She stretched, suddenly thinking of the Kusevitsky Heights, the snow and the sharp, crisp air. The thermals would be good at this time of the year and the sky would be thick with gliding wings. Distance would take the cramp from her eyes and the wind clear the cobwebs from her brain. A break, the dean had said, well, why not? A short vacation and a respite from never-ending problems. Within hours she could be changed and at the Heights. The decision made, she acted with impulsive directness.
"Cleo? Order me a raft. Have it on the roof at my apartment building in an hour. Me? I'm off to the Kusevitsky Heights."
Where Dumarest found her.
The sky was alive with wings, blazes of defiant color which wheeled and soared to glide and sweep upward like giant, soundless birds. These were constructions of struts and plastic beneath which were suspended the fragile bodies of men and women, muffled against the cold, helmeted, their eyes shielded by goggles, gloved hands and booted feet making the wings extensions of their bodies. Adventurers mastering an alien environment, risking injury and death for the thrill of flight.
Myra thrilled with them, remembering the cold rush of air, the near-panic as the ground had rushed up toward her, the surge of adrenalin coursing through her body as it had fallen away to leave only the vast and beckoning sky. That had been yesterday and, tomorrow, perhaps, she would glide again, but for today the sky was reserved for students under instruction and for post-graduates hoping to become instructors in turn.
From behind Dumarest said, "An engrossing sight, my lady. And a fascinating one. How can those who fly ever be content to walk?" As she turned he added, "If I am mistaken I crave your forgiveness but you are Madam Myra Favre?"
"I am. And you?" She nodded as he introduced himself. "How did you find me?"
"Your secretary was most helpful."
And unduly impressionable, but Myra couldn't blame her for that. Dumarest had shed the student's robe and now wore a military-style outer garment of maroon edged with gold. Fabric which replaced the robe's thermal protection and which did not brand him as a social inferior. A garb which enhanced his height and build, matching the hard planes and contours of his face, the cold directness of his eyes.
He said, "My apologies for having disturbed you but the matter is of some urgency."
"To me?"
"To me." He looked at the gliders filling the air, some casting shadows from their wings as they swept close and low, others hanging almost motionless against the sky like butterflies pinned to the firmament. "Is there somewhere we could talk?"
"You object to the Lion's Mouth?" She saw he didn't understand and explained as she led the way over the snow. "Obviously you haven't heard the legend. It seems that once, on a distant world, there was a cave on the wall of which had been carved the head of a lion. The carving had an opening between the jaws. Lovers would meet before it to swear their devotion and, as proof of their sincerity, those swearing would place their arms into the opening before they did so. If they lied the jaws would close and sever the arm." She paused then added, "That's why the cafe is called the Lion's Mouth."
It was snug and warm and built of stone with a low, timbered roof. Small tables stood on the floor and on each stood a gleaming lantern. On occupied tables the lights flashed red and green to the accompaniment of protestations and laughter. These were lie detectors, their sensors hooked to the seats, the colors revealing truth or lie. A novelty for the young, a useful furnishing for those who had reason to doubt their companions' motivations.
"You spoke of urgency," she said. "What problem is never that?"
"Death," he said. "The problem we all face but who hurries to meet it?"
She blinked at the unexpected reply and reassessed her first estimate of his intelligence. Not just a brash, well-dressed entrepreneur but a thinker at least. Why had he sought her out?
Dumarest shrugged as she put the question. "To talk. To ask questions."
The light had flashed green. "About the university?" She anticipated what she thought he wanted. "A position? You want to teach?" The light remained neutral as he stayed silent. "Do you appreciate the system? First you must convince me that the course you offer has commercial viability. Then you sign a contract binding you to pay the basic fees of the hire of a classroom or laboratory or what it is you need. The students pay you the fees you stipulate from which the university takes a percentage. In some colleges you would put the remainder into a common pool for equal sharing but we don't operate like that at dyne. In any event, as a newcomer, you would have to prove your earning capacity before anyone would agree to share his fees with you. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes."
