He shook his head. The fact of his insignificance was one he could
accept intellectually, but he couldn't _believe_ in it. And he never
would. He had never been able to master the trick of lying to himself.
"What's on the schedule in Galveston?" Kesley asked, as they rode
into the town. They entered a wide, crowded thoroughfare; mechanical
transportation was forbidden in most parts of North America, but
there were plenty of horsecarts and carriages--most of them drawn by
variegated mutants of one sort or another, but a few by authentic
horses of the Old Kind.
"We'll stay here overnight," van Alen said. "Tomorrow we pick up the
steamer for South America. From there it's straight down to Antarctica."
"And then?" Kesley prodded.
"And then you'll be in Antarctica."
That was all the information van Alen would ever give. From time to
time on the trip down from Iowa, Kesley had found himself wondering
just why he had pulled up roots and struck off with van Alen.
It was probably a combination of factors. Curiosity, certainly.
Antarctica was the world's great mystery, keeping itself utterly aloof
from the doings of the Twelve Empires. And then there was the vague
unease he had felt during his stay in Iowa, the knowledge that he
belonged somewhere else. And there was a third factor, too--a kind of
randomness, a compulsive but seemingly unmotivated action whose nature
he did not understand. He had agreed to come--that was all. _Why_ never
entered into it for long.
He was being led. Well, he would follow, and wait for the threads to
untangle themselves.
Right now he was in a city for, supposedly, the third time in his life.
He had the biographical data down pat: three years ago he had gone to
market in Des Moines for his horse, and a year later he had made the
trek down to St. Louis to sell grain. Both times he had been repelled
by the bigness and squalor of the city. He felt the same emotion now.
But, as had happened the two previous times, there was also the feeling
that the city, not the farm, was his natural habitat.
The street before them seemed familiar, though he knew he had never
been in Galveston before. It stretched far out of sight, bordered on
both sides by low, square, old houses and brightly-colored shops.
Hawkers yelled stridently in the roadway, peddling fruits and
vegetables and here and there some comely wench's favors.
Van Alen pointed toward a rickety building on their right and said,
"There's a hotel. Let's room up for the night."
"Good enough," Kesley agreed.
The proprietor of the hotel was a short man in his early fifties,
chubby and prosperous-looking, with an oily stubble of beard darkening
his face. His bald head gleamed; it had been newly waxed.
"Hail, friends. In search of lodgings?"
"Indeed we are," van Alen said. "My friend and I are tired, and can use
some rest."