through torrential rain, doing a reckless twenty miles per hour on the glossy blacktop. Gusts of wind threw the light car across the road. No other cars passed them. At one point, water was across the road; Anne shifted down and crawled through. Then lights shone a hundred yards ahead. The red beacon of a parked police car blinked through the rain.
"Stop the car."
She braked, pulled over, looked at him inquiringly.
"Can you face it out if they search the car?" he asked.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll ride the frame."
"You can't. There's nothing to ride on, no room—"
"I'll manage." He stepped out into the storm, went flat, and eased under the chassis. He felt over the rust-pitted frame, scalded his fingers on the exhaust stack, groped for a handhold on a cross member. He hooked the toes of his prison-issue shoes over the rear spring hangars, lifted his body from the wet pavement, pressed against the underside of the car. The girl crouched by the car, staring at him.
"You are crazy! You can't hold on that way! If you slip—you'll be killed!"
"Go ahead, Anne," he said. "I'm all right."
She hesitated for a moment; then she nodded and was gone. Grayle heard the gears shift; the car lurched as it started ahead. Acrid gases leaked from the rotted pipes; the car vibrated, jolting over the road. Oily water sleeted at him; gravel stung him. The tires hissed, close to his face. Then the car slowed. Lights shone on the pavement, gliding nearer. He saw the wheels of another car; two pairs of booted feet approached, stopped a foot from his head. Voices, indistinct over the rumble of the steady rain and the whine of the wind. Doors clanked; the car swayed, and the girl's feet appeared. One policeman rounded the car; more door slams, more rocking. The deck lid opened and slammed. The girl got back into the driver's seat. The masculine boots withdrew. The car pulled ahead, accelerated.
Half a mile farther on, it slowed to a halt. Grayle dropped clear and crawled out into the downpour. He slid into the seat and met the girl's eyes.
"I still don't believe it," she said. "No one could do what you just did."
Grayle put his hand on the door.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll leave you now."
"What's your name?" the girl asked suddenly.
"Grayle."
"Why were you . . . there?" She tilted her head toward the invisible island behind them.
"I killed a man." He watched her eyes.
"In a fair fight?"
"He almost killed me, if that's what you mean."
"Grayle, you wouldn't last a day without me. You've been inside too long."
"I have a long way to go, Anne."
"Doesn't everyone, Grayle?"
He hesitated for a moment; then he nodded.
She smiled tensely, pulled the car back onto the road, and gunned ahead along the dark road.
* * *
They sit in the big, drafty hall, hung with shields and spears and axes which are not decorations but are ready to use, beside the great granite fireplace, chimneyless and smoky.
"It's a strange, barbaric world you found yourself castaway on, Thor," Lokrien says. "But you've a roof over your head, a warm fire on a cold night, good food and ale, a woman to comfort you. It could have been worse."
"I found friends here," Gralgrathor says. "They could have killed me, but instead they let me into their lives."
"Poor creatures. I wonder what their history is? They're human, of course, no doubt descendants of some ancient spacefarers wrecked here long ago. Have they any legends of their lost homeland?"
Gralgrathor nods. "It must have been long ago. Their myths are much distorted."
"There's a certain peace and simplicity here—the peace of ignorance," Lokrien says. "They've never heard of the Xorc. They don't dream that out there a great Imperial Fleet is defending their little world against an enemy that could vaporize the planet. Perhaps in years to come, Thor, you'll look back sometimes with nostalgia on your idyll among the primitives."
"No, Loki," Gralgrathor says. "It's not earth
"Stop the car."
She braked, pulled over, looked at him inquiringly.
"Can you face it out if they search the car?" he asked.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll ride the frame."
"You can't. There's nothing to ride on, no room—"
"I'll manage." He stepped out into the storm, went flat, and eased under the chassis. He felt over the rust-pitted frame, scalded his fingers on the exhaust stack, groped for a handhold on a cross member. He hooked the toes of his prison-issue shoes over the rear spring hangars, lifted his body from the wet pavement, pressed against the underside of the car. The girl crouched by the car, staring at him.
"You are crazy! You can't hold on that way! If you slip—you'll be killed!"
"Go ahead, Anne," he said. "I'm all right."
She hesitated for a moment; then she nodded and was gone. Grayle heard the gears shift; the car lurched as it started ahead. Acrid gases leaked from the rotted pipes; the car vibrated, jolting over the road. Oily water sleeted at him; gravel stung him. The tires hissed, close to his face. Then the car slowed. Lights shone on the pavement, gliding nearer. He saw the wheels of another car; two pairs of booted feet approached, stopped a foot from his head. Voices, indistinct over the rumble of the steady rain and the whine of the wind. Doors clanked; the car swayed, and the girl's feet appeared. One policeman rounded the car; more door slams, more rocking. The deck lid opened and slammed. The girl got back into the driver's seat. The masculine boots withdrew. The car pulled ahead, accelerated.
Half a mile farther on, it slowed to a halt. Grayle dropped clear and crawled out into the downpour. He slid into the seat and met the girl's eyes.
"I still don't believe it," she said. "No one could do what you just did."
Grayle put his hand on the door.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll leave you now."
"What's your name?" the girl asked suddenly.
"Grayle."
"Why were you . . . there?" She tilted her head toward the invisible island behind them.
"I killed a man." He watched her eyes.
"In a fair fight?"
"He almost killed me, if that's what you mean."
"Grayle, you wouldn't last a day without me. You've been inside too long."
"I have a long way to go, Anne."
"Doesn't everyone, Grayle?"
He hesitated for a moment; then he nodded.
She smiled tensely, pulled the car back onto the road, and gunned ahead along the dark road.
* * *
They sit in the big, drafty hall, hung with shields and spears and axes which are not decorations but are ready to use, beside the great granite fireplace, chimneyless and smoky.
"It's a strange, barbaric world you found yourself castaway on, Thor," Lokrien says. "But you've a roof over your head, a warm fire on a cold night, good food and ale, a woman to comfort you. It could have been worse."
"I found friends here," Gralgrathor says. "They could have killed me, but instead they let me into their lives."
"Poor creatures. I wonder what their history is? They're human, of course, no doubt descendants of some ancient spacefarers wrecked here long ago. Have they any legends of their lost homeland?"
Gralgrathor nods. "It must have been long ago. Their myths are much distorted."
"There's a certain peace and simplicity here—the peace of ignorance," Lokrien says. "They've never heard of the Xorc. They don't dream that out there a great Imperial Fleet is defending their little world against an enemy that could vaporize the planet. Perhaps in years to come, Thor, you'll look back sometimes with nostalgia on your idyll among the primitives."
"No, Loki," Gralgrathor says. "It's not earth
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