uld scarcely proceed; he fell, and Gordon drew him
sharply to his feet. Finally Gordon put an arm about his shoulder,
steadying him, forcing him on. He must hurry, he realized, while the other
held him back, delayed the assistance that Gordon so desperately needed.

"I tell you," he repeated querulously, "I got to get along; something's
broke inside. I'll leave you," he threatened; "I'll let you sit right here
and go cold." It was an empty threat; he struggled on, giving Buckley his
support, his determination, sharing the ebbing store of his strength.

As they neared the top of the mountain a flood of light colder than the
ice poured from behind. The moon had risen, transforming the world into a
crystal miracle.... Far below them was the Greenstream valley, the
village. They struggled forward, an uncouth, slipping bulk, under the
soaring, dead planet. Gleams of light shot like quick-silver about their
feet, quivered in the clear gloom like trails of pale fire igniting lakes
of argent flame. It was magnificent and cruel, a superb fantasy rippling
over treacherous rocks, rock-like earth.

"Y' dam' idiot," Gordon mumbled, "if I die out here where'll y' be then?
I'd like to know that.... Don't sit down on me again, I don't know's I
could get you up, don't b'lieve I could. Like as not we won't make her.
That was an awful good horse. I'm under contract to--to ... government."

Buckley Simmons sank to his knees: once more Gordon kicked him erect. He
spat and spat, constantly growing weaker. "That's an awful lot of blood
for a man to lose," he complained.

Suddenly he saw upon the right the lighted square of a window.

"Why!" he exclaimed weakly, "here's the valley."

He pushed Buckley toward the door, and there was an answering stir
within ... voices.

XXIV

An overwhelming desire possessed Gordon Makimmon to go home. He forgot the
pressing necessity for assistance, the searing hurt within ... he must go
home. He stumbled forward, turning into an aside that led directly behind
Dr. Pelliter's drug store to the road above the Makimmon dwelling. He
moved blindly, instinctively, following the way bitten beneath his
consciousness by a lifetime of usage.

The house was dark, but it was hardly darker than Gordon's brain. He
climbed the steps to the porch; his hands fumbled among the keys in his
pocket.

Feet tramped across the creaking boards, approaching him; a palm fell upon
his shoulder; a crisp voice rang out