Clarion

by William Greenleaf

  Paul had begun to lower the goggles when he saw something that made him look again. The bearded man had leaned forward in his seat, eyes widening into an intense stare. Puzzled, Paul turned to follow the man's line of vision. He scanned the area near the stage and saw nothing that looked out of place. He turned the goggles back to the balcony and hit the stud to enlarge the image. The man was definitely reacting to something he had seen near the stage. Now Paul saw that he was not staring directly at the stage, but slightly to the side.

  Again Paul followed the man's line of sight. He moved the goggles slowly across each of the first few rows; then something caught his attention and he brought them back for a second look. A thin, balding man in a dark suit sat in an aisle seat of the front row. The goggles had passed over him before, but now Paul realized that the man was not watching Doriand. He had instead turned to look down the aisle at one ofHanes's security guards, who was stationed near the exit door. As the thin man turned back to the stage, Paul saw that something was clasped in his hands. Paul touched the zoom control again and leaned forward closer to the glass wall for a better angle of view.

  The object in the man's hands was a gun.

  Paul felt a surge of adrenaline, and his eyes jerked back to the stage. The beat of the music had been replaced with a light melody. Dorland's face was tilted up, patterned by changing light and shadow. He was drawing close to the moment when 14

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  sudden darkness would fall and the white beam from the overhead spotlight would hit him.

  Sweat trickled inside the collar of Paul's shirt. The security guard stationed at the exit near the stage was watching Dorland, and it was clear he hadn't noticed the man in the front row. Paul swiveled back to look at Jeffrey Hanes and the other security men. Even if he could somehow get their attention, they would never be able to reach the front row of the auditorium in time.

  Paul rose from his chair, his mind churning with indecision. Then he ducked through the opening to the platform, grasped the ladder rails and went up as fast as he could through the ceiling access port. His heart pounded as he forced himself to wait a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Service catwalks with safety rails led out across the suspended ceiling. He selected one that angled in the right direction and ran along it to an exit point that he judged to be close to the stage. He dropped down the ladder to a service corridor and followed that to a door that opened into the auditorium. The security man at the stage door was Steph Hendrikson. Paul yelled as he ran past, but didn't wait to see if Hendrikson comprehended. He

  rushed down the darkened aisle with no specific plan in mind, stumbling over feet yet somehow keeping his balance, ignoring the confused murmur that grew behind him. He risked a glance at the stage as the music crashed and broke into another light melody. Colors blossomed, washing away the shadows as they brightened to dazzling shades of yellow. Dorland stood rigid, arms stretched toward the ceiling. The music faded and a deep hum began to build from the speakers. The man in the front row lifted his hand and Paul saw the reflected gleam of metal.

  "No!" he yelled, still running.

  The man began to turn an instant before Paul hit

  CLARION 15

  him from the back and at the same time grabbed for the wrist that held the gun, trying desperately to deflect it. He caught a brief glimpse of a narrow face and cold blue eyes before the gun's muzzle winked, and Paul heard the snap of superheated air beside his ear. The men grappled, then fell across the railing and out into the aisle. Paul's knee smashed into one of the rail supports, and a monstrous bolt of pain rammed up his leg. The thin man twisted free with surprising strength and jerked around, bringing the gun up. Paul had time to stare at the dark muzzle an instant before he heard a crack! from behind him. The man grunted once and rolled over onto his face and lay still. Paul fell back onto his elbows and drew in whacking breaths. Steph Hendrikson leaned over him with his gun still smelling faintly of hot metal.

  "Are you okay, Mr. Jurick?"

  Paul couldn't find the breath to answer.

  Hendrikson helped him to his feet. A sudden murmur broke out around them as people began to react to what had happened. Paul turned to look up at the stage. Dorland stood motionless, arms at his sides. A violet hue still hung around him, drifting in faint, smoky wisps. His eyes were dark, half lidded, still full of the player's trance. The medallion on his forehead gleamed with purple light.

