"Good. The first thing to bear in mind is that this isn't a game. When you face a man, armed or not, recognize the fact that he wants to kill you. It's your life or his. If you want to stay alive you have to hit first, hit hard and make the blow tell. To hesitate is to give your opponent an advantage. To aim to hurt and not to kill, the same. To do either is to invite death." To Kirek he said, "What did you do wrong?"
"I rushed in. You looked too easy. I guess I underestimated you."
"And maybe you wanted to show off a little right?" Dumarest smiled, removing the sting from the rebuke. "It's a natural reaction. Now let's do it again and this time remember what I said."
This time he made no concessions, crouching in a fighter's stance, poised on the balls of his feet, the bar of metal held before him, point upward, the metal slanted to one side. Had it been a real knife the hold would have given the opportunity to slash in a variety of directions, to thrust, to turn so as to catch and reflect the light. His face matched the stance, falling unconsciously into the bleak mask of a man determined to kill, fighting for his life.
Kirek tried to copy him, a tyro against a veteran, but he had the elements and was willing to learn.
Dumarest opened the encounter, doing as he would never have done in a ring, moving to touch his dummy knife against the other's and by so doing presenting him with an opportunity.
One he took, moving in to knock Dumarest's bar aside with his own weapon before lunging forward in a vicious thrust.
Metal rang as Dumarest parried, striking back in turn, the slash deliberately slow and falling short by an inch. Kirek parried the proffered weapon, cut at Dumarest's stomach, missed and, too late, tried a backhanded slash. He grunted as Dumarest weaved, dodging the attack to slap his own bar of metal against Kirek's side.
"I win," said Dumarest. "Resent it?"
"No, of course not, but-"
"You were good," said Dumarest. "And you can be better. All it needs is practice. But you're all trying to rush things. Erik!"
"Earl?"
"Keep them at basic drill for a while. You've matched them too soon. Wait until they have mastered the basic movements and can do them without conscious thought. Then have them go through routine attacks and parries. If they learn bad habits now they'll be hard to get rid of later." He added, seeing the shadow in the young man's eyes, "But you've done well. Far better than I'd hoped for. You're just a little too impatient."
"Can you blame us for that?"
"No, but it takes time to train a man. Once you've taught these they can teach others. That goes for all of you." He glanced at the men, the other instructors. "Just don't try to run before you can walk."
The noise rose again as, dressed, Dumarest walked with Althea from the gymnasium. In a small enclosure filled with plants and heavy with the scent of flowers she halted and sat on a bench.
As he joined her she said, "You were kind in there, Earl. You could have made Alva look a fool."
"Alva?"
"The man you fought. Alva Kirek. He is Volodya's nephew. You didn't know that?"
Dumarest shook his head; the relationships of the Terridae were a mystery to him, but he saw no point in solving it. Marriage, family life, personal loyalties-all must be strange when conducted among those who spent the major part of their lives in ornamented caskets waiting for the culmination of a dream.
"You were kind," said Althea again. "Against you he was slow and clumsy and you could have made him a laughingstock. The lesson might have done him good."
Dumarest said, "It never pays to make an enemy. I want that man on my side not against me." This was a slip and he cursed the fatigue which had led him to make it. "We need dedicated men," he said. "Those who will be willing to endure hardship."
"Men willing to kill?"
"Men willing to fight," he corrected. "To reach out for what they want. To destroy those who try to stop them."
"Violence."
"Protection." He turned to face her, looking at the face blurred in the dim illumination, the wide, luminous pools of her eyes. "Without it what do you have? The trust that others will not harm you? The hope you will be ignored and left to go your own way? Your ancestors knew better. They knew that all life is a continual act of violence. Why else did they build Zabul?"
"As a haven."
"True, but an armed one. In the beginning it was a fortress designed to safeguard the Terridae in their caskets. How else to ensure protection from fire and flood and war? From quakes and natural hazards? Where better to wait as the years drifted by and the Event came nearer? But they weren't prepared just to wait. The original plans make it clear what they intended."
"But we bred," she said. "Grew in numbers-can we be blamed for that?"
"You made a choice. The Terridae wanted children and, losing the initial drive, became apathetic. Zabul was designed to be moved-why else but in order to search for Earth?"
"The Event will happen," she said uncertainly. "That is what we believe."
"It will happen," he promised. "I'm going to see that it does. But I can't do it alone. And it must be done fast."
"I know Volodya said that, but he will be reasonable. The committee will see to that. He-"
"I'm not talking of Volodya."
"What then?" Her eyes widened. "The Cyclan? But Lim is dead. You destroyed the Saito."
Dumarest leaned back, closing his eyes, seeing again the white gush of searing flame from the pyre his bomb had created, which had destroyed the cyber and reduced the ship to a cloud of expanding, incandescent vapor. That battle was won, but the war continued and he knew the forces of the Cyclan must be on their way.
When would they arrive?
Too much time had been wasted while Volodya had made up his mind to throw his weight on the winning side. There had been too many arguments, manipulations, indecisions. The dead weight of inertia had forced him to move slowly when every nerve had screamed for haste. The young had needed to be convinced, their support assured. The Council had to be weakened by subtle innuendo. A dreaming race had to be shaken into wakeful acceptance of the imminence of their destiny.
The work had sapped his stamina and clogged his mind with fatigue and toxins, which introduced the danger of a careless tongue-already he had made one slip which the woman had seemed to ignore. How many others had escaped him due to impatience and frustration?
A balancing act, he thought, feeling himself sink deeper into a semi-doze. To push and yet to appear to be only a reluctant follower. To urge and suggest and persuade and never, ever, to appear more than helpful. As a stranger he would be resented despite open denials. Those who would accept promises and glittering images of the splendid future about to come would gibe at the work necessary to achieve it.
Dreamers-he was trapped in a world of dreamers. Easy prey for the Cyclan when they came unless, first, he could form his own defenses. If Volodya would allow him to. Unless the newly formed committee grew too fond of personal authority.
But that was a knife edge he had to walk if he was ever to find Earth.
CHAPTER THREE
Each day now on waking Vera Jamil spent longer on her toilette, painstakingly arranging her hair, adorning her eyes with touches of cosmetics, adding extra perfume to her bath. These small acts held their own excitement as did the selection and arranging of her clothing. Vanity, of course, but it gave her pleasure and, at times, brought back memories of her youth when Amrik had been alive and they had found magic in the shadowed compartments of Zabul.
A time long gone now yet still she could feel the pain when learning of his death. Still see the smile on his face when they had lifted him from the casket. If nothing else his dreams had been pleasant and she wondered if they had been of her. That was a bad time and she had longed to return to the surcease of forgetfulness, resenting the obligatory periods of wakeful activity. What need did she have of physical stimulation? Of renewing contacts with reality? Amrik was gone and with him had gone her happiness.
Now a small part of it had returned.
It was everywhere in the only world she had ever known; the stir and bustle of expectation, of activity directed to a definite object. Time seemed to have gained a new dimension and she felt the pulse of her blood and the tingle of renewed interest. Luck, she thought; at any other time she would have missed the participation she now enjoyed. Missed the close association with the stranger who had created the new conditions.
"Earl!" She rose as he entered the chamber and turned to him, hands extended, palms upward, smiling her pleasure as he touched them with his own. "I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
He returned her coquetry with a smile. "Sorry, Vera, but I've been busy."