He fell again, slipping on frozen slush, rolling at the feet of startled pedestrians. A man caught his arm, helped him to rise, stared his concern.
"You all right, mister?"
"Yes."
"You sure?" The man was anxious. "You look bad to me. Are you ill?"
A cab pulled up across the road, a young woman alighting, her face white against the dark fur of her robe. Dumarest pulled free his arm and ran toward it His head swam and the pound of his heart was a hammer beating at his chest. Darkness edged his vision and confused his sense of judgment.
He heard someone cry out, saw a looming shape rushing toward him, tried to spring clear and felt his foot slip on a patch of snow.
The shock of the impact was swallowed in darkness.
Chapter Eight
ALL CHANNELS were alike; organic chemistry, quantum mechanics, binomial theory, applied physics, atomic engineering, astronomy, algebra, basic mathematics, each a nonstop stream of educational matter force-fed into every home. Irritably Mada switched off the television. Had it always been like that, she wondered, and remembered that it had. The scientific approach. If a thing had no educational value then it went into the discard. Dancing was for the study of controlled movement and for physical development. Singing for the exercise of the vocal chords and the illustration of varying harmonics. Stories were lectures, painting an exercise in manual control, verse a mathematical problem.
But why should it bother her now?
Restlessly she wandered about her chamber, touching various items, her hands lingering on soft fabrics and supple leathers. Tactile pleasure, for so long unappreciated and now holding a special charm. How much had they all missed in the past? Was intellectual attainment really the sum total of existence? It wasn't she knew, remembering the lovers on the train, her own past affairs, but there had to be more than bodily satisfaction.
A mistake, she thought, sitting and leaning back in the chair. One built into the system at the very beginning of the colonization. The apparently bright but secretly tarnished concept that education would solve all ills. But it didn't work like that. A man gained degrees or he went to the bottom of the heap. Yet the levels were relative and the end product inevitably one of growing dissatisfaction. A laborer had been taught to recognize the menial nature of his work. A man with a valued degree could be qualified only to clean out sewers.
And so the imported labor from Loame. Let them do the filthy jobs, the dirty but essential tasks, lifting by their presence the egos of those above. Yet it was an uneasy solution, for it would lead directly to a slave culture with all that implied. Better to dispose of them all even though that was wasteful and emotionally unscientific. They were a smoldering bomb which would one day explode.
Subconsciously her hands roved over her body, feeling the firm contours beneath the clinging gown. The touch wakened memories and aroused again the biological reaction she had felt on the train. The reaction brought him vividly to mind.
Impatience drove her to the phone, sent her fingers punching a familiar number. On the screen a face, hygienically clean, looked at her.
"Madam?"
"Please report on the progress of patient nine eighteen."
The face dipped, rose as the woman completed her scanning of a file. "Progress is steady, madam. The injuries were intense and grafts had to be made. The spleen, a kidney and a section of intestine. There were also broken ribs and a punctured lung."
"How long before he is well?"
"The patient is in deep sleep and his progress is satisfactory. He-"
"How long?"
"Another few days, madam."
"Very well. Send him to me when he has fully recovered."
There was no point in being impatient, she thought, breaking the connection. Even the magic of slow-time which increased the speed of the metabolism so that an hour's healing could be compressed into little more than a minute took time.
The impatience of youth, she thought, and smiled. The impetuousness, too. It had been simple to order a guard to keep a discreet watch on the stranger, changing him for less conspicuous men when the chance arose. They had followed him: to the chemists, the library and then to the apartment of the woman. Almost they had lost him, but the accident had put him firmly in her power. A private nursing home and he was safe until she should need him.
As a lover?
She faced the question squarely, responding even to the concept, the reaction of her body telling her that it was the basic reason for her actions. He had appealed to her and she wanted him. The fact that he was something of a mystery enhanced his attraction. A whim, she thought. A romantic interlude. But why shouldn't she indulge herself?
She turned as the door chimed. Dek Brekla stood outside. He entered, smiling, glancing at the subdued illumination.
"Sitting in the dark, Mada? But then you have a fondness for shadows, don't you." Lifting one hand he touched her gently on the cheek. "I wonder why?"
"What do you want?"
"To talk." Deliberately he selected a chair, sat, folding his legs and resting his hands on the dark fabric of his thigh. "Did you know that Krell has retired from the council? He considers that his health would be better if he remained away from the capital. Naturally he retains his status and full pension. It simply means that he will no longer have a vote." He paused and then said gently, "I wonder if you also have considered the benefits of retirement?"
"No."
"Perhaps you should," he urged.
She controlled her mounting anger. "I see no reason to do so. Is that all you came to talk about? If so, I suggest you leave. It is not a subject which interests me."
"To be efficient the council must be a viable entity. Surely you can see that? If we are to become static then it will be good-bye to all progress. Tell me, how would you have felt when young if you had known that there would never be an opportunity for you to achieve your ambition?"
She met his eyes. "I wouldn't have liked it."
"Exactly."
"Are you suggesting that each council member retires on reaching a certain term of office?"
"I think it a fair suggestion," he said. "We are entering a period of potential unrest and should have younger minds to deal with the problems which will arise. You are a clever woman, Mada. I think you can see which path is best for you to follow."
To how many had he carried the suggestion? Krell gone and how many more to follow? Frightened by a shadow, terrified by the hint of a suggestion. But the council ruled and Vargas was only one man. If the Technarch sought dictatorial power then she wasn't going to help him get it. Even so it would be wise to be discreet.
"I'll think about it," she said. "There is truth in what you say; the young should be given their chance. But what of those who retire? Will they continue to-"
"As before," he said quickly. "I assure you, my dear, that you won't lose a thing. Just the right to vote. Everything else will be as before." He rose, teeth bright in a smile. "I'm glad we had this talk. I like you, Mada, and I would hate to see you hurt. Be wise. You won't regret it."
"As long as you promise that nothing will change? Aside from the vote, I mean?"
"You have my word on it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I must hurry. There is a council meeting due. Are you joining us?"
"No. I want to think."
"Good for you, Mada." Again he touched her cheek. "Nice," he said. "Very nice."
A dog, she thought as he left. A slavering hound running at the heels of his master and hoping for a share of the feast. More. Doing Vargas's work for him; seeing the members of the council, whispering, setting one against the other. How long before he would turn assassin?
* * *
Yendhal said, "I am sorry, sire, but I am doing the best I can. The tests are stringent but essential if I am to offer more than an eighty percent chance of success."