rs, all in various stages of breakdown or
dismantlement.

"It looks like we'll have to walk, Nuwell," said Maya.

Nuwell shook his head.

"I checked the chart carefully," he said. "The oxygen supply of a
marsuit won't take us either back to the Canfell Farm or to Ophir, even
with extra tanks. We're just going to have to cannibalize two of these
machines and repair us a groundcar."

"But, Nuwell, how long will that take?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It looks like it may be quite a job. I
expect it will take two or three weeks, but that's the only way we're
going to get out of here."

He looked at her speculatively.

"It's a shame we aren't already married," he said. "This would provide
us with a honeymoon, of a sort, out here by ourselves in the desert."

"Well, we aren't," she said flatly. "And we won't be until we get back
to Mars City."

"That's true," he said. "Well, the only thing we can do for tonight is
to have supper and find the rooms that Goat assigned us when we were
here before. I hope he left some beds intact in those, or some of the
other rooms. If not, we may have some uncomfortable nights ahead of us."

12

The two Dark Kensingtons and Happy Thurbelow walked along one of the
pathways between the vats, Happy trailing a bit behind. Somewhere near
them, they knew, Shadow accompanied them.

The place was dim, with the moist dimness of a swamp. The source of the
light that filtered through the faint mist and seemed to permeate the
air was not discernible, and the roof of this underground world was lost
in the darkness above them. The placid surface of the water gleamed
vaguely in the vats they passed, and the pale-green tangle of vegetation
rose above and around them, sometimes drooping over the paths like
skinny arms that sought to detain them.

"What I don't understand," said Dark the younger, "is that our memories
coincide exactly, up to a point which you say is a time twenty-five
years ago. My memories are just as genuine as you say yours are; they
aren't something someone told me, but real memories of things that
happened to me, things I felt and did. If they're both genuine sets of
memories, how can it be explained? Are we the same person, who was
somehow split into two distinct individuals?"

"I can only guess at the explanation, but I have a theory," answered Old
Beard. "You are much younger than I am. I would estimate that you're
twenty-five years younger than I am. My mem