by Andre Norton
The way ahead was very rough, and she did not know whether the strip was under observation from Yul. She kept glancing up at the windows, to see nothing. Yet she could not escape the feeling she was being watched.
Setting her chin firmly, Itlothis crept forward. The space between the edge of the cliff and the wall seemed very narrow, and the thunder of the surf was loud. She set her back to the wall, slipping along sidewise, for she had the feeling she might tumble and fall out and down.
There were many upward jutting rocks and by each she paused. Then she crouched into hiding, her heart beating wildly, her breath shallow. For more than seapars now soared over the waves!
Whatever the thing was, a flying craft perhaps, it came at such speed as to make her wonder. And it was homing on that sea gate toward which she crept. Like an arrow shot from some huge primitive bow it sped into that opening with the same unslacking speed.
Craft . . . or some living monster? Itlothis could not be sure which. She had a confused impression of wings, the body between them shining with metallic brilliance. Man-made . . . or living?
She was startled by a flicker of movement overhead and glanced up. There, well above her, she was certain that someone, or something, had moved into a window opening.
Itlothis leaned far back against the rock which sheltered her. Yes, head and shoulders were framed in the window opening. And, by comparison of size, either the stranger she sighted or the window itself was far out of proportion, for the body was dwarfed by the frame about it.
He was climbing out on the sill!
The girl gasped. Was he going to jump? Why?
No, he was moving cautiously, hunkering down to swing over. Now he appeared to find some support for his feet. But how did he dare? He was pressed tightly to the wall, inching down, with hands and feet feeling along the stone for grips.
Itlothis was tense with empathy for the strain of that descent. That he was able to find a way seemed to her a miracle. But he moved surely, if slowly, seemingly certain he could find the holds he sought.
The sight drew Itlothis from her shallow hiding place to the foot of the wall immediately below where he hung so perilously. She lifted her own hands to skim that surface, unable by eye to distinguish any break in it. Then her fingers dropped into a kind of niche cut so cleverly that it must have been fashioned for no other purpose than to so afford an invisible ladder for a climber.
She stepped back a little the better to watch the man descending the wall. There was a familiar look about his head, the set of his shoulders. Her eyes trained to value such points identified him.
Oslan!
With a sigh of relief Itlothis waited. Now she need only make contact, explain the need to break his dream. Then they could return to the world of reality. For the Foostmam had admitted that Oslan’s desire held the dreamer’s efforts in balance, that, whenever he wished, he could awake.
Perhaps he had already completed whatever purpose had brought him to this ancient Yul. But at any rate Itlothis’s message was important enough to keep him from lingering any longer.
Having made sure of his identity, she noted he was wearing clothing alien to any she had seen. The covering clung tightly to his body but was elastic, as if fashioned from small scales, one fitted to slightly overlap the next. Only his hands and his feet were bare. The exposed skin was brown enough to match the stone down which he crawled.
His hair made a smooth cap, dark enough to show better. Itlothis knew, though she had not yet seen his face, that he had the well-cut features of his clan; he could be counted handsome if in the tri-dees she had seen there had been any expression to lighten a dull, set countenance.
Still a way above cliff level, he loosed his hold, ending his descent with a leap. He breathed heavily as he landed. Itlothis could guess the cost in effort of that long trip down the wall.
For a moment he remained where he was, gasping, his hands and feet both resting on the ground, his head hanging as he drew air into laboring lungs.
“Clan Head Oslan,” Itlothis spoke with official formality.
He flung up his head with a jerk, as if he had been so hailed by some monster out of the sea below. His gaze centered on her as he scrambled to his feet, planting his back against the wall. His hands balled into fists, prepared to front some attack.
She saw his brilliant green eyes narrow. There was certainly no lack of expression in his face now! No, what she faced was raging anger. Then his eyes half closed, his fists fell to his sides, as if he saw in her not the danger he had expected.
“Who are you?” His question came in almost the same monotone as the Foostmam used, his voice might be willed not to display any revealing emotion.
“Per-search Agent Itlothis Sb Nath,” she replied briskly, “Clan Chief Oslan, you are needed.”
“Clan Chief?” he interrupted her. “Then Naton has died?”
“In Ice Month Two, Clan Chief. You are badly needed on Benold.” Itlothis was suddenly struck by the oddity of their present position. They were on Benold. A pity the dream world was not the real one. It would save so much valuable time.
“You have not only clan affairs to settle,” she continued, “but there is a need for a new treaty over the output of the mines, a Council affair much pressed by time.”
Oslan shook his head. Once more a look of mingled alarm and anger crossed his face.
“No way, no way, agent, do you get me back yet!” He moved closer.
In spite of herself, Itlothis, to her annoyance, retreated a step or two.
“Now,” he said with a whip-crack note in his voice, “get out of my dream!” It was as with each word he aimed a stun bolt at her.
However, his open opposition brought a quick reaction. Itlothis no longer retreated, standing firm to meet his advance. This was not the first time she had faced an unwilling quarry. And his negative attitude steadied her.
“This is a Council affair,” she replied briskly. “If you do not . . .”