  "Get him out of here," Paul rasped. Hendrikson hesitated, looking down at the man who still lay motionless at their feet. Then Jeffrey Hanes and two of his men arrived, and Hanes took charge with a few barked orders. Two of the men went up the steps and hustled Dorland behind the curtain to the dressing room.

  "You all right?" Hanes asked.

  Paul nodded and looked down at the man in the aisle. "Is he . . ." The words trailed off as the odor of scorched flesh reached his nostrils. He felt something turn over in his stomach.

  6_________________William Greenleaf

  Hanes took Paul's arm and pulled him away from the body. "Go back with Dorland. I'll take care of things out here."

  Paul didn't argue. His knee was beginning to cry for attention by the time he had gone around the side of the stage and down the short passageway that led to the dressing room. Fastened to the door was a metal plate with simple black lettering: DORLAND AVERY.

  Steph Hendrikson stood just inside. He turned as Paul came in, his hand going automatically to the handle of his side arm, then moving away when he saw who it was.

  "Where's Dorland?" Paul asked.

  "Changing." Hendrikson waved a hand toward the partitioned area at the back of the room. His eyes remained on Paul. "I don't know what happened out there, Mr. Jurick. I should've spotted that guy. Mr. Avery's show was so ... well . . ." His shoulders moved in a slight shrug.

  "We'll talk about it later," Paul said. One of Jeffrey Hanes's greatest problems in maintaining security around Dorland Avery was that the mesmerizing effects of Dorland's performance often interfered with the alert watchfulness that was needed by the security men. The men were supposed to guard against getting too caught up in Dorland's show, but that required a mental discipline that not everyone possessed. Even Paul often felt himself sinking into the music and colors. It would be up to Hanes to decide if Steph

  Hendrikson would be able to do his job well enough to remain a part of the security team. "Wait outside. Don't let anyone in but Jeffrey." Hendrikson nodded and left the room. Paul

  crossed to the utility counter to pour himself a cup of hot jo. The dressing room was large and luxurious, with a sofa and several deep-cushioned chairs grouped around an entertainment console in one

  CLARION 17

  corner, and an interstream commset in another. The carpet was thick and white. The dressing area was separated from the lounge area by the only piece of dark furniture in the room—a large, freestanding wooden wardrobe.

  "Steph told me what happened."

  Paul turned from the counter as Dorland came around the wardrobe. He had exchanged the white jumpsuit for the sort of clothing he usually wore offstage—dark slacks and a faded blue shirt.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Sure." Paul sat down in one of the cushioned chairs, took a sip ofjo and realized the cup was shaking so much he nearly slopped the hot liquid over his hand. He put the cup carefully on a low table beside him.

  "Why were you limping?" Dorland asked.

  "Banged my leg on something. It isn't serious."

  "Make sure you have somebody look at it."

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Do you think this had anything to do with the call we got?"

  "Presumably." Something about the way Dorland asked the question made Paul look at him more closely. Dorland's face was still pale, but his eyes were sharp and direct, and Paul knew the last vestiges of the player's trance had left him. "Do you have any idea why someone would try to kill you?"

  "Of course not." Dor
land turned away abruptly and went to the window. He pressed the wall stud to clear it and looked out at the falling dusk.

  "Unhappy fan, I suppose."

  "He didn't look like a fan." Paul thought about the cold blue eyes. "What he did was no impulse." The door slid open to admit Jeffrey Hanes. He did not look happy.

  "He's still alive," he said before they could ask.

  "In surgery now, but the doctors don't give him much chance. I don't think we'll be getting any 18

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  answers out of him. The one in the balcony got away."

  "Got away?" Paul asked in surprise. "How?"

  "He slipped out before we could seal the exits."

  "Damn."

  "The Guard threw a net around the auditorium," Hanes went on. "Maybe we'll get lucky. Anyway, I think we should cancel the next show and get out of here."

  "I agree," Paul said.

