"You're just so much dirt, Kesley," the Antarctican said with sudden force. Oddly, the words did not stir Kesley to anger. "Learn that lesson now. Whatever you may think you are, that doesn't alter the fact that you're nothing more than dirt." Kesley swallowed hard, but said nothing. Van Alen was right, he was forced to admit. The Twelve Dukes ruled supreme, and beneath them came a complex and sharply-defined hierarchy in which, as a farmer, Kesley was close to the bottom. He had no call to flare up at toll-keepers. But yet-- 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.