Twelve steps to go. And the Remouleur is coming, no more than twenty seconds away, and the dust devils are stirring along the canyon, and now there is the preliminary scream of far-off wind and the chatter of torrential rain. The steps feel greasy under your feet.

If someone was actually in the lock when the wind hit, he might have a chance. Teufel lore said that if one dropped the water containers and flattened oneself to the floor, one might — just might — keep the respirator on and survive until the lock closed all the way. But Rebka had never met anyone who had actually done it. And the penalty for returning without water — or, worse, without containers — was severe.

But not as severe as death.

Six steps to go.

Time had run out. He dropped the water containers.

There was a strange, moaning cry in his ears, and his body was lifted and pulled across a rocky surface. Cold water drenched his exposed arms and legs. His respirator was pulled away from his face. Death would at least be quick.

But he was not ready to die. He writhed against the force that held him, reaching up to grab the respirator straps and hold it in position.

His clawing fingers met human hands. The shock was so great that for a couple of seconds he could do nothing.

“Hans! Hans Rebka!” The cry came again, and this time he could understand it.

He opened his eyes for a last look at Teufel’s dark skies. Instead of rosy streaks of wind-torn cloud he found himself staring at a shimmering blur of running water. Framed in front of the torrent, mouth open and panting with effort, was a dusty and droplet-streaked face.

It was Darya Lang.

When she realized what she had done, Darya was ready to sit down and start weeping again.

She had crawled out and hurried over to check the beacon as soon as she woke up. And when she peered through the shrouding dust and saw a figure huddled over the cairn, her first reaction was pure delight. That would teach Atvar H’sial a lesson! The Cecropian would not do that again, callously leaving someone to live or die without even telling her why.

And then as Darya came closer she realized that it was not a Cecropian. It was a human — it was a man — dear God, it was Hans Rebka!

Darya screamed and ran forward. The dust of Quake was as lethal to him as it would be to her. If he were dead, she would never forgive herself.

“Hans. Oh Hans, I’m sorry…”

He was unconscious and not listening. But it was unconsciousness, not death. Darya found the strength to hoist him over her shoulder — he weighed less than she did — and carry him back through the waterfall. And as she laid him gently on the rock, his eyes opened. That puzzled look up at her was the most satisfying expression she had ever seen on a human face.

For twenty minutes she had the pleasure of tending him, watching him curse and spit up dust and snort out gray powder through his nose. It was delight, simply to know he was alive. And then, before she could believe that he was able to function, he was on his feet and forcing her back out onto the surface.

“You’re not safe here, even if you think you are.” He was still wringing his hand and arm at the pain that the neural convolver had left in the nerves. “Another few hours, and that waterfall might be steam. Summertide’s coming, Darya, and there’s only one road to safety. Come on.”

He hurried her across the arid surface, and at the aircar he made a quick inspection. Within a couple of minutes he shook his head and sat back on his haunches. “It doesn’t matter where Atvar H’sial went, or if she’s coming back. We won’t go far in this.” He leaned in under the car to rub his hand over the intake units. “See for yourself.”

The dust storm was easing, but the inside of the vents was still clogged. Worse than that, where Rebka brushed the dust away the liner metal showed bright and eroded.

“That was from flying in and landing here.” He placed the grille back in position. “I think we ought to be able to make one more trip without major servicing and overhaul, but I wouldn’t want to try beyond that. And we can’t risk flying in any more dust storms. If we run into one, we’ll have to go up and over and bide our time coming down. Assuming we don’t run out of power, too — no extreme head winds, or we’re done for.”

“But what about the Carmel twins? You were supposed to be looking for them.” Darya Lang remained crouched by the aircar’s intakes. She had explained to Rebka why she had set her trap, and how Atvar H’sial had deserted her. He seemed to accept what she said, brushing it all off as an unimportant detail. But she had trouble looking him in the eye.

She knew why. That trap had been more than a desire to protect herself when Atvar H’sial came back. She had been looking for revenge for what Atvar H’sial had done. And then her unguided missile had gone astray and hit the wrong person.

“We can’t do anything to help the twins,” Rebka replied. “We’ll have to hope that Graves and Perry had better luck than I did. Maybe they’ll find them, or maybe the spaceship that you and J’merlia saw will be able to help them. I doubt it, though, if it’s who I think it is.”

“Louis Nenda?”

He nodded and turned away. He had his own reasons for wanting to appear calm and casual. First, he had fallen into Darya Lang’s trap so easily that it dismayed him. He was supposed to be the smart and cautious one, but he had become soft and casual. Five years ago he would have tested everything for traps. This one he had fallen into like a baby.

Second, over the years he had found that dreams of his childhood on Teufel were a useful indicator. They were his own unconscious, trying to tell him something important. He had experienced those dreams only when he was in desperate trouble, and always when he did not know what that trouble might be.

Third — and maybe the driving force for the other two worries — Quake had changed since he had landed at the radio beacon. Superficially it was a change for the better. The winds had dropped, the blown sand was reduced to no more than an irritating half-centimeter blanket that lay over everything, and even the distant grumble of volcanic action was quiet.

But that was impossible. It was less than forty hours to Summertide. Amaranth was directly overhead, a huge, bloodshot eye glaring across five degrees of sky; Mandel, off to the west, was half as big again, and Gargantua was bright enough to be seen at Mandel-noon. The tidal energies pouring into the interiors of Quake and Opal were prodigious, enough to produce continuous and severe planetary distortions.

So where were they?

Energy had to be conserved, even on Quake, but it might be changed to another form. Was it being accumulated by some unknown physical process in the planet’s deep interior?

“I guess we could stay here and tough it out,” Darya Lang was saying, staring around them. “This is as quiet as it’s been for a long time. If it doesn’t get much worse than it was…”

“No. It will get a lot worse.”

“How bad?”

“I’m not sure.”

That was an understatement. He had no idea how bad, and it did not matter. We have to get off Quake, a tiny voice was saying in his ear, or we are dead. He was glad that Darya could not hear that voice, but he had learned never to ignore it.

“We have to leave,” he added. “This minute, if you’re ready.”

“And go where?”

“To the Umbilical, and then to Midway Station. We’ll be safe there. But we can’t wait too long. The Umbilical is programmed to lift away from the surface before Summertide.”

She climbed into the car and consulted the chronometer. “It lifts twelve hours before Summertide Maximum. That’s twenty-seven hours from now. And we can be over there in one Dobelle day. We have plenty of time.”