"What? You are insolent!"
"The question was put according to custom. It was answered in a way which made it impossible for me to act on my own. The Council would have been the first to condemn me had Dumarest been executed without a hearing. You made the decision as to his fate, not I."
"He is spreading dissension," said Vole. "Instead of being grateful to us for having allowed him to live, he sows the seed of discord." His eyes moved, settled on Althea. "And you are to blame."
An accusation which once would have filled her with trepidation but now she looked at Vole with new eyes. An old man, spiteful in his physical weakness, clinging to power for the sake of pride. An arrogant fool who stormed and threatened but who could be broken like a twig by any man with the courage to defy him. And she had just such a man. One who had taught the hollowness of her previous fears.
"I deny that!"
"What? You dare-"
"To question? Yes. Are you above error? Can you never be wrong?"
"Be silent!" Lelia Logan spoke from where she sat. Her face was ugly with rage. "Are you mad, girl? Have you forgotten who we are? What we are? The destiny of the Terridae lies in our hands. Would you have us forget our duty as you seem to have forgotten yours?"
A blast meant to crush and one which would have done but now Althea saw her as she saw Vole: small, waspish, vicious, reacting to personal fear instead of taking a broad view. As Dumarest had predicted she would act. As he had predicted the reactions of others.
But not of Volodya. He was an unknown quality, sitting calmly behind his mask of detachment; yet his eyes were never still, moving from one to the other, and the hand he had rested on the table was clenched into a fist.
Now he said, "The problem seems to be that Dumarest continues to insist he originated on Earth. Naturally this has made him the object of attention, especially among the young. They are curious and want to learn more. Some even believe that Dumarest was sent to herald the Event."
"Nonsense!"
"Perhaps." Volodya did not look at Vole. "But how can we be certain? The man was barely questioned and never tested."
"For reasons which were explained," snapped Logan. "The Council has no need to justify its actions. Even less to justify its decisions. The man must be silenced!"
The voice of established authority spoke as Dumarest had predicted when, lying in his arms, she had snuggled close to him during the hours of rest. The fear which now she could recognize. How right he had been! Power corrupted and was insidious in its attraction. Back in her chair she leaned back, half-closing her eyes, feeling again the touch of his body, hearing again the whisper of his voice.
"You see it on a thousand worlds and the pattern is always the same. Some begin to issue the orders and find others to help them enforce them. The rest follow like sheep and soon the habit of obedience is instilled. It becomes a conditioned reflex. The voice of authority becomes the voice of God, and those who rule begin to think of themselves as something superior to the rest. A delusion-they are just the same. Only obedience keeps them in power. Remove it and they are helpless."
As Vole would be helpless, as Logan and Gouzh and all who sat on the Council. Althea looked at them from beneath her lowered lids, despising what she saw.
Watching her, Volodya recognized her expression and guessed its cause. Dumarest had been more clever than he'd thought. He'd taken the woman and manipulated her mind as, lost in passion, she had yielded him her body. As even now he and his companion were manipulating the minds of others. Demich? A possibility but the man had always held a wry and cynical attitude toward the Council. A man who took a delight in the breaking of puffed egos; using words as swords to cut inflated pride down to size. Not liked by Vole and the others of his kind; tolerated only because they had no choice.
Would he be ordered to silence him too?
Would he obey such an order?
Volodya looked at his hand, the fist it made, and deliberately opened his fingers. Such a stance was a warning to the observant and he had long learned to reveal nothing of his innermost feelings. To guard the Terridae, to obey the Council, to be efficient at all times-the rules which had governed his life.
Rules sufficient for the small world of Zabul but Dumarest had arrived and with him brought something new. A concept which meant the end of stability as he knew it. A change the Council wanted to resist-and it was becoming obvious why.
Demich summed up the problem. "You talk of silencing a voice which has come among us to herald truth. After that, what? More murders to silence those who listened to what he had to say? And even more to silence those who listened to those who listened? Where will it end?"
"Not the truth!" Logan was adamant. "He lied!"
"And continues to lie!" Vole joined her protest. "He weakens our authority!"
"One man?" Demich shook his head and glanced at Volodya. "I think, Urich, we had better see this monster again."
Dumarest was busy examining Zabul. His guide was a young man more eager to ask questions than to answer them. As he led the way down a long corridor he said, "And, at summer, do the fish rise to the surface to carry people over the waves?"
"It could happen."
"But then it is never really summer, is it?" Medwin had barely paused for the answer. "The climate is always warm, with cooling breezes and stimulating showers which hold sweet scents. For snow and ice and tall peaks you move to another part of Earth. As you do to enjoy forests and wide expanses of soft sand on which to hold games and to manipulate craft made of wood with winged sails."
"The climates vary, yes." It was a relief to be able to tell unadorned truth.
"Many climates?"
"From freezing to baking." The conditions to be found on most worlds but, born and raised in the confines of Zabul, Medwin found them hard to understand. "The sky changes too," continued Dumarest. "Sometimes it's blue and then there could be cloud."
"Blue cloud?"
"White through to a dull gray. And there is snow and hail as well as rain. The sunsets and dawns are of scarlet and gold, and, after a rainfall, you can see rainbows arching from horizon to horizon."
"And a silver moon?"
"Yes."
"I'd like to see that," said the young man. "Really see it, I mean. Land on it so as to observe Earth from space. What does it look like?" He gave Dumarest no time to answer. "And the soaring towers of crystal! The Shining Ones! The places where you can go to make a wish come true!"
Embellishments added by Kusche, who, while chafing at the prison Dumarest had closed about him, worked with his undeniable skill. Selling a glittering illusion of Earth and bolstering the conviction that the Event was close at hand.
"What is this place?" Dumarest paused to look at massive doors. "The power source?"
"No, the Archives." Medwin gestured toward the far end of another passage which ran from a nearby junction. "The power generators are down there. Some of them-we have dispersed all essential units."
An obvious precaution; Dumarest had learned enough to respect those who had fabricated the basic heart of Zabul.
No world could be safe for the Terridae. Always there would be the danger of storm and quake, or fire and rebellion, of cosmic hazard and man-made destruction. Only on a small world which they could keep free of all other forms of life and all other warring threats could they feel safe. Space was the natural haven.
Zabul had been built on a nub of rock which had been gouged out to receive machines to generate power and heat, water and air. One covered with a layer of obsolete vessels, their hulls strengthened, communicating passages established, chambers widened and sealed against the void. A nucleus which had grown with later additions until now it reflected light from a thousand points and spires and curved surfaces. A bizarre fabrication which drifted in a void.
Dumarest looked again at the massive doors. The Archives. The sacred repository of knowledge-and where he would find the location of Earth if it was known. And it had to be known. Had to be!
"Earl?" Medwin was waiting, his face puckered in a frown. "Something wrong?"
"No." Dumarest drew in his breath, conscious of the thudding beat of his heart. To be so near! To have the answer almost in his hand! Yet, for now, he still had to be patient. "Can anyone consult the Archives?"
"Only with Council permission. Did you want to see the reclamation plant?"
A mass of pipes and tubes and the soft hum of leashed power as machines took waste and recycled it into usable material. After that came the chemical refinery, the workshops, the mills. Glass walls protected the creche. The hydroponic gardens were a riot of controlled vegetation.
At one end a lamp flashed in irregular pulses and Medwin went to talk into a phone. When he returned he said, "A summons from the Council, Earl. They want to see you." Laughing, he added, "I guess they want you to tell them about Earth."