by E. C. Tubb
It would be wise for the members of the council to mix more with the ordinary people. It was too easy to become detached. She made a mental note to raise the matter at the next meeting, then relaxed, looking around, determined to make the best of her illogical whim.
The soldiers she ignored; men trying too hard to convince themselves they were having a good time. The lovers created a sudden stab of envy, startling because unexpected. Yet how wonderful it must be to lose yourself in anothers arms. The derelicts-another matter she should bring to the attention of the council. The man opposite?
She met the impact of Dumarest's eyes.
He was studying her hands, her face, the color of her skin. The rich olive glowed in the subdued lighting and he frowned, wondering. It was the color of the women of Loame and he was reminded forcefully of the girl he had come to find. Elaine Delmayer. Could this woman be she?
It was barely possible and, in any case, she might know of her. Expatriates would tend to stick together or, at least, to remain in contact. He could lose nothing by asking.
He rose and stood above her. "My lady?"
She looked up, thinking that he was trying to scrape an acquaintance and amused at the possibility. An attempted seduction would at least beguile the tedium of the journey. "Yes?"
"Your pardon, my lady, but would you be so kind as to tell me your name?"
He was direct if nothing else, or perhaps the technique had changed since the old days. Yet he didn't look the type of man who would haunt the cars in search of women.
Quietly she said, "Sit down beside me. I do not like people to stand over me."
"As you wish, my lady." He sat and met her eyes. "Your name?"
"Mada Grist." It meant nothing to him, she could tell by his expression. "Why do you ask?"
"A personal reason, my lady. Are you from Loame?"
"No."
"Thank you, my lady. My apologies at having troubled you."
Incredulously she realized that he was going and put out a hand to detain him without conscious thought. He looked at it and then at her, his eyes questioning.
"Please stay with me," she said quickly. "Those soldiers. I am afraid they may try to molest me." It was a weak excuse but she made no comment. Did he think her a woman of pleasure looking for custom? Quickly she added, "And I am bored. Conversation will shorten the journey. Do you go to the capital?"
"Yes, my lady."
His voice was strong, matching the strength of his face, the masculinity she could sense emanating from his body. And she was responding to it! Startled, she felt the glandular reaction, the biological chemistry triggered by the stimulus of his proximity. To yield to it was tempting, but it was safer to concentrate on other things. His clothes, for a start. They were clean but cheap and rumpled as if he had worn them too long. And his manner of address was strange. It reminded her of Ruen, but this man was no cyber. He was being polite, she decided, using a safe term of address in case she should be of superior rank.
And that meant he must be widely traveled and used to dealing with nobility.
She glanced at him. He was relaxed, his eyes closed, dozing or perhaps reluctant to engage in idle conversation. She herself felt a sudden fatigue and wondered if it were genuine tiredness or the association of relative objects. The man, her desire, a bed, which for too long had symbolized nothing but sleep. And yet if she were to get him into bed with her, sleep would be the last thing on her mind.
She nodded, waking as the train halted, dozing again as it continued its journey. At the last halt before the capital guards entered the car. They were trim, awake and determined.
"Your identification, please."
She felt the sudden tension of the man at her side, an inner tightening outwardly invisible, and wondered if he was afraid. But of what? And why?
"Madam?" The guard was young and impatient. He blinked as she held out her left wrist, the thick, identifying bracelet gleaming in the light. She could appreciate his discomposure.
"Satisfied?"
"Why yes, madam. Certainly." He glanced at the man sitting beside her. "Sir?"
She saw the slip of plastic, the thumb held as if by accident over the photograph, and spoke before the guard could make a thorough examination.
"The gentleman is with me."
"Yes, madam. Thank you, madam. I am sorry to have caused any inconvenience."
She relaxed, smiling, as the train continued on its way.
Chapter Seven
A MACHINE had designed the palace, incorporating the Golden Rule in a series of arches, pilasters, vaulted roofs, endless passages and echoing chambers. The result should have been esthetically pleasing. Instead it presented a cold, machinelike atmosphere of repetitious monotony, heightened by the abstract decorations and concealed lighting.
Striding down a corridor, Vargas noticed none of it, his eyes brooding as he mulled over recent events. The council meeting had been a farce, with a good third of the members absent and the rest barely paying attention. The details discussed had been trivial: the area to be devoted to crops, the manpower necessary to build a new power installation, an adjustment of taxes; things which could have been better decided by a computer. Why did he have to be burdened with such ignorant, conceited fools?
He halted before the door of an elevator, his guard moving forward to check the interior, turning to watch as he entered the cage. The doors closed and they fell, Vargas fighting his instinctive fear. What if the mechanism had been tampered with? What if the protective devices should fail and the cage with its contents be smashed to atoms at the foot of the shaft?
It slowed and he breathed again, waiting as the door opened and his guard made the usual check. Warm air tainted with the sharp tang of antiseptics struck his nostrils as he walked down a short passage. The odor increased as he entered a chamber glittering with metal and glass. Brekla was before him, turning as he heard the click of the closing door.
"Sire?"