He was laughing! His head was flung back, his fists resting on his hips, he laughed, though his amusement was plainly fired with anger.
“The Council and you, Per-search Agent, what do you propose to do? Can you now summon an armsman to back you—here?”
Itlothis had a momentary vision of yet another couch, another dreamer, if any such could be crowded into the Hive chamber, an armsman ready to be transported. That was utterly impossible. On this case she did, indeed, have only herself.
“You see,” he took another step closer, “what good is any Council authority here? The Council itself lies uncounted years in the future.”
“You refuse to understand,” Itlothis retained her outward calm. “This is of the utmost importance to you, also. Your brother Lars, the Council, must have your presence on Benold by High Sun Day. I have the necessary authority to get you on the nearest hyper ship. . .”
“You have nothing at all!” Oslan interrupted her for the second time. “This is my dream and only I can break it. Did they tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you know. And you are my captive here, for all your powers and authorities, unless you willingly agree now to let me send you back.”
“Not without you!” Even as she retorted, Itlothis wondered if she were making some fatal choice. However, she had no intention of giving up as easily as he seemed to think her willing to do.
“Do you wish to be cited as relinquishing your clanship?” she added quickly. “In this matter the Council has extraordinary powers and. . .”
“Be quiet!” His head turned slightly toward the walls of Yul. So apparent was his listening that she did also.
Was that deep humming note really a sound, or a vibration carried to them through the rock on which they stood? She could not be sure.
“Back!” Oslan flung out his arm and caught at her, to drag her to him until they both stood pressed to the wall. He was still listening, his face grim, his head at an angle, as he stared up at the outer
defenses of Yul.
“What is it?” Itlothis asked in a whisper as the moments lengthened and he did not change position.
“The swarm. Be quiet!”
Highly uninformative, but his tension had communicated to her the necessity for following his order. This was Oslan’s dream and he had come out of Yul, therefore he plainly had knowledge she lacked.
There came a burst of light, like that of an alarm flash, aimed at the air over the sea. Another and another, issuing from the cliff-facing gate and shooting over the waves so rapidly Itlothis could not see more than what seemed balls of fierce radiance. Then these were gone, quickly lost far out over the water.
As he stood body against body with her, Itlothis felt the tension ebb from Oslan. He drew a deep breath.
“They are gone! There will be a safe period now.”
“Safe for what?”
Oslan looked straight into her eyes. Itlothis did not quite like that searching stare, it was as if he wished to read her thoughts. Though she wanted to break free, she could not. And her failure brought resentment. She did not wait for him to answer her question but repeated her own message as bluntly as she could.
“If you do not break the dream, now, you will lose Atto. The Council will confirm Lars as Chief in order not to waste time.”
His smile was tinged with anger as his laughter had been.
“Lars as Chief? Perhaps . . . if there is an Atto left for him to rule over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you think I am here? Why do you think I crossed half the star lanes to find a dreamer to put me in Yul’s past?”
His stare still held her. Now his hands fell on her shoulders and he shook her, as if that gesture would emphasize his words.
“You think Yul is a ruin, a masterless place in our own world. Men have repeated that since the first of our kind explored Benold. But Yul is not just tumbled walls and a feeling of awe. No, it is the encasement for something very old . . . and dangerous.”
He believed this; she read the truth in his voice. But what? Itlothis did not get a chance to ask her questions, words poured out of him now in a torrent of speech.
“I have been in this Yul. I have seen. . .” he closed his eyes as if to shut out some sight. “Our Yul above ground may be three-quarters erased by time. Only that which is the heart of Yul is not dead. It lies sleeping, and it begins to stir. I tell you I have speculated on this for some years, searched out all accounts. A year ago I dared take a scanner within for a reading. I sent the data to the central computer. Do you want to know the verdict?” He shook her again. “Well, it was that the new mine tunnels spreading east had alerted, awakened something. That thing is ready to hatch. . . .”
Itlothis realized that he believed so fervently in what had brought him here that she could raise no argument he would listen to, the fantasy possessed him.
“To hatch,” she repeated. “Then what is it?”
“That which once filled Yul with life. You have just seen its swarm take flight. Well, that is only a thousandth part of what Yul can produce. Those flying things are energy, and they feed on energy. If one came near you, your body would crisp into ash. There are other parts to it, also.” She again felt him tense. “That which lies in Yul can appear in many forms, all utterly alien and dangerous to us.
“Men, or beings not unlike men, reared Yul, made those other cities we can trace on our Benold. Then . . . that came. Whether it sprouted from some experiment which went wrong, or broke through from another dimension, another world . . . there is no record.
“Only those who found it made it a god, fed it with life energy until it was greater, the absolute lord of the planet. Then it blasted away the men it no longer needed, or thought it no longer needed.
“But when there was no more life energy, it began to fail. Instead of spanning the planet, it was forced back to this continent, then into Yul alone. It knew fear then and prepared a nest. There it went into hibernation . . . to sleep away the years.”
“But the mine-search rays awoke it. Those fed it new energy. It grows again. Benold has new food for it. And. . .”
“You must warn the Council! Wake us.”
