HE WHO DREAMS....
The was not a thing; it and until it appeared to half-conceal shadows, any one of which be an enemy. Shann on the sand, every alert, the fog. He was still sure he which marked the progress of another. What other? One of the Warlockians him to spy? Or was there some like himself out there in the murk? Could it be Thorvald?
Now the had ceased. He was not sure from what direction it had come. Perhaps that other was now, as upon him. Shann ran his over lips. The to call out, to try and any traveler here, was strong. Only hard-learned him silent. He got to his hands and knees, as to his previous direction.
Shann crept. Someone a man walking might be by the of a half-seen on all fours. He again to listen.
He had been right! The of a very or footfalls, to his ears. He was sure that the was louder, that the unknown was approaching. Shann stood, his hand close to his stunner. He was almost to that him, to the by chance.
A shadow—something more than a shadow, more than one of the the played on eyes—was moving with purpose and for him. Still, Shann from calling out.
The clearer. A Terran! It be Thorvald! But how they had last parted, Shann did not to meet him.
That shadow-shape out a long arm in a as if to some of the them from each other. Then Shann as if that had into the drive of snow. For the did roll so that the two of them in an in its midst.
And he did not Thorvald.
Shann was up in the ice of an old fear, by it, but somehow to a that he did not see the unbelievable.
Those hands the of a into ... a nose askew, a across to ear ... that, evil, of anticipation. Flick, flick, the of the in a master's hand as those thick about the stock of the whip. In a moment it would up to a of fire about Shann's shoulders. Then Logally would laugh and laugh, his by those other men who played to his lion.
Other men.... Shann his dazedly. But he did not again in the Dump-size of the Big Strike. And he was no longer a youngster, fit meat for Logally's amusement. Only the rose, the out, Shann just as it had that time years ago, a red of pure agony. But Logally was dead, Shann's mind screamed, against the of his eyes, of that pain in his and shoulder. The Dump had been by off-world miners, now also dead, he had to jump out in the Ajax system.
Logally the lash, preparing to again. Shann a man five years who walked and fought. Or, Shann hard upon his lip, to reasoning—did he anything? Logally was the of his produced by the of Warlock. Or had Shann himself been to the man and the of their meeting with as a to the down? Dream true or false. Logally was dead; therefore, this was false, it had to be.
The Terran to walk toward that out of his old nightmares. His hand was no longer on the of his stunner, but at his side. He saw the lash, the promise in those small eyes. This was Logally at the of his strength, when he was most to be feared, as he had to over the years in the of a boy-child's memory. But Logally was not alive; only in a he be.
For the second time the at Shann, about his body, to dissolve. There was no in Logally's grin, His arm as he a third blow. Shann to walk forward, up one hand, not to at that sweating, jaw, but as if to push the other out of his path. And in his mind he one thought: this was not Logally; it not be. Ten years had passed since they had met. And for five of those years Logally had been dead. Here was Warlockian witchery, to be met by Terran reasoning.
Shann was alone. The mist, which had walls, him again. But still there was a across his shoulder. Shann the of his to a welt, and red. And that, his was shaken.
When he had in Logally and in Logally's weapon, the other had had to that blow, make the cut deep. But when the Terran had the with the truth, then neither Logally his existed, Shann shivered, trying not to think what might him. Visions out of which put on substance! He had of Logally in the past, many times. And he had had other dreams, just as frightening. Must he those nightmares, all of them—? Why? To his captors, or to prove their that he was a to challenge the powers of such of illusion?
How did they know just what to use in order to him? Or did he himself the actors and the action, old terrors in this as a tri-dee tape a in three for the of the viewer?
Dream true—was this progress through the also a dream? Dreams dreams.... Shann put his hand to his head, uncertain, shaken. But that of him was still holding. Next time he would be prepared at once to any memory.
Walking slowly, to for the which might the of a new illusion, Shann to which of his might come to him. But he was to learn that there was more than one of dream. Steeled against old fears, he was met by another altogether.
