"I was going to ask—"

  "Hold your tongue!" The bird whistled again, closer, then a third time, closer still. Weston cursed and sprang to his feet. The spear looked like a stick in his hand. "Hunters! Damn you! You led them to us!"

  "No!" Brad jerked to his feet, sprang aside from the threatening point. "I had nothing to do with it!"

  "Jack!" A man came bursting from the wood. He was gasping, his eyes wild. "To the south and west," he panted. "A big body of them. We've got to make a run for it!"

  "Warn the others!" Weston gestured toward the huts. "No noise. Leave everything we can do without. Move off to the north in pairs. Scatter and make for Finnegan's Point. Make certain you aren't followed."

  "Right!" The man hurried away and the camp boiled in sudden confusion. There was no panic and little sound, only a frantic desperation. Mary came running from the sick man's hut.

  "Jack! We can't leave Harry. You—"

  "We've no choice," snapped Weston grimly. "They're on us, Mary. Get your things and move out with Joe. Hurry now!"

  "But—"

  "Damn you, girl! Hurry!" He swore as a woman tried to pick up the cauldron and burned her fingers. "Leave it, you fool! Run!"

  Brad stepped back to the shelter of a tree. He didn't know what was going on but he wanted to get out of it. He didn't move fast enough.

  "You!" Weston spotted the movement. "All right," he said. He was sweating, moisture trickling into his beard. "I warned you what would happen if you led them to us. Well, damn you, here it comes!"

  He laid the point of the spear against Brad's stomach.

  And pressed.

  XII

  THERE WAS A SOUND like a giant cough. Weston jerked, his mouth opening in shocked surprise, his eyes suddenly vacant. Then he fell, collapsing at the knees, his body as limp as wet tissue paper. A tuft of feathers stood out from one shoulder. The spear rasped an ugly scratch across Brad's stomach.

  "Hold it!" yelled a voice. "Freeze, all of you. We've got you surrounded!"

  Brad sagged against the tree as men poured from the woods. His mouth was dry at his narrow escape and he had an almost overwhelming desire to run. He forced himself to stay where he was. The man who had shot Weston could just as easily have gunned him down and he wanted to offer no temptation. He looked up as someone called his name.

  "Brad!"

  Carl came toward him. He was dressed in camouflaged overalls, steel helmet and campaign webbing. He cradled a thick-barreled gun in his arms. He looked remarkably cheerful.

  "Well, well," he grinned. "As they say, it's a small world. What the devil are you doing here?"

  Brad told him, cutting it short, looking curiously at the activity around. Other men, dressed as Holden, were crowding the bunch of runners into a compact knot in the center of the clearing. One of them kicked out the fire.

  "Nice catch," he called to Carl. "You sure knew what you were doing. The biggest bunch I've seen for a long time. Nice work, Carl."

  "Training," said Carl. He smiled at Brad. "I used to be in the Territorial Army back in the old days. There's nothing like a touch of military discipline on an operation like this. Get into position. Let them spot you on three sides and grab them as they run to the other. Simple."

  Brad shook his head. He was still bewildered. He looked down at Weston. "Is he dead?"

  "No, just knocked out." Carl hefted his weapon. "This thing fires hypodermic needles. If we leave him alone he'll wake in a couple of hours, stiff as a board and with a king-sized headache. Why was he trying to stick you with that pole?"

  "He thought I was working with you." Brad felt sickness rise in his throat at the thought of what might have been. Carl stared at him, leaned his gun against the tree, produced a flask.

  "Here. Take some of this."

  The brandy burned his throat but warmed his stomach. Brad smiled as he handed back the flask.

  "Thanks. Do you mind telling me what all this is about?"

  "Later." Carl looked up at the sun and then at his men. "We've got to get this lot on their way." He raised his voice. "All right, chain 'em up and start back at the double. Use your whips if you have to but make good time." He relaxed as the file of men and women vanished among the trees. "You'd better travel with me, Brad. I've got a truck and there's no sense in walking when you can ride."

  "How about the others?"

  "The boys know what to do. There's a boat waiting to pick them up lower down the coast and they can handle things from now on." He picked up his gun, turned, stumbled against Weston. "Damn it! I'd forgotten him."