  Dorland had kept silent, as if he had little interest in what had happened in the auditorium. Now he turned from the window and said, "We can't cancel the show this late. People have come from all over the local sector to see it. Besides, we'll have to schedule another one to make up for the show that was ruined."

  "Ruined?" Paul said. "You were almost done. In another five minutes—"

  "Set it up for tomorrow night," Dorland went on in the same quiet voice. He thought for a moment, then added, "Some people may not be able to come back because of other plans. Refund double their ticket price. That might help make up for what happened."

  Paul stared gloomily down at his hands, calculating what that would cost. He bit his lip and turned to Hanes. "Step up security for tonight. Two guards at each door, and at least a dozen inside. You'll have to use local people, but make sure you screen them."

  Hanes nodded and turned to leave. After the door had hissed shut, Paul leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting himself sink deeper into the cushions of the chair. He felt as if all the energy had been drained out of him. A moment later he heard the sound of the heavy wardrobe door sliding open.

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  19

  "You aren't going out, I hope," he said without opening his eyes.

  "Not really."

  Paul's eyes snapped open. He had never heard the voice before. The bearded man stepped out of the wardrobe, ducking under the low doorway. He held a small black gun in one hand. Dorland had turned from the window to stare at him.

  The man closed the wardrobe door and glanced at Paul. Then his eyes went to Dorland. A slow grin grew across his face.

  "Hello, Dorland," he said. "It's been a long time."

  Chapter Two

  WHEN DORLAND DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING, THE MAN

  crossed the room in three long strides and dropped into one of the chairs across from Paul. He was a big, round-shouldered man with skin that was lined and creased from exposure to the elements. His eyelids drooped, giving him a look of haughty superciliousness. His hair was thin and sunbleached. He seemed relaxed and at ease—much different from the way he had looked in the auditorium. The brown coveralls he wore looked as if he'd slept in them three days running.

  He glanced at the door, then waved the gun.

  "Better lock that."

  Paul hesitated, thinking about Hendrikson just outside. Then his eyes went back to the gun. It was small and black, with a bulbous muzzle and a large cylinder just above the handle grip that might have been the power supply. Paul wasn't familiar with the style, but the gun looked capable enough in the man's hand to make him decide against the idea that had half formed in his head. He pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the room to 21

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  touch the thermal dimple beside the door. The lock slid home with a soft whir.

  After Paul returned to his chair, the man's eyes went back to Dorland.

  "My name is Selmer Ogram. Maybe you remember me." He spoke Basic with an accent that favored lilting vowels and light consonants. When Dorland didn't respond, he shrugged. "Or maybe not. I was just a kid when you left Clarion. My father was John Ogram." He paused again as if he expected the name to have an impact. "He was killed at the Troy Three interchange a few months after he took you out. Deacon Krause got him." Still Dorland remained silent. He stood stiffly near the open window, staring at Ogram, his face drawn with lines of tension. Ogram's statements meant nothing to Paul. He had worked for Dorland Avery for nearly five years and had never heard him mention the name Ogram or a place called Clarion. But it was clear that Ogram's words were touching something inside Dorland.

  "It would help if you told us what this is all about," Paul said.

  Ogram shifted his hooded eyes. "Who are you?"

  "Paul Jurick. I'm Mr. Avery's business manager." Ogram chuckled.

  "Something funny about that?"

  "Dorland Avery, the great psi-player." Ogram shook his head. "Coming here was a waste of time as far as I'm concerned."

  "Feel free to leave," Paul suggested. Ogram grinned crookedly. "Can't. Not till I've done my duty."

  "You still haven't told us what that is. Your friend nearly killed Mr. Avery back there in the auditorium."

  "Deacon Bekman is no friend of mine," Ogram

  CLARION 23

  said. "But my business isn't with you. Keep quiet while I have a chat with the great psi-player." The mocking tone infuriated Paul, but there was little he could do while Ogram held the black gun. He throttled his anger and leaned back in the chair.

