THE STARS ARE OURS

He took his hands from Kimber and pulled up the edge of the jacket he wore-the black jacket trimmed in white. With numb fingers he pulled buttons roughly out of holes and stripped off the too large garment. He had been right! The black fabric was completely lined with the same white which made the deep cuffs and the throat-fretting stand-up collar. And the breeches were white, too. With frantic haste he thrust sleeves wrongside out. Kimber watched him until he caught on and a minute later the pilot was reversing his own coat. White against white-if they kept in the ditches-if dogs were not brought-they still had a thin chance of escaping notice. They half fell, half plunged into the ditch beside the road just as a second 'copter came to earth. Dard counted at least six men fanning out in a circle from it, beginning a stealthy prowl into the grove they had left. Neither of the fugitives waited longer, but, half crouched, scurried along between the dry brush which partly filled the ditch and the ragged hedges walling the fields. The skin between Dard's shoulder blades crawled as he expected momentarily to feel the deadly impact of a bullet. Tonight death was a closer companion than the pilot whose boots kicked snow into his sweating face.

Some time later they reached the curve of a farm lane and dared to venture out in the open to skim across it. The cold pinched at them now. As warm as the uniform had seemed when they rode in the heated 'copter cabin, it was little defense against the chill cut of the wind which powdered them with scooped-up puffs of snow. Dard watched the moon anxiously. No clouds to dim that. But clouds meant storm-and they dared not be caught in the open by a storm.

Kimber settled down to a lope which Dard found easy to match. How far they now were from the Cleft he had no way of knowing. And how long was it going to take them to get back? Did Kimber know the trail after they had to turn off the road? He himself might be able to find the path which led from the farm. But where was the farm?

"How far was your farm from that town?"

"About ten miles. But with all this snow-" Dard's breath made a white cloud about his head.

"Yes- the snow. And maybe more of it later. Look here, kid, this is the important part. We haven't too much time-"

"They may wait until morning to trail us. And if they bring dogs-"

"I don't mean that!" It appeared to Dard that Kimber waved away the idea of pursuit as if that did not matter.

"This is what counts. The course the Voice set for us-I asked before we left how long it was good for. The answer was five days and two hours. Now I figure we have about five days and forty-five minutes. We have to blast off within that time or try a second visit to the Voice. Frankly, I think that would be hopeless."

"Five days and forty-five minutes," Dard echoed. "But, even if we have luck all the way it might take two-three days to reach the Cleft. And we haven't supplies-"

"Let us hope Kordov has kept things moving there," was Kimber's only comment. "And waiting here now isn't add- hag to our time. Come on."

Twice through the hours which followed they took to cover as 'copters went over. The machines ranged with an angry intentness in a circle and it hardly seemed possible that the fugitives could escape notice. But maybe it was their white clothing which kept them invisible.

The sun was up when Dard caught at the end of a rime-eaten post projecting from the snow, swinging around to face the track it marked.

"Our farm lane," he bit off the words with economy as he rocked on his feet. To have made it this far-so soon. The 'copter must have taken them a good distance from town before it failed.

"Sure it is your place?"

Dard nodded, wasting no breath.

"Hmm." Kimber studied the unbroken white. "Prints on that are going to show up as well as ink. But no help for it."

"I wonder. The place was burnt-no supplies to be found there."

"Got a better suggestion?" Kimber's face was drawn and gaunt now.

"Folley's."

"But I thought-"

"Folley's dead, He ran the place with three work slaves. His son was tapped as a Peaceman recruit a month ago. Suppose we were to smarten up and just tramp in, Say that our 'copter broke down in the hills and we walked in to get help-"

Kimber's eyes snapped alive. "And that does happen to these lame brains often enough. How many might be at the farm?"

"Folley's second wife, his daughter, the work slaves. I don't think he got an overseer after his son left."

"And they'd be only too willing to help Peacemen in distress! But they'll know you-"

"I've never seen Folley's wife-we didn't visit. And Lotta-well, she let me go before. But it's a better chance than trying to get into the mountains from here."

They tramped on, in the open now. And, at the end of Folley's lane, they reversed their jackets, shaking off what they could of the snow. They were still disheveled but a 'copter failure should account for that.