  "There's a sick man in one of the huts," said Brad. Carl raised his eyebrows.

  "Bad?"

  "Dying."

  "Then he can die in peace." Carl grunted as he stooped and tied Weston's feet and lashed his hands. He plucked out the missile and tucked it into a bandolier. From a pouch he took a hypodermic and injected its contents into the man's arm. After a few moments Weston stirred and opened his eyes.

  "Up!" snapped Carl. "You're too big to carry. Up on your feet and start walking."

  "Can't you leave him?" said Brad. "Let him go?"

  "No." Carl was emphatic. "And before you get all soft and sentimental, Brad, remember that this character tried to spill your intestines." He kicked Weston in the side. "Come on now! Get up!"

  "Damn you!" Weston strained at his bonds as he climbed painfully to his feet. He glared at Brad. "I was a fool to have trusted you. I should have left you on the beach. You damn hunters are probably feeling proud of yourselves. Well, I'll know better the next time."

  "Hunters?" Brad was beginning to understand. He looked questioningly at Carl. "Is that what you are?"

  "Hell, no," said the young man. "I'm a debt collector."

  "It's decent work," said Carl. "More fun than scavenging and it takes less time." He spun the wheel and sent the light truck jolting past a twisted mass of gnarled roots. Brad grunted as he bounced on the hard seat. Weston, lying inert in the back, made no sound.

  They had been traveling for an hour and Carl was talkative. His success had loosened his tongue and he wanted to boast. He had, he felt, something to boast about.

  "The expenses are high, of course," he continued. "The boys work on a contingent basis but I have to provide the equipment. Even so the profits can be high. A runner usually owes a mint before he takes off and I get a percentage of all debts owing. This bunch should really bring in the loot."

  "Why do they do it?" asked Brad. "Run, I mean. What do they hope to gain?"

  "How do I know? I guess they're just plain scared and want to hang on to what they've got." Carl shifted gear and sent the vehicle snarling down an avenue of stunted growths. "Not long now before we reach the river." He settled back and lit a cigarette. He passed the pack to Brad who helped himself. He carefully broke the match before throwing it over the side. Carl sneered at the action.

  "Frightened of fire? This stuff's too damp to burn."

  Brad shrugged.

  "So you're the cautious type," said Carl. "That's the trouble with you, Brad, you're too damn cautious. Me, now, I'm willing to take a chance. That's why I'm rolling home to collect and you're just a passenger. Give it time and you'll be like that character in the back. Living like an animal because you owe more money than you can pay."

  "If that happens then you can hunt me down," snapped Brad. Carl shrugged.

  "That's their word for it. As far as I'm concerned it's just a matter of collecting debts. I can't worry about the feelings of a lot of stupid cripples."

  "Cripples? Like you?"

  Carl smiled. He didn't answer. Brad felt a sudden suspicion.

  "Carl! Have you—?"

  "That's my business!"

  "But—"

  "As I said, Brad, you're too cautious." The woods thinned as they jolted over a wide expanse of uneven ground. Ahead lay the shimmer of water. "I'll bet that you and Helen imagine I'm all kinds of a fool. Right?"

  "You trust that woman too much," said Brad. "And that playboy you run around with."

  "Cyril?" Carl shrugged. "I used him. And Velda's all right. You've got to take people as you find them, Brad. They helped me."

  "Got you in debt, you mean."

  "So what? Back in the old days most people lived in debt all their lives. I would have been one of them. So what's the odds? This world isn't all that different from the one we knew. Unless you manage to get a stake you stay on the bottom. Well, I've got my stake. Now I'm putting it to work. This collecting business, a share in a couple of cargoes, some antiques. I'm thinking of opening an electrical store, service and repair, and I've other ideas. Do you know they don't have dog racing in this world? Or speedway? Or bingo? I tell you, Brad, a smart man can make his way anywhere. I'm smart."

  "Maybe others are smarter." Brad dragged on his cigarette, a little jealous of the other's achievements. "Cyril for one. You think that you used him—I think that he cheated you. He could still be cheating you. How could you be sure?"