  "We need your help," Ogram went on, his eyes going back to Dorland. "The situation at home has gone from bad to impossible. Sabastian wants you to come back."

  Another statement that made no sense to Paul. He and Dorland had left their homeworld of

  Farrady three weeks ago to begin the tour, but he had been in daily contact with Trisha. She would have told him if any "situation" had developed that involved Dorland.

  "High Elder Brill is turning out to be even worse than we thought," Ogram went on. "He's more destructive than all the other High Elders together. He's using Lord Tern's revelations as an excuse to commit the worst atrocities you can imagine. Sabastian says we have to stop him." Ogram paused, his eyes remaining fixed on Dorland. "We sent a man into the sacred chamber. Cleve

  Quinton." He nodded. "Yes, I thought you would remember Cleve. He was a good friend of mine." Dorland spoke for the first time, his voice low and flat. "Cleve went to the chamber?"

  "Like I said, we're desperate. Cleve saw something in the chamber that made him lose his mind. Then the deacons killed him."

  A long silence drew out. Paul waited, gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes on Dorland. Lord Tern. High Elder Alban Brill. The religious implications were obvious enough, but Paul was sure he had never heard the names before.

  When Dorland spoke again, his voice was

  strained, the words hesitant. "Sabastian—he is well?"

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  Ogram flip-flopped a hand. "As well as can be expected at his age. He lost a leg three years ago fighting his way out of a trap the deacons left for him. A doctor from Fairhope fitted a wooden peg for him. He gets by."

  Dorland's eyes dropped to his hands. "Blackburn?"

  "Ah, yes. Olaf is still with us. Not K-amer, though. He and Brit Jones were pinned to the God Wall last year."

  Something like a sigh escaped Dorland's compressed lips. Then: "My father knew violence would break out eventually. His main goal was to prevent it."

  "High Elder Brill started it, not us," Ogram said defensively. "You should know that. Sabastian says you're the only one who might be able to find out what Brill is up to. He says your early training will help you find a way to stop him." He paused, watching Dorland. "You ran out on us once. There's no reason to think you would come back now. But Sabastian says you're our last hope. He also says that you have to come back on your own. He doesn't want me to force you."

  Paul issued a grunt of humorless laughter
.

  "That's why you brought the gun?"

  "I brought the gun to make sure nobody tried to stop me until I could get my piece said."

  "You've done that. Now you can get out."

  "I'm waiting for the answer."

  "His answer is no—"

  "You're probably right," Ogram said. He slumped further down in the chair with his legs straight out in front of him. Crossed at the ankles. The black gun was held loosely in his lap. The tension in his, face gave way to a look of heavylidded unconcern. "But I have to hear it from the great psi-player himself."

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  Paul turned to Dorland. "Tell him you aren't interested so he'll get out of here."

  Dorland' nodded slightly, but his eyes were on Ogram. "I'm sorry about John. He was a good man. I owe him my life."

  "Well, at least you acknowledge that."

  "I didn't run out. I wanted to stay, but Sabastian pushed me."

  "Then you'll come back?"

  "I can't. We're on a tour, booked for five more shows."

  Ogram's eyelids lifted slightly. "You don't believe the future of Clarion and thousands of lives are worth your five precious shows?" He waited. Then his lips formed the slight, mocking smile.

  "No, I suppose not." He gathered his legs in front of him and pushed himself out of the chair. He stood looking at Dorland with the gun down at his side. "It's too bad High Elder Brill couldn't see your show today. He would have been amused. Actually, it's not too different from his own Godsday service." He issued a short bark of laughter. "Unfortunately, Bekman won't be able to give him a report about it."

  It took Paul a moment to recall that Ogram had used the name earlier. "Bekman's the man who tried to kill Dorland?"

  Ogram nodded. "Lon Bekman. One of Brill's deacons. Slimy scum. I hope he dies and burns on the Far Peaks with the rest of them. I tried to warn you about him."

  "You're the one who called the hotel before the show?"