There was a in the air, a little which at his heart. Without any thought, Shann out his hands, on two notes a call which his appeared to more than his mind. The shape which through the came to his waiting hold, at long-walled-away with its once familiar beauty. It with a list; one of the was injured, had straight. But the into the of Shann's two and looked up at him with all the old liquid trust.
"Trav! Trav!" He the carefully, with its body, the on its proudly head, the of those against his protecting fingers.
Shann sat in the sand, to breathe. Trav—again! The wonder of this never-to-be-hoped-for return him with a of almost too great to bear, which in its way with as great a pain as Logally's lash; it was a pain in love, not and hate.
Logally's lash....
Shann trembled. Trav one of those small toward the Terran's face, a soft for recognition, for protection, trying to be a part of Shann's life once more.
Trav! How he to will Trav into nothingness, to to up another memory which would Trav away? Trav was the only thing Shann had which he love wholeheartedly, that had answered his love with a return gift of so much than the light he now held.
"Trav!" he softly. Then he his great against this second and more attack. With the same which he had years earlier, he a memory, sat nursing once more a thing which died in pain he not ease, aware himself of every moment of that pain. And what was worse, this time there that little doubt. What if he had not the memory? Perhaps he have taken Trav with him unhurt, alive, at least for a while.
Shann his with his now empty hands. To see a out after up to its terror, that was no great task. To give up a which was part of a heaven, that cut deep. The Terran himself to his feet, and weary, on.
Was there no end to this through a world of green smoke? He ahead, moving his leadenly. How long had he been here? There was no in time, just the light which was a part of the through which he plodded.
Then he more than any of across sand, any of a long seraph, the and of a voice: a voice—not or reciting, but something the two. Shann paused, his memory, a memory which bruised, for the proper answer to match that sound.
But, though he after out of the years, that voice did not any return from his past. He toward its source, to over the meeting which that signal. Only, though he walked on and on, Shann did not appear any closer to the man the voice, was he able to make out that chant, a now and then by pauses, so that the Terran aware of the of his prisoner. For the that he another came out of and as he and in his quest.
Then he might have some in the mist, for the out in volume, and now he was able to he knew.
"... where the the worlds,
And the in dark of space.
For Power is a man to use.
Let him do so well the last accounting—"
The voice was hoarse, cracked, the with of breath, as if they had been many, many times to provide an against madness, a tie to reality. And that note, Shann his pace. This was out of no memory of his; he was sure of that.
"... the the worlds,
And the in ... dark—of—of—"
That of voice was down, as a clock for of winding. Shann on, to a which did not in the themselves.
Once more the back, provided him with an open space. A man sat on the sand, his in the on either of his body, his set, red-rimmed, glazed, his and in time to his chant.
"... the dark of space—"
"Thorvald!" Shann in the sand, on his knees. The manner of their last was as he took in the officer's condition.
The other did not stop his swaying, but his with a jerk, the making a visible to focus on Shann. Then some of the out of the and Thorvald laughed softly.
"Garth!"
Shann but had no to that as the other continued: "So you class one status, boy! I always you if you'd work for it. A of black marks on your record, sure. But those can be out, boy, when you're to try. Thorvalds always have been Survey. Our father would have been proud."
Thorvald's voice flattened, his faded, there was a of some in those eyes. Unexpectedly, he himself forward, his hands for Shann's throat. He the man under him to the where Lantee himself for his life against a man who only be mad.
Shann used a learned on the Dumps, and his up with a of to let the man free. He planted a on the small of Thorvald's back, the officer into the sand, his arms in of the other's struggles. Regaining his own in gulps, Shann to to some of in the other.
"Thorvald! This is Lantee—Lantee——" His name in the mist-walled like an wail.
"Lantee——? No, Throg! Lantee—Throg—killed my brother!"