  "I'd know." Carl's voice thickened as his big hands clamped on the wheel. "If that character ever tried anything like that …" He shook his head, then grinned. "You're a pessimist, Brad. You're too old for this kind of life."

  "Too old to carry the amount of debt you've managed to accumulate," snapped Brad. "How the hell do you hope to pay?"

  "I'm paying. As long as I keep ahead of the interest they can't foreclose."

  "And if you can't?"

  "I can. I will." Carl reached down and dragged on the brake. The truck halted at the foot of a small pier. A boat waited at the end. "About Velda, Brad. I'm going to marry her."

  Brad tensed but managed to hold his tongue.

  "You're smart," breathed Carl. "Had you made a crack about her I'd have broken your jaw."

  "It's your business," said Brad stiffly. "I wish you luck."

  "Thanks." Carl dropped from the truck and led the way to the boat. A man sat beside the outboard motor. He rose and saluted as Carl approached. "Class," said Carl. "You've got to put on a front. The way to show these people that you've got money is to waste it like hell. Once they think you're rich they'll back you all the way." He stuck out his hand. "So long, Brad. See you around."

  "At the wedding?"

  "Maybe." Carl released his grip and nodded toward the boatman. "He'll take you to the city and drop you off somewhere you can find a cab. You got money?"

  "No."

  "You have now." Carl passed over a bill. "And Brad, take some advice?"

  "Such as?"

  "Get a grip on yourself—and stop being a cripple!"

  He was dead.

  The heart had stopped, the lungs, the rushing pulse of blood and air. Ten billion tiny suns flickered into darkness as the cells died into inert protoplasm and, like the dying glow of a filament, his consciousness dissolved into eternal night.

  Death came to greet him.

  Death was tall, thin, skeletoid. Dark pits swarming with shadows rested on either side of the gaping hole of the nose. But Death was amused. Death wore a smile.

  "Hellow, Brad," he said. "Did you really hope to escape?"

  It seemed as if he protested.

  "A few hundred years—what is time to me?" Death shrugged with the dry grate of bone. "I can afford to wait, Brad. I can always afford to wait. You all come to me in the end."

  There was the sound of liquid bubbling. Death wavered and, suddenly, wore a familiar face.

  "A bad business, Stevens," said Sir William. "Absolute rest and quiet could, perhaps, prolong life for a short while but the end result is inevitable. The time element is, unfortunately, small."

  Sir William vanished and Jack Murrey took his place. His mouth was wreathed in the rictus of his dying snarl so that he too seemed to be amused.

  "Damn yer eyes ye stinking poltroon! I'm waiting for ye in hell!"

  Then he fell while all around him came the clanking of tankards on the wooden boards, a metallic sound which went on and on and…

  Brad jerked awake, drenched with perspiration, heart hammering against his ribs. Blankly he stared at the familiar walls of the apartment, the drawing board, the chair in which he had fallen asleep. But the dream persisted. He could still hear the metallic sound. The doorbell sounded. Staggering to his feet he opened the panel. Velda, eyes snapping, stared into his face.

  "About time," she began. Then, "Hey, you on a jag or something?"

  "What do you want?" He clutched the edge of the door for support. "Carl isn't here."

  "I know. I want to talk to you." She stepped past him into the apartment. Too weak to argue, Brad slammed the door. He recognized the danger signals from his stomach and headed for the bathroom. He reached it just in time.

  He retched. His stomach heaved and seemed to be filled with hot embers. He ran water from the faucet, drank, retched again. A phial in the cabinet contained pain-ease tablets and he swallowed a handful. Stripping, he stood under the shower and let the ice-cold spray numb his febrile skin. The tablets were strong, they jerked his pain-level to the ceiling and when he stepped from the shower, his agony had dwindled to a dull ache.

  Grimly he stared at himself in the mirror.

  He looked ghastly. His skin was gray, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth a thin, bloodless line. Carefully he shaved, brushed his teeth until his gums bled, slicked back his hair. The clothes Weston had given him were filthy and stank of death. He kicked them aside and, naked, padded into Serge's bedroom where he helped himself to fresh clothing.