A good man, thought Vargas. An ambitious one and therefore predictable. But because he was ambitious, he was also dangerous. It was something he must never forget. Yet the danger was not immediate. Only when he had firmly secured the position he coveted would Brekla lift his eyes to the pinnacle of power.
"Is everything prepared?"
"Yes, sire." Brekla moved toward an inner door. "Yendhal is waiting."
The physician was a small man with delicate hands and the light of fanaticism burning bright in his eyes. He bowed as Vargas approached and looked pointedly at the guard.
"It would be best, sire, if your attendant remained outside."
"Leave us." Yendhal was to be trusted or the entire project was pointless. Even so, Vargas felt a prickling in the middle of his back as the guard withdrew. "Is this the man?"
He was a prime specimen, well muscled, in good condition, young and handsome. Vargas felt a quick envy as he looked at the naked, virile body. Once he had looked like that.
"You understand what it is you are to do?"
"I-" Sweat gleamed on the olive skin."I think so, sire."
"You are not certain?" Vargas glared at the physician. "Has he not been instructed?"
"Of course, sire, but he is afraid and has forgotten." Yendhal turned to the man and explained as he would to a child. "You have been selected to take part in an important experiment. You are fit and healthy and strong but, as I explained, strength is a relative term. A man under the influence of strong emotion can display unsuspected capabilities. It is this we intend to discover. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then let us commence." Yendhal led the way from the door, down a corridor and to a small chamber flanked by many doors. He pointed to one. "You will pass through that door when the light turns red. Beyond lie many dangers. If you survive them you will be given a rich reward."
"Does that mean I shall be sent back home to Loame, sir?"
"Yes." Stimulus was important to the success of the experiment and Yendhal did no
t hesitate at the lie. "Now do your best. Your life depends on it."
They watched from another room, Vargas intent on the screen, Brekla equally interested, Yendhal making appropriate comments.
"The initial waiting time is important for the generation of adrenaline and the mental preparation of the subject. He has, of course, been carefully chosen to fit the desired specifications. All that now remains is to discover the extent of his survival instinct. Many psychologists believe this to be a purely mental phenomena but my own researches have convinced me that much of it is inherent in the physique. As the body is a primitive entity divorced from the brain and as the brain is a separate mechanism to the mind so the trait of survival is something basic to the pattern incorporated in the DNA blueprint. This survival attribute has an important medical aspect verified by more than a thousand experiments. A person with it has a much higher chance of surviving extensive operative surgery than one without. It is this, of course, that we are now attempting to determine." He pressed a control. "Now we commence."
The subject lasted exactly four and a half minutes.
* * *
The chemist was a round, middle-aged man with tired eyes and manner. He pursed his lips at Dumarest's order. "Something to keep you awake? Sure I can supply it. Have you got an order?"
"No."
The man shook his head. "That makes it difficult. All drugs are under strict control or didn't you know that?"
"Of course I know it. All I want is something to give me a lift." Dumarest lowered his voice. "You're a professional man and I'd appreciate your advice. I've got some important work to do and I was on a binge last night. Didn't get a wink. If I fall asleep on the job I'll get canned for sure." He displayed a folded bill, "It's worth this if you can help."
"Studying, eh? You up for exams?"
"That's right." Dumarest didn't know what the man was talking about but rode along. "It's my last chance and I don't want to spoil it."
"I know how you feel." The chemist was abruptly sympathetic. "I had to sweat to get my degree. We had neighbors, dumb swine who stayed up late and the noise was really something. At times I thought I'd go out of my mind trying to memorize formulae." He reached for a jar and poured tablets into an envelope.
"These should do it. Take three at a time and repeat as you need." He exchanged the envelope for the bill. "Good luck!"
Luck, thought Dumarest as he left the just opened druggist's. How long could it last? He'd had more than his share when he'd met the woman. She had obviously been someone of importance, a member of some high family perhaps, and he had walked from the train under the shield of her authority. An all night restaurant had provided food and shelter, and he'd stayed there until the dawn had awakened Technos to life. Now, armed with the tablets, he faced another day.
He took three with a cup of savory liquid at another restaurant. The fatigue of constant strain was beginning to catch up, but it was important that he stay alert. With care it should be possible to lose himself among the teeming population of the capital.
But how to find Elaine Delmayer?
On a small, primitive world it would have been easy. Everyone would know everyone else. On a medium civilized planet it would have been impossible without the expenditure of money and time. On Technos it shouldn't be hard. A society in which everyone carried identification cards was one in which everyone would be registered in a central index. All he had to do was to find it.
The waitress was young and obviously impressed. She frowned as he asked the question.
"You want to find someone and you don't know her address?"
"That's right." He smiled at her. "An old friend. We lost touch and I'd like to meet her again."
The hint of romance won her cooperation. "I should try the library. It's over in the palace. They should be able to tell you what you want to know."
The library was busy with a stream of youngsters passing through the doors; students intermixed with older people, most carrying books. Dumarest guessed that advancement on Technos was based on intellectual achievement, the gaining of degrees giving a higher status. It made things easier. In such a society information should not be hard to obtain.
The reference section was lined with machines, each facing a chair, all with space for the taking of notes. The attendant was brusque.
