But why bluff if it was to be so quickly proven an empty threat?
"What do you want?"
"Wait," said Dumarest.
The man was sweating despite his outward calm. The threat of sabotage, despite his swift rejection, had made an effect. Volodya was a product of his environment. To him as to all the Terridae the safety of Zabul was paramount. The weakness which made them vulnerable to any demand.
"Soon," said Dumarest. "Now!"
It was nothing, the barest flicker of the lights, but it was enough to send Volodya racing to slam his hand against a button.
"Guards! To me! Guards!"
The flicker quickened as men burst through the door. Young, strong, wearing pants and shirts of dull olive, each bearing a club, each armed with a gun capable of spouting a cloud of stunning gas. These were short-range weapons but effective enough in limited areas and without the danger of missile-guns or lasers. Two of them ran to flank Dumarest where he stood, another staying at the door, the fourth halting before Volodya.
"Sir?"
"Hold him." Volodya gestured toward Dumarest. "Stun him if he attempts to move. Send to the generators and see what is going on. Halt all movement and-"
"Why waste time?" Dumarest glanced at the lights, now flickering faster than before. "And why create a panic? An interrupter mechanism has been placed in the wiring and will continue to function for another few minutes. It was activated by my order as you heard. Unless I rescind it the interrupter will fuse at the end of its cycle and burn out half a mile of conduit. Nothing serious-but other devices could be. What do you want to do?"
A bluff, Volodya was sure of it, but the risk was too great to take a chance. The flickering was bad enough-anything interrupting the smooth flow of life in Zabul was cause for alarm. And if irritation should pile on irritation he could guess what would happen.
"I yield," he snapped. Then, to the guards, "Leave us!" At least it had been his men who had answered his summons. To Dumarest he said, "Am I to beg?"
"No." Dumarest reached the phone, spoke, put it down. As the flickering halted he said, "All I want from you is one thing. I want to talk to a previous custodian of the Archives. The oldest one you have."
Down in the deepest levels the air was chill, echoes muffled by absorbent padding, the light a dull, bluish glow. Resting in low-roofed compartments separated by thick walls the caskets of the Terridae stood like massive sarcophagi. The boxes were carved and ornamented with a host of figures and mystic symbols-abstract designs which held esoteric meaning, among them the signs of the zodiac.
This was the clue which had brought him to Zabul and now Dumarest waited as a technician worked at one of the caskets.
"We must give him time," said Althea Hesford, as if guessing at his impatience. "Shiro Gourvich is a very old man."
Gourvich even now was lost in a world of entrancing dreams as he lay in the snug confines of his casket, experiencing illusions created by mental stimulation as his drugged body lay in the surrogate womb. For him time had been extended, his metabolism slowed, bodily functions served by sophisticated machinery. The box itself formed a miniature world, airtight, strong, containing its own power source and essential supplies. A fortress against the ravages of time.
"How much longer?" Dumarest looked at the technician. The box could only be opened from within either by intent or by time-lapse mechanisms unless special techniques were applied.
"He's old," said the man, echoing Althea. "And frail. If you want him alive you've got to give him time. I've triggered the operation and I guess he's coming out of it about now. A few more minutes and-" He grunted as the lid of the casket began to rise. "I was wrong. He's awake now. You want me around?"
He left as Dumarest shook his head. The lid of the casket, now opened, revealed a padded interior and the frame and face of an old man within.
An old man.
Old!
The sparse white hair was like gossamer, the face a canvas for endless lines, the mouth a bloodless slit, the eyes twin balls of flawed glass set deep within sunken sockets. The body itself, beneath a simple robe, was a thing of twigs and sticks and stringy muscle. The voice was like the rustle of leaves in early winter.
"Has it happened? The Event. Has it come?"
"Not yet." Althea was gentle. "How do you feel? Can you sit upright?"
"Of course." Gourvich reared to clutch at the lowered side of the casket with bird-claw hands. "I'm a little vague, that's all. I was young, you see, and Lynne was with me. There was a rolling meadow over which we ran and a lake and then beds of flowers in which we made endless love. Why did you wake me? I have the right to rest undisturbed until the coming of the Event. But you say it has not arrived."
Dumarest said, "I need your help."
"Help? What help can I give you, young man? The strength of my arm?" The chuckle was as dry as the voice. "A fly could break it. My skills? They are forgotten. My influence with the Council? It ended when they deemed me too old to face the routine wakenings. What can you want from me?"
"Your memories."
"Of what? Lynne? Hilda? Others I have known?"
"Your memory and your skill," said Dumarest patiently. He knew the shock of resurrection-the old man was bearing it well. "Zabul needs your help."
"Zabul? Are we in danger?"
"No," said Althea quickly. "It is a problem which needs to be solved and you are the best fitted to do it. Can you rise? Do you need a stimulant?"
"A little help." The old man sagged in her supporting arms. "It has been a long time, I think. Who now heads the Council?"
"Urich Volodya."
"Volodya? Do I remember him?" The brow moved to change the pattern of creases, the eyes narrowing with the frown. "Sergi?"
"Urich. Sergi was his father."
"I knew him when he was a boy. And you, my dear?"
Gourvich looked at Althea. "No. No, I don't remember you at all."
She had probably been born after he had entered the casket as had Urich Volodya and how many others. Dumarest looked at the old man as he stood sipping the cordial Althea had brought with her, a heavy syrup containing strength-giving drugs to sharpen the mind and speed the slowed processes of the body. The chemicals would rob Gourvich of extended years but enable him to stiffen a little, to look more alert, to shake off some of the vagueness which had clothed him in the shredded webs of time.
Years, decades, centuries, millennia-how old could he be?
The young were needed to maintain Zabul and denied use of the caskets until they had reached thirty. Then they were permitted only intermittent use, woken at frequent intervals to maintain physical prowess and contact with reality. These periods lessened as they grew older, ceasing when, like Gourvich, they had nothing to offer the community.
A thousand years?
More?
It was possible-quick time reduced hours to seconds and the drugs used were more sophisticated, compounds which voyaging. Even allowing for a reduced efficiency and frequent wakings, Gourvich could be well over a thousand years old. Time enough for tissues to shrink and unused muscle to avoided the inherent dangers of those used during normal wither. Time, too, for memories to fade.
Dumarest considered this as he followed Althea and her charge to the elevator and up to the Archives where Vera Jamil was waiting. He caught her expression and recognized her resentment and jealousy and smiled as he guided the old man into a chair.
"We need your help, Vera, and I'm sure you won't refuse it. This is Shiro Gourvich. An early custodian. Shiro, this is Vera Jamil, your successor. If you ask her nicely she will make you some of her special tisane."
"With althenus?"