  "Nice." Velda nodded as he returned to the living room. "You've a decent body, Brad."

  He had forgotten the woman.

  "You look better," she said critically. "Not much but a little. What's wrong? Need a fix?"

  "If I want dope I'll buy it." He searched his pockets. "Have you a cigarette?"

  She lit two and passed him one, watching him through a veil of smoke. There was a poise and assurance about her every gesture and he could understand how Carl had succumbed.

  "I hear that you're getting married," he said. "May I offer my congratulations?"

  "For what?" Her eyes were very cool. "It won't be the first time and I doubt if it will be the last."

  "Does Carl know that?"

  "I'm not worried what Carl thinks. He's a nice boy but marriage isn't forever."

  "Like death?"

  "That's right." She smiled up into his face. "But you don't believe that, do you, Brad? To you death is a one-time event. You're born, you live, you die—finish! A hell of a philosophy!"

  "We managed to live with it for a long time," he said. "But how do you know what I believe?"

  Her smile was enigmatic.

  "I found a bug in here," he said slowly. "Someone planted it so as to listen in to what we were saying. You planted it. Why?" He frowned at her silence. "All right—then who wanted to listen?"

  "Wrong question." She blew a smoke ring, watched it coil across the room to break on his chest. "Try again."

  "What do you want?"

  "That's better." Deliberately she stared at him and for a moment Brad had the impression that he was naked again. There was nothing amorous about her scrutiny. It was more as if she were the potential backer of a fighter and wanted to gauge form, He could have been a horse. He remembered that he had seen her stare at Helen in exactly the same manner.

  "You know," she said abruptly. "I like you."

  "Why?"

  "Does it matter? Maybe we've more in common than you think."

  "Age perhaps?"

  "Perhaps." She ignored the biting sarcasm. "Age—or experience. But we can talk about that later." She rose, opened her handbag, took out a card. "Marc Veldon wants to see you."

  "So?" He ignored the pasteboard, feeling sweat begin to bead his forehead, the action of the tablets to fade. "Should I be flattered?"

  "Veldon's rich. He can afford to buy what he wants and pay well for what he gets." She pressed the card into his hand. Automatically he took it. "Don't be stupid, Brad. Go and see him."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Then," she said deliberately, "I might have cause to feel sorry for you. Very sorry." She turned and walked toward the door, hesitating with her hand on the knob. "Tomorrow, Brad," she said. "Early."

  She didn't wait for his answer.

  Alone, he hurried into his bedroom and found what he was looking for. Grimly he read every word and checked each item. At the end he knew what was wrong with him.

  He wasn't ill—he was dying.

  He had known this pain before and, slumping into a chair, the bill from the Life Institute in his hand, he knew that there had been truth in the nightmare. Death was waiting and Death could afford to smile.

  He hadn't been cured.

  Three hundred and thirty-eight years in the Cradle and he was back in square one. Back where he'd started.

  Dying of cancer!

  XIII

  "INTERESTING." Edward Maine pursed his lips as he riffled through the sheaf of fluoroscopes, X-rays and pathological reports. It was an act—he had studied them in private—but Maine was a little of a showman. "You know, Stevens, I've never seen anything quite like this before."

  Brad grunted from where he sat in a chair, glowering over a cigarette at the Master of Hypnotic Therapy.

  "There seems to have been a sudden and extremely violent explosion of rogue tissue from at least three dormant foci. The stomach, spleen and lower bowel are in a dreadful condition. The pain must have been intense."

  "It was." Brad drew at his cigarette, filled his lungs with smoke, exhaled. He felt a little light-headed from morphine, a little weak from three days in bed during which time he had suffered exhaustive testing. "What's the verdict?"

  "The diagnosis? Death, naturally."

  "When?"

  "Very soon." Maine sounded encouraging. "The system will not long be able to withstand the invasion of such masses of cancerous tissue. There will be a physical breakdown, of course, but I don't think that it will last for any appreciable time. The pain, naturally, will be accumulative in its intensity."

  "Yes," said Brad tightly. He remembered the pain. He doubted if he could stand more of it. "What do you suggest?"

 

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