"Insert your card, type out your question and wait for the answer. If you want a photographic copy press the red lever. The charges are listed above each machine."
And would be charged against the credit number on the card, Dumarest guessed. Keren's card. It would leave a trail but it was a chance he had to take.
Early though it was the place was crowded. Dumarest waited his turn and moved forward as the place fell vacant. As an experiment he touched the keys. Nothing happened. Inserting the stolen card he sat down. On impulse he typed EARTH.
Above the keyboard a screen brightened to life. On it flashed words.
EARTH; soil, dirt, loam, ground. A general term depicting planetary mass.
EARTH; the name of a mythical planet held as an object of veneration by The Original People.
Dumarest typed THE ORIGINAL PEOPLE.
The screen blanked then brightened to new life.
THE ORIGINAL PEOPLE; a religious sect of minor importance to be found on various backward planets scattered throughout the galaxy. The sect is a secret one and neither seeks nor welcomes converts, fresh adherents being obtained from the natural increase of existing worshipers. The main tenet of their belief is that Mankind originated on a single world, the mythical planet Earth, and that, after cleansing by tribulation, Mankind will return to this supposed world of origin, at which time the universe will cease to exist and the cleansed race be transformed into a higher form of life. This belief, founded on an obvious fallacy, is surrounded by esoteric ritual and elaborate ceremonies which are based on a primitive cult of fertility. There are no grounds supporting the truth of their contention which must remain as one of the more illogical religious creeds.
Dumarest typed TERRA.
TERRA: no information available.
It had been worth the chance but he knew nothing he had not known before and had just proved that the library knew less. Terra was another name for Earth but knowing it did not help him in his search. Perhaps Elaine Delmayer could.
He typed ELAINE DELMAYER.
There were three hundred and thirty eight of them. He sat looking at the closely packed list of names and professions. No addresses were shown and it would take another question to get them. But so many? He frowned, thinking. Quendis had said that he'd known her as a little girl so she could not now be very old. She had left Loame before the start of the war and she would not have done that as a child. Put her age at, say, thirty and allow ten years to either side.
He typed ELAINE DELMAYER AGE BETWEEN 20 AND 40.
This time there were only a hundred and eighteen. He asked for the addresses, hit the red lever and waited for the sheet to roll from the side of the machine. It would be possible, he supposed, to go through them all one by one but perhaps there was a quicker way. The girl had originated on Loame. Specifying it would, if the information was registered, cut down the list even more.
It did.
To one.
* * *
The address was in Technos, a building a mile from the palace, a soaring block capped by a transparent dome and obviously the home of the rich and influential. Inside were thick carpets and scented air, warm after the outside chill. An attendant moved forward as Dumarest thrust his way through the glass doors. He pursed his lips at the stated business.
"It's very early," he pointed out. "I am not sure that the person concerned would welcome a visit at this hour."
Dumarest was curt. "Then find out. Tell her it is important. Hurry!"
The attendant bridled. "Your name?"
"Keron." Dumarest flashed the stolen card. "Of Security. Now move!"
She lived on the twenty-second floor in an ap
artment furnished with excellent taste and unabashed luxury. And she was beautiful.
Dumarest looked at her, at the smooth contours of her face and the glowing olive of her skin. There was a familiarity about her which he found strange, and then she spoke and the illusion was shattered. This was not the mysterious woman he had met on the train. The voice was too mellifluous for that.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, my lady." He could lose nothing by being polite. "This may sound strange to you but I have traveled a long way to find you. From Loame. You were born there, I understand."
"That is so."
"You are the daughter of Grower Delmayer?"
"Yes. You have news of him?"
"I regret to tell you, my lady," said Dumarest quietly. "Your father is dead."
"I see." She stood before a window, the light rendering her thin robe translucent so that he could see the silhouette of her figure, the same light shadowing her face. "And how does this news affect Security?"
"It doesn't. I used a pretense to gain admission."
"You are honest," she said. "If nothing else. Would you care for refreshment? I have some excellent tisane."
Her composure was remarkable. Dumarest watched as she prepared the beverage and then, excusing herself, went to dress. She returned wearing a simple gown falling to below her knees and belted around the waist, the neck high and the soft fabric cut to enhance her figure. Sitting so as to face him, she poured herself a cup of the steaming tisane.
"You will forgive me if I appear unaffected by the news you bring. My father and I were far from close. I am sorry that he is dead but all things must die. It is the way of the universe."
"You are a philosopher, my lady?"
"A realist."
And an opportunist, he thought. Her ability had been wasted on Loame. Here, in this society, it must have enabled her to gain rapid status and she had taken full advantage of it. But did she know what was happening on her home world?
"I know," she said when he asked the question. "You are not a native of Loame so perhaps you can't understand. But I hated the system. A daughter cannot inherit the lands of her father. They pass to the man she marries. And it may seem an ideal existence for those who live in the mansions but for those living in the huts it is a different matter. The majority of growers are kind enough according to their conception of kindness, but even the best of them regards his workers as little more than serfs. Education is limited and class distinctions rigid. Progress is resisted because of the turmoil it could bring. The thorge is a clean and painless way of breaking the status quo."
