"Leave it, Earl. The bastard got me."
"I'll call someone. Sayer-he could help."
"He could keep me alive, maybe," she corrected. "But alive for what? I don't want to be a freak, Earl. It's better this way. But call him. Tell him to help you clear up the mess. He's a good man. He'll-" She gulped and, with sudden clarity, said, "Earl. On Podesta. When we-did you love me then?"
"I loved you."
"You're a good liar, Earl." Her hand fell away to be stained by a gush of blood. "A good-"
"Charisse?"
She made no answer. She was dead.
Dino Sayer snuffled and touched his throat and said, "She was good in her way, Earl. I'll miss her."
"But not me?"
"No." The man was honest. "You've given me enough to remember you by. And I can't help but think if she hadn't met you she'd be alive now. Well, that's the way it goes. If it were left to me-but you won the wager and I guess you've earned the right." He gestured at the door. "The library. You'll find everything indexed. Armand's papers are in the end file. If you want anything just press the bell. It's at the side of the desk."
The room was filled with the scent of moldering paper, dust, dank air, neglect, creeping decay. The ubiquitous shadows masked whatever might be lurking in the molding running beneath the ceiling, but if any existed they would be harmless. As would be any eavesdropping devices such as Charisse had fitted to the bedrooms. How else had she known of his interlude with Linda Ynya? How better to gain an idea of distrust or need?
A woman tormented, who had played with fire and had been burned, and had paid the price of having trusted the deranged cyber.
Later he would think about Okos and what his condition had revealed. Now there was work to be done.
Dumarest made his way to the shelves, searched, found books which he placed on the desk. A lamp threw a brilliant cone of light over stained and mottled pages blurred beneath their protective coatings of transparent plastic. Lists of supplies, journeys made by ancient vessels, annotations in various hands, names underlined or scored through, neat symbols made with mathematical precision. Many of the pages bore obviously recent markings on the plastic made with a pointed instrument.
A wealth of rare and ancient treasure, logs, reports, surveys, assessments, journals, the whole needing months of careful sifting-but Rudi Boulaye's visit had been short.
Dumarest put aside the heap and moved to the file. Armand had been a methodical man and would have condensed essential data while eliminating duplication and irrelevancies. The file opened to reveal neatly stacked folders each carefully marked with an abstract symbol.
Armand had known what they represented-Dumarest did not.
He took the first and rifled the sheets, recognizing computer read-outs based on logic-illogical forms of reference. Typed notes showed that various legends had been tested for message, simplicity and repetitive factors. Whoever had done the valuation had been thorough; children's bedtime stories had been included. The conclusions were what he'd expected; a legend could be a message from one generation to posterity in which case it needed to be short, simple and repetitive. Groundwork covered and cleared in a scientific manner and leading to what?
Another file listed stories of a fabulous nature but dealing with beasts and societies and not worlds. Another dealt with the apparent paradox of many diverse types existing simultaneously on a single planet, the chances of spontaneous development and the potential stress factors involved when opposed and diverse cultures met in a limited environment. The conclusion was that there would be inevitable warfare.
A study of the effects of an alteration in solar emission on an inhabitated world.
A valuation of the amount of shipping which would be needed to evacuate the peoples of a planet with a population twice that normally to be found on an industrial world.
An assessment of the probable effects of induced aversion hysteria as applied to an entire section of the human race.
Nowhere could he find mention of Earth.
"My lord?" The girl who answered his pressure on the button had a round face now marked by recent tears. Grief for her dead mistress echoed in the wide band of black worn on her left bicep. A custom Dumarest had seen before.
He said, "Did Armand have any other files? A special book or something like it?"
"I don't know, my lord."
"Who would?"
"Perhaps the new master, my lord. Do you want to see him?"
He arrived thirty minutes later, again touching his throat at the sight of Dumarest, a reactive gesture he probably wasn't aware he made.
"You've been promoted," said Dumarest. "Allow me to congratulate you."
"Someone had to run the place." Dino Sayer shrugged, unimpressed by his new position. "Trouble?"
"I can't find what I'm looking for." Dumarest gestured at the files, the assembled records. "There must be another way. Do you remember Rudi Boulaye? He visited here about ten years ago." Dumarest continued at the other's nod. "Did he stay long."
"Not as I remember."
"How long?" Dumarest pursed his lips at the answer, the time had been less than he'd estimated, but it proved what he suspected. "He didn't see Charisse, right? Then who took care of him?"
"Octen. He's dead now."
"He had access to Armand's files?"
"Yes." Sayer frowned, thinking. "Now I come to think of it he had a lot of stuff in his room. Books, recordings, things like that. Files too, I think. One for sure which Armand used to keep by him and which Octen must have borrowed and forgotten to return."
"Where is it now?"
"Probably burned with the rest of his stuff." Sayer locked at the hand Dumarest had closed around his arm, the savage set of his mouth. "Something wrong?"
"The file. Can you make sure it's gone? It was the personal property of Armand and so could have been saved. The file, man. The file!"
The one Boulaye must have seen. The one Octen had neglected to replace in the cabinet. Papers which could hold the answer now perhaps lying moldering in some forgotten corner.
Alone in a small room Dumarest paced the floor forcing himself to be calm. Sayer had promised to do his best but time was running out. Soon it would be sunset and Linda Ynya would have left along with her ship and the passage she had offered and which he had to take. To delay was to risk being made the prisoner of the Cyclan. If that happened there would be no escape now Charisse was dead.
"Here!" Sayer was back, a folder held in his hand. "This could be it. I had to search the stores and was lucky to find it." As Dumarest snatched it his tone softened a little. "I guess it's important to you, eh?"
"Yes."
"Maybe I was too harsh blaming you for what you did." Again the hand lifted to the small cut on the puckered skin of his neck. "But when you've just saved a man's life and he threatens to cut your throat-well, that isn't an easy thing to forget."
Dumarest said, "Just give it time. Now if you'll let me read this?"
The papers were closely covered with neat script; headings, paragraphs, summations, conclusions. Too much to read and too much to scan. Too much even to have copied in the time available. Already the sun was close to the horizon and, from the field, came the echo of a warning siren. But, somewhere in the folder, must be the answer Boulaye had found.
The whereabouts of Earth.
The coordinates he had risked his life to find.