Dumarest hesitated. Another wasted journey? Another disappointment? Earth, he was positive, lay somewhere in this region of the galaxy, yet the exact coordinates remained a mystery. To be so close and still be so uncertain was a nagging irritation.
"Please, Earl." Lemain's hand lifted, gripped his own. "I'm dying and we both know it. You're leaving anyway so why not head for Loame? Carry my message and maybe you'll help to save a world."
Exaggeration? Dying men saw things from a distorted viewpoint but there was no denying the urgency in his voice, the appeal in his eyes. And why not? One planet was as good as another, and it was barely possible that the man Delmayer possessed valuable information.
"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll carry your message."
"God bless you, Earl." The hand fell from his own, fumbled at a pocket. "The address… in here… my brother's a good man… help." Lemain swallowed and said clearly: "You won't regret this, I'm sure of it."
"He's dying," said the woman suddenly. "Does he want anything? A monk, perhaps?" She stepped forward, the candle in her hand. "There's a small church at the edge of the landing field. I can get you one if you want."
"No," said Dumarest. "There isn't time."
"There could be. I'll run all the way."
And return with what? A monk of the Universal Church with his hypnotic skill to ease the mind and body of the dying or a pair of guards eager to earn a reward? Self-preservation dictated that she return with the latter. It was a risk Dumarest dared not take.
"No," he said again.
Gold shimmered as she looked at him, the candlelight bright in the gilded tresses of her hair, more gold flashing from her nails, matching the gleam in her eyes. "You're hard," she said. "By God, you're hard. And you call yourself his friend?"
"I did," said Dumarest quietly. He looked at Lemain. While they had argued the man had died. Reaching out, he closed the staring eyes. "But not now. A dead man has no need of friends."
"He's gone?" She sighed and put down the candle. "Well, what do we do now?"
"We wait," said Dumarest, "Until the dawn."
* * *
Waiting, they talked. Her name was Zillia and she was a professional woman of pleasure, her attitude a peculiar blend of hardness and sentiment, a typical product of the old city where tradition had set her class in a prison of rigid formality. To Dumarest's questions as to how she would dispose of the body she shrugged.
"There are men who will do anything for money. I will bribe a couple. The dead man will be found in a street far from here. Not today, but tomorrow. There is no time now to make the arrangement, and there will be no questions and no suspicion as to my part in the affair. A dead man, one from the workings, who is going to be concerned about such as he?"
"You don't like the workings?" Dumarest sipped at the glass in his hand. She had produced wine and served them both, now they sat on the edge of the bed, the sheeted corpse a formless bundle to one side of the room.
"The workings?" Again she shrugged, the upward movement of her shoulders causing her full breasts to strain against the thin fabric of her robe. "To me they mean nothing, but to those who rule this world they could spell disaster. Already the young are becoming independent and dissatisfied with their lot. You, those like you, are a fresh wind to blow away ancient cobwebs with your news of other worlds, other societies. Once the habit of obedience is broken how can it be restored?"
"Blind obedience is never good," said Dumarest flatly. "Always a man must ask himself why he should obey. Because the one giving the order is older? Has greater wealth? Is in a position of authority? Commands respect because of his greater knowledge and experience? Unless these questions are asked the habit of obedience leads inevitably to mental slavery."
"Deep thoughts," she said, smiling. "And questions not of our concern. Had you known the dead man long?"
Dumarest sipped more wine. "Not long. We worked together, and once he saved me from injury. A grab discharged its load above where I stood. Lemain thrust me aside." His hand tightened on the glass. "The grab operator had cause to regret his carelessness later."
"You killed him?"
"No, just hurt him a little. After that Lemain and I spent some time together. We ate at the same table and slept in the same dormitory. We talked of various tilings. I liked him. He was a good man."
"And Earth?"
Dumarest looked at the woman, her face soft in the kindly light of the candle, the glimmer of her gilded hair a shimmering halo against the shadows beyond. She had, he realized, subconsciously fallen into the habits of her trade, putting him at ease with wine and conversation, letting her magnificent femininity work its biological magic.
"It's a place," he said quietly. "A world."
"Your world?"
"Yes."
She frowned, puzzled, her mind teasing the problem. "But he said that you didn't know where it was. At least he said that someone could tell you that. But if it is your world, surely you know the way back?"
"I left when I was very young," Dumarest explained. "I stowed away on a vessel and the captain was kinder than I had reason to deserve. He could have evicted me, instead he allowed me to join his crew. From there I went on and on, visiting many worlds, penetrating to the Center."
To where stars hung thick in the sky and the nights were brilliant with sheets and curtains, streamers and halos of colored brilliance. To where the very name of Earth was unknown and the coordinates unmarked. Deftly she refilled his glass. "And?"
"Now I'm trying to find my way back," he said. "That is all. A simple story of a runaway boy who became lost in the vastness of the galaxy. You must have heard its like a thousand times."
"Perhaps." She touched the rim of her glass to his own, her eyes bright as they met his across the goblets. "I give you a toast. To success in all you endeavor!"
"To success!"
They drank and Dumarest set aside his empty glass. He would need a clear head at dawn, when it would be safe to walk through the city, to go to the landing field and take passage away from Clovis. And there was still unfinished business to be settled. He reached into a pocket and produced money, the thick, triangular coins of the local currency. Taking the woman's hand he filled her palm with precious metal.
"For your trouble," he said. "For what you have done and have yet to do. Is it enough?"
Gold shimmered as she bent her head, counting the coins. "The price of a High passage," she whispered. "My lord, you are generous."
"You are satisfied?"
"Almost." She raised her head, eyes bright, teeth shining against the full redness of her lips. "For sanctuary and the disposal of the dead this is more than enough. But for the rest-there is a price only you can pay."
The coins flashed as she thrust them beneath the pillow; fingernails gleaming she reached for the candle, the glitter dying with the flame.
And then there was only warmth and softness, the scent of perfume and the incredible, demanding heat of her magnificent body.
Chapter Two
THE WIND that morning was from the north with the sky clear and without promise of rain, which meant, thought Quendis Lemain grimly, a bad time to come in the near future. He turned from the meteorological instruments, a thickset, burly man of late middle age, once hard muscle now running to fat, his gray eyes narrowed as he looked over his lands.
They were good lands, rich dirt filled with ripe humus, well drained, stocked with beneficial bacteria and showing the devoted care of generations. To east and west the ranked trees of orchards marched toward the horizon, the deep green leaves lustrous in the light of the rising sun, the branches heavy with swelling fruit. To the south sprawled acres of grain, brassicas and vines. To the north stretched the root crops interspersed with succulents and gourds.
There the danger would strike first, the drifting-spore-like seeds riding the wind to settle, to germinate, to sprout in vicious, horrible growth. A hundred men would have to keep continual watch, tearing out the thin tendrils as they appeared, hoeing and turning the soil until it was again clean. And then, inevitably, they would have to do it all over again.
For how long, he wondered? Already a good square mile had been lost from the northern borders of the farm, good, fertile soil lost to production, covered now by the vile growth which threatened their very existence. And each foot lost meant that much less food, that much more danger.
"Grower Lemain!" The girl was one of the house-servants, her simple dress of brown fiber taut over the lush curves of her body. She came toward him eyes bright with health, the mane of her hair hanging loose over her shoulders. "My lady sent me to tell you, Grower. Your meal is served and is waiting your pleasure."
Trust Susan to think of routine, thought Quendis. The wind from the north, no sign of rain, and she could still think of food. Yet she was right to do so. Doubling the worry would not halve the danger and to minimize it was to strengthen the morale of the workers. He drew a deep breath, inflating his chest,