Sand out with the breath, which that indictment. But Thorvald no longer fought, and Shann him close to collapse.
Shann his hold, the other man over. Thorvald his limply, upward, in his and eyebrows, his lips. The man the away as the other opened his to Shann with his old stare.
"You're alive," Thorvald bleakly. "Garth's dead. You ought to be too."
Shann back, from his hands, his by the other's hostility. Only that angry in a of those eyes. Then there was a in Thorvald's expression.
"Lantee!" The man might just have come into sight. "What are you doing here?"
Shann his belt. "Just about what you are." He was still aloof, no of in rank now. "Running around in this the way out."
Thorvald sat up, the of the which them. Then he out a hand to Shann's forearm.
"You are real," he simply, and his voice was warm, welcoming.
"Don't on it," Shann snapped. "The can be real—here." His hand up to the on his shoulder.
Thorvald nodded. "Masters of illusion," he murmured.
"Mistresses," Shann corrected. "This place is by a of witches."
"Witches? You've them? Where? And what—who are they?" Thorvald with a return of his old-time sharpness.
"They're right enough, and they can make the happen. I'd say that them as witches. One of them to take me over on the island. I set a and her; then somehow she me——" Swiftly he the of events leading from his in the river to his present of this fog-world.
Thorvald eagerly. When the was finished, he his hands across his face, away the last of the sand. "At least you have some idea of who they are and a of how you got here. I don't that much about my own arrival. As as I can I to sleep on the Island and up here!"
Shann him and that Thorvald was telling the truth. He nothing of his in the outrigger, the way he had Shann in the lagoon. The Survey officer must have been under the of the Warlockians then. Quickly he gave the older man his of the other's in the world and Thorvald was astounded, though he did not question the Shann presented.
"They just took me!" Thorvald said in a whisper. "But why? And why are we here? Is this a prison?"
Shann his head. "I think all this"—a of his hand the green wall, what it, and in it—"is a test of some kind. This business.... A little while ago I got to that I wasn't here at all, that I might be it all. Then I met you."
Thorvald understood. "Yes, but this be a meeting. How can we tell?" He hesitated, almost diffidently, he asked: "Have you met anyone else here?"
"Yes." Shann had no to go into that.
"People out of your past life?"
"Yes." Again he did not elaborate.
"So did I." Thorvald's was bleak; his in the must have proved no more than Shann's. "That that we do the ourselves. But maybe we can it now."
"How?"
"Well, if these are of our memories there are about only two or three we see together—maybe a Throg on the rampage, or that we left in the mountains. And if we do anything like that, we'll know what it is. On the other hand, if we together and one of us sees something that the other can't ... well, that alone will the ghost."
There was in what he said. Shann the officer to his feet.
"I must be a for their than you," the older man ruefully. "They took me over at the first."
"You were that disk," Shann pointed out. "Maybe that as a for power they use to make us play animals."
"Could be!" Thorvald out the cloth-wrapped coin. "I still have it." But he no move to off the of about it. "Now"—he at the of green—"which way?"
Shann shrugged. Long ago he had any idea of a through the murk. He might have around any number of times since he walked into this place. Then he pointed to the packet Thorvald held.
"Why not that?" he asked. "Heads, we go that way—" he the direction in which they were facing—"tails, we do a rightabout-face."
There was an on Thorvald's lips. "As good a as any we're likely to here. We'll do it." He away the of cloth and with a snap, of that used by the Warlockian to empty the bowl of sticks, he the into the air.
It spun, whirled, but—to their open-jawed amazement—it did not to the sand. Instead it until it looked like a small of a disk. And it its white for a of green. When that for Terran the sun out, not in but in line of flight, to their right.
With a cry, Thorvald started in pursuit, Shann him. They were in a of the now, and the set by the coin was swift. The Terrans to it at the best they summon, having no idea of where they were headed, but each with the that they did have a to lead them through this place of and into a world where they on more equal terms those who had sent them there.
