by E. C. Tubb
"Thank you, Dean."
She was still being formal despite his attempt to get on a more friendly footing and he was old and wise enough in his craft to sense that he could have pressed too hard too soon, yielded too quickly to the promptings of those who had no interest in the university but the profits it brought them.
"I knew you'd understand, my dear." His smile was one of fatherly concern. "The pressure of work-how well I know it! Perhaps you should take a short rest. A few days away from the grind if you can manage it. Sometimes a break enables one to obtain a fresh point of view."
"Yes," she agreed. "I guess you're right. Thank you for the advice." Her smile told him all was forgiven. "And thank you, Kevork, for your concern and interest."
He could shove that right where it would hurt the most, she thought as the screen died. The interfering old bastard! Had it been her secretary? Cleo was ambitious but had she the ability to be so guileful? Had it been Jussara of Higham?
A possibility, the bitch was jealous and had made a bad mistake giving Pell the go-ahead. Or was it simply someone hungry for her position, in which case the field was too wide to investigate.
Again she studied the resume, finding the facts and figures as depressing as before. The profit was there-the usual courses insured that, but to the stockholders each tutor and every inch of space should show a return. Greed, she thought, the prime motive of the universe. The lust after money which represented power. And yet who was she to criticize or blame?
Leaning back she looked at the prison which held her and which she had willingly accepted for the sake of the comfort it gave. The cell which paid off in her apartment, her salary, the power she wielded. Now the green-tinted walls seemed to be closing in, the air to carry a stale taint, the light itself a bleaching quality. Was it day outside? Night? Twilight or dawn? Only her clock could tell.
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 t
he 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."
"But you were close?"
"It meant nothing." A lie the table would have noted. "The forming of sexual relationships is a common pastime here on Ascelius. The strain of study, I suppose, of teaching. It was explained to me once that the creative urge is basically the same no matter how it manifests itself. An artist, creating a painting, is subject to the same stress as a man attempting to impregnate a woman. The reverse is true, naturally." Pausing she added, "Are you always so bold?"
"In which way?"
"Familiarity?" She cursed herself for having mentioned it, for having now to explain. His expression as she did so gave no comfort. "You think it foolish?"
"Misapplied. I can understand the need for a barrier to be set between the faculty and the students for one must respect the other or nothing can be taught or learned. The same conduct governs the relationship of officers and men in an army. But I am not a student."
"True, but you aren't-" She broke off. Why did he make her feel so confused?
"A member of the faculty?" He finished the sentence for her. "Is that important?"
"On Ascelius, yes. If you want to be socially accepted by the upper echelons it is indispensable. Only academic ability is recognized." Her hands rose, fluttering, a gesture she hadn't used in years and wondered at herself for using it now. How Rudi had laughed at it. Dumarest, thank God, didn't. "What were we talking about?"
"Of Rudi." It was hard to keep her to the point. "Then he met Isobel?"
"She was young and new and ambitious. She listened to his promises."
"They married?"
"That's right. They married and left to find their mine and paradise. Now Rudi's dead and Isobel with him. End of story."
That was the end for them and for her but not for Dumarest. What Rudi had found could be rediscovered. If the chance existed he must take it no matter what the risk. Myra had known him-did she know more?
"Legends," said Dumarest. "Rudi was interested in them. Surely you must have talked about them? Shared his interest?"
"I had other things to think about. We weren't together all that often and when we were, well, other things came first. I'm sorry, Earl, I don't think I can help you. Is it important?"
She could never guess how much. Dumarest forced himself to relax-to reveal his eager impatience now would be to ruin everything.
"Earth," he urged. "Did he ever mention Earth?"
Her laughter was the gushing of fountains, the clash of shattering crystal.
"Earth? My, God, Earl, do you share his lunacy? A mythical world somewhere in space. Find it and all will be yours. Insanity! A game they play in the common rooms when bored of everything else. Intellectual titivation with points scored for the correct progression of logical sequences. Guessing games which start in madness and lead to delirium. You should meet Tomlin, he's an expert. Cucciolla's another." Her laughter rose again, brittle with scorn. "How can anyone even pretend to be serious about such nonsense? Earth! The very name is idiotic!"
This reaction Dumarest had heard often before, but like the others, Myra was wrong. Earth existed. He had been born on the supposedly mythical world. To find it again was the reason for his existence.
He said, "Tomlin? Cucciolla?"
"Members of the Tripart faculty." She sobered at his expression. "Earl?"
"I need to meet them," he said. "Them and any others who were close to Rudi. Could you arrange it?"
"Perhaps." Her eyes grew calculating, studying him as if he were part of an elaborate equation, assessing, evaluating, coming to a decision. "There are various social gatherings and a party will be held soon. I could take you." She paused then added quietly, "In the meanwhile you could be my guest."
Chapter Four
Someone with a taste for the bizarre had decorated the room with skulls and bones, death masks and symbols culled from ancient graves. The music matched the decor: wailing threnodies which stung the ears and sent ants to crawl over the skin; mathematical discords set in jarring sequences which created unease and irritation. A condition aided by the glare of strobotic lighting which threw faces into unreal prominence with various shades of livid color.
"Myra! How good to see you!" A woman called from the door and came thrusting toward them, eyes flashing toward Dumarest before returning to his companion. "So this is your friend. Such a handsome man. Your new protege, I hear. You must introduce me."
Jussara made her usual late entrance, demanding attention. Flaunting her feminity with a sequined gown cut and slashed to display the chocolate expanse of her breasts and thighs. Her teeth were plated with metal cut in a diffraction grating which filled her mouth with rainbows as the lights flashed.
"A professor?" Her eyebrows rose a trifle. "He is to teach?"
"Dumarest holds a doctorate in martial arts," explained Myra. This story, she had insisted, would give him the stat
us necessary to be treated as an equal. "We are investigating the possibility of his joining the faculty."
"And, in the meantime, he shares your home." Jussara's smile held malice. "Such a convenient arrangement and no wonder that you look so well. I'd thought it was because you had resolved your difficulties. Okos, I presume?"
"No."
"Well it doesn't matter as long as things have sorted themselves out. And, as for the new project-well, let's hope you are more successful this time." She looked at Dumarest. "We must talk again. If you can't reach agreement with Myra, I could, perhaps, find a place for you at Higham. I'm certain you'd be happy with us."
Her tone left no doubt as to her meaning. Dumarest smiled and said, "Thank you, my lady."
"So formal!" Her smile was dazzling. "Call me Jussara- who needs more than one name? Until later then, Earl. I shall anticipate our next meeting." Her eyes moved on to search the crowd. "Ceram! How nice to see you, darling! Be an angel and get me a drink. How is Toris this evening?"
She moved off and Myra helped herself to a drink, downing it at a gulp, wondering at her irritation. Jussara was a troublesome bitch who loved to deal in scandal and would throw herself at Dumarest for no other reason than that he was her companion. Would it matter if she did? If his taste was so crude she was welcome to him.
She saw his eyes as she reached for a second drink.
"You object?"
"Have I the right?"
"No man has that!" The sudden blaze of fury startled her and she gulped at the wine, feeling the sweetness of it, the after-sharpness which constricted her throat. An illogical reaction to a harmless question, the question itself a product of her own stupidity. Why ask if none had the right? "I'm sorry. That bitch always manages to upset me. Do you like her?"