He shook his head. “You do not understand. This monster may not be destroyed in our time. It can feed upon the minds of those who face it, empty their bodies of lifeforce. There is no shield. Only in the past can it be defeated. If its nest is sealed against it, then it will starve and die. Benold will be free.”
Itlothis was shaken. Oslan must be mad! Surely he knew this was a dream! What could they accomplish in a dream? Perhaps if she humored him a little. . . .
“I gathered all the reports,” he continued. “I brought those to this dreamer. They can use such research to back a dream. Clients are often interested in the past. I had her concentrate on my readings.”
“But this is a dream!” Itlothis protested. “We are not really on Benold in the far past! You cannot do what. . .”
This time the shake he gave her was savage. “Can I not? Watch and see! There are dimensions upon dimensions, worlds upon worlds. Belief can add to their reality. I say that this is the Benold which foreshadows the Benold that is now.” Oslan swung away from her to face the wall. “It has sent out its feeders, it will be concentrating only on them. This is my time!”
He reached above for a hold, began to climb.
Itlothis moved too late to prevent him. She could not leave this madman here. If she went with him, agreed outwardly that what he said was true, might she lead him to break the dream? Ever since she had entered this fantasy she had felt at a disadvantage, shaken out of her calm competence. She now could only cling to the hope that she could influence Oslan in the future if she kept with him.
She sat on the rock, pulled off her boots. With her fingers and toes free, she searched for the wall hollows, started up the wall of Yul.
Luckily she possessed a head for heights. Even so she knew better than to look down. And she feared and hated what she was doing. But, determinedly, she drew herself up. Oslan was already at the window. Now he reached over to aid her. And they pushed from the wide sill down into a shadow-cornered room.
“Best you did come,” Oslan remarked. “Otherwise that might sense your presence. You must be quiet for you cannot begin to imagine what your folly in entering my dream might cost you.”
Itlothis choked down her anger. This was a madman. He could not yet be influenced by any argument, no matter how subtle. So she offered no protest, but crept after him along the wall, for he shunned the center portion of the chamber.
The stone walled, ceilinged, floored room was bare. What light came issued from the window behind them. Oslan did not head to the door Itlothis could sight on the other side. Instead, he halted halfway down the wall, and felt above him at the full stretch of his arms, as if seeking another place to climb.
However, he did not swing up as she half expected him to do, to no purpose, since the ceiling, though well above their heads, appeared entirely solid. There sounded a grating noise. Three massive blocks before which he stood thudded back, to display a very dark opening.
How had Oslan known that to be here? Of course, in a dream, an imagined wall passage was entirely possible. Only the seeming reality of this shadowed room continued to war with logic. How could a dream appear so real?
“In!” he whispered. When she did not move at once he jerked her into the hidden way. She tried to break free as the blocks moved to seal them in a dark which was more horrible because now she was conscious of an intangible sense of wrongness, that which dwelt in the Yul she knew.
“Here is a stair,” his grip on her wrist was mercilessly tight. “I will go first, keep hand on the wall beside you.”
Now he loosed her. Itlothis heard only the muted sounds of his moving. There was no way back, she had to follow orders. Setting her teeth, more afraid than she had ever been in life, Itlothis cautiously slid one foot forward, feeling for the drop at the end of the
first step.
Their descent was a nightmare which left her weak of body, drenched with sweat. That there was any air to fill their lungs was a minor marvel. Still always the stair continued.
Oslan had not spoken since they left the room above. Itlothis dared not break silence. For about her was the feeling that they now moved, in a caution born of intense fear, past some great danger which must not be alerted to their presence within its reach.
A hand on her arm brought a little cry from her.
“Quiet!”
His grasp drew her beside him. There her bare feet sank into a soft cushion, as if centuries of dust carpeted this hidden way. Once more Oslan was on the move, towing her with him. In the utter darkness she was content to cling to him as she dared not think or face what might happen if she were to lose contact.
Finally, he dropped his hold and whispered again: “Let me go, I must open a door here.”
Trembling, Itlothis obeyed. An oblong of grayish light appeared ahead. After the complete dark of their journey this was bright. Across it moved a dark bulk of what must be Oslan. She hurried to follow. They stood in what was nearly twin to the room far above, save that its ceiling was much lower and one full wall to the left was missing. Thus, they could look out into a much larger space. That was not empty. What light there was, and Itlothis could not locate the source of that wan glow, made clear a massive park of wheeled vehicles jammed closely together.
Oslan paused, his head turned a little to the right as if he listened. Then he beckoned to her, already on his way toward the outer area.
There was only a narrow space left open around the wall through which they could move. Oslan hurried at the best pace he could keep in such cramped quarters. Now and then he paused to inspect one of the strange machines. Each time, seemingly unsatisfied, he pushed on again.
At last they reached another open wall, and there he halted abruptly, his nostrils expanding as if he caught a warning scent. She had seen a vast hound do so on settling to hunt.
Here was another of the strange vehicles directly before them and Oslan made for its control cabin. When Itlothis would have gone after him he waved her back. A little mutinous, she watched him climb into the driver’s seat, study a control board.
