance against time, setting an arbitary speed to his progress and allowing for error. If he'd guessed right they should reach the city before the sandblast of the storm tore too deeply into their suits. If his calculations were correct they would feel a shift in the direction of the wind as it was affected by the bulk of the complex; eddies which would give them further guidance so as to find the shelter of the leeward side.
If he was wrong they would crawl for the rest of their short lives.
An extra vicious gust and he was rolling, a sharp sensation of heat on one thigh, a burn which eased as he covered the place with a gloved hand. The material had been eroded and had transmitted the heat generated by the friction of the scouring dust. A weak point and there would be others.
Again he moved forward, compensating for the roll, aware of the danger of overdoing it. A small error even when close could be fatal. They could pass the city at arm's length and never know it. And it was instinct to move away from the thrusting, dangerous pressure of the wind.
The next burn came from his back where scales had rasped the suit when running with Hine from the tunnel. Dumarest turned to face the wind, fumbling at his helmet discovering that two of the overlays of the transparency had been shreded away. If the third went he would have to open his helmet in order to see.
He turned again, trying to protect the helmet, moving on with his body pressed hard against the sand. Another gust hit him followed almost at once by another from a different direction. A conflict of forces which created a sudden vortex; a funnel enclosing a relatively calm area.
'Up!' Dumarest hauled at the rope as he rose to his feet. The funnel could collapse at any time but he wanted to take full advantage of the freak occurrence. 'Up! Get on your feet! Run!'