"All that remains is to discuss your field and to determine if you are qualified both to teach and to issue acknowledged degrees. That implies references-you have them?" She frowned as he shook his head. "No? Then why did you seek me out? Are you wasting my time?"
"I hope not." His smile asked her forbearance as his eyes demanded her cooperation. "Have you been at the university long?"
"In the bursary department? Six years."
"And before that?"
"I took a post-graduate course in bookkeeping and advanced administration." She saw the flashing green light reflected in his eyes. "Several years in all if you really want to know." It had been the major part of her life but she didn't choose to mention that. "Why do you ask these questions?"
He said, as if not hearing, "Would you have known the faculty? Being personally involved with them, I mean?"
"Not all of them-you must realize there is both a large static and numerous transient teaching population, but if you are speaking of the upper echelons of the Tripart staff then, yes, I know them fairly well."
"And ten years ago?"
"I was here then," she admitted. Her irritation had yielded to curiosity, why was this man so interested in her past? "What is it you want to know?"
"Did you know a man named Boulaye? A geologist?" As she nodded Dumarest reached out his hand and dropped something into her palm. "He sent you this."
She stared at it, not noticing the warning red flash from the lantern on the table, her eyes filled with the soft blue effulgence of the metal she held cupped in her hand. A nugget large enough to fashion a delicate bracelet or a heavy ring.
"Juscar," she said wonderingly. "So Rudi found his mine."
He had found it and lost it together with his life on the world of Elysius. Dying as his wife had died, as had Zalman, a man Dumarest could have called a friend. Lying crushed beneath the fallen mass of rock and debris which had created a mounded tomb. With him had gone the secret he had discovered: the coordinates of Earth.
The answer Dumarest had come to Ascelius to find.
"Dead." Myra shook her head, not in grief for the event was too old, too distant, but in sorrow that, somewhere, a part of her life had vanished. "Killed by a fall, you say?"
Dumarest nodded, it was near enough the truth to serve. "Did you know him well?"
"Well enough. We-" She broke off, looking at the lantern, mouth pursed in distaste. "Let's go somewhere else. These damned lamps remind me of watching eyes."… The eyes of censors which she could have hated as a child. Of their dictates which could have restricted her emotional development. Dumarest followed her from the table. The joke had turned sour or she had reason for concealment but the decision suited him. Of them both he had the greater need to lie.
"Rudi," she said, after they had settled in an arbor protected by curved crystal from the external chill, the biting wind. "How long would it be now? Ten years? Nine? Call it nine. I was younger then, inexperienced, perhaps over-attracted to the more mature male. Let's say he made me a proposition and I was too immature to assess it for its real worth. You understand?"
More than she guessed and Dumarest knew why she had left the table. Her time scale was all wrong and it was obvious why. Not nine years-nearer to nineteen. She had been young then and the rest would have followed. A fable to disguise her real age from herself as well as him-a weakness of feminine vanity unknowingly betrayed.
He said, "You were emotionally involved-is that it?"
"A nice way of putting it." She smiled and for a moment was what she must have been: alert, round of face, her mouth made for kissing, her eyes for laughter. The body would have been plumper then, the curves more pronounced, and she would have been hungry and eager for experience. "You are discreet, Earl. I may call you that?"
"Yes, Myra."
She stared at him, fighting her resentment, telling herself he was a stranger and couldn't know. Yet to take such a liberty! To be so familiar with a member of the Tripart faculty! Then, seeing his smile, she realized how foolish the reaction had been. How habit had betrayed her. If he had asked permission as he should, would she have refused him?
"Myra?" He was concerned. "Is something wrong?"
"No." Her gesture dismissed the incident. "A local custom. Something of a ritual, I suppose, but tradition dies hard."
"As do legends."
"What?"
"You told me of one," he reminded. "The Lion's Mouth, remember? And there are others." Many others but one in particular which was no legend but unaccepted truth. "What happened between you and Rudi?"
"Nothing. Not really."