World of Promise dot-23

by E. C. Tubb

  "Tighter! Get them tight, damn you! Unravel that streamer and space the ornaments out evenly. You want to get paid let me see you move!"

  The orders were fretted by the wind as were the flags and streamers, the garlands and gaudy decorations. Dumarest moved on, conscious of the grit of fatigue in his eyes, the ache of tension maintained too long. With steam and icy showers, hot blasts and relaxing heat he tried to get rid of them both, ending after the treatment lying on a soft couch wrapped in a fluffy blanket attended by an obsequious girl.

  "You wish to sleep, sir?" Smiling she lifted the headband she carried. "An hour or a day it makes no difference. A touch and microcurrents will impinge on the sleep center of the brain and bring instant rest. The cost is small. For a little extra you could enjoy a sensatape attuned to the sleeping condition which will induce fantastic and erotic dreams. No? A tuitional tape, then? We have a wide variety covering a multitude of subjects." Her smile became more personal, more inviting. "Of course if you wish for something other than sleep that, too, can be arranged."

  "Some coffee," said Dumarest. "And something to eat."

  The coffee came in a pot decorated with shimmering butterflies, the cakes molded in a variety of shapes: cones, diamonds, hearts, loops, squares, tetrahedrons, all tinted in a diversity of hues. Luxuries Dumarest could have done without; the coffee was for the caffeine it contained, the food for its energy content. Eating, he thought about Myra Favre.

  Why had she lied?

  The men she had promised to introduce him to had not been at the party. Tomlin had moved long before and Cucciolla was almost housebound; things she must have known when she had so casually mentioned their names. Or had it been as casual as it had seemed? And why the invitation to be her guest?

  Dumarest ate a cake and tasted mint and honey as he sought for reasons other than the obvious. She was not a creature of passion though she played at being passionate. A woman in her position with her influence would not want for lovers even if the partners she chose acted from self-interest. A reluctance to give cause for gossip? A possibility and he considered it, remembering the acid comments made by Jussara at the party. The spite of a jealous woman or a natural-born bitch-would Myra have wanted to avoid creating potentially awkward situations?

  He drank more coffee, needing the stimulus it gave. Fatigue brought its own dangers; accumulated toxins could slow reflexes and dull the intellect and now he had to make a decision while knowing, inwardly, what that decision had to be.

  If wise he would ignore the woman, but, unless he saw her, he would never resolve the one chance he had of finding the truth.

  Outside the night had turned savage with ice crusted on the drooping garlands, adding a frosty haze to the lights as it sharpened the teeth of the wind. Dumarest walked quickly, following a memorized route, heading toward the tall building where Myra Favre had her apartment. It was high toward the roof, faced with a narrow patio edged with a parapet from which could be seen the loom of distant hills on a fine day, the glare of the field at night. At the street door he paused, wondering if she had changed the lock setting, but the mechanism operated and he stepped into enveloping warmth.

  Riding up in the elevator, he wondered if she would be at home. He could have phoned but had preferred to arrive unexpected and unannounced. A gamble; he did not have access to the actual apartment only to the building; if she was out he had wasted his time.

  A gamble he won-she opened the door at his ring and, suddenly, was in his arms.

  "I was a fool," she said. "Stupid. But those bitches and Jussara-Earl, can't you understand?"

  He said nothing, looking at the apartment, the woman standing before him. She wore a loose, one-piece garment which clothed her in glinting drapes from neck to ankle, the sleeves wide, banded at the wrists. The shoes she wore were thin and ornamented with sparkling gems. Her hair had been dressed in a style he had not seen before; locks touched with gold, set in sinuous waves, adding height and zest to her normal coiffure. Touches reflected in her makeup made her mouth seem larger, her eyes brighter. The artifice had given a temporary youth.

  "You should have phoned," she said. "I waited for you to call."

  "I was busy." He smiled and added casually, "And I thought you could be engaged."

  "With Moultrie? Earl, must you remind me of my folly? Must I admit I was jealous?" Her hand rose to touch his arm, the fingers caressing. "Jealous and a little afraid. Happiness is such a fragile thing, Earl. A look, a word, and it can shatter into misery. Sometimes our own fear of losing it makes it happen. And some of us have too much pride." Her hand fell from his arm as she turned to where a table stood bearing a flagon filled with emerald and drifting flecks of ruby. "Some wine, my dear?"

  It was new as was her gown, her appearance, the scent which hung in the air. Items bought to ease her misery or gifts for duty done? Dumarest remembered the greeting, the heat of her body, the pressure, the muscular quiverings as if she had exploded in a paroxysm of gladness or relief.

  "You look tired." Again her hand rose to touch him, the fingers lingering in a caress, nails smooth and cool on his cheek. "I worried about you, darling. What were you doing?"

  "Walking. Talking."

  "To Ragin and his cronies?" Her shrug dismissed them. "Are you hungry? Shall I cook you something? Do you want to bathe?" Light flashed from the gems in her shoes as she crossed the floor to switch on a player. "Ieten's Seventh," she said as music throbbed in a low, passionate threnody. "Why don't you drink your wine?"

  She had served it in a crystal container no larger than an eggcup set on a spiraling stem. Dumarest lifted it, let the liquid rest against his lips, tasted the ghost of fire and chill.

  As he lowered it he said, "Why didn't you tell me you'd been Rudi's mistress?"

  For a moment she froze, an image of glittering drapes caught in a fraction of time then, as fast as it had come, the moment had gone and she turned, smiling with her lips if not her eyes.

  "Does it matter, darling?"

  "Of course not. But it's a matter of mutual interest. Why not mention it as we're so close?"

  "Perhaps that's the reason." She finished her wine and stood twirling the glass in her fingers. "Anyway it was a long time ago."

  "Twelve years," said Dumarest blandly. "Nearer thirteen. Just what did happen on that journey?"

  "Earl?"

  He said flatly, "Rudi booked passage on a ship bound for Karig but we both know he never intended to go there. In fact I doubt if he left on the Mantua at all. What he actually did do was to join you on the Toratese. Or did you rendezvous on Alba?"

  A guess but a good one and he saw by her eyes that he had hit the target. This luck added to that he had gained at the last when Sheen Agnostino had gained the item of information from the computer banks.

  "You shouldn't keep such things secret, my dear," he said quietly as he took the glass from her hand and poured her more wine. "What did it matter what you did or where you did it? A relationship-who could have denied your right?"

  "A man," she said. "My professor at the time. His name is unimportant but he had influence and he wanted me and I was ambitious. And Rudi was wanting in courage-I realize that now if I didn't then. We were lovers but to him it was a game. He wanted company on the journey and I hoped to-well, what does it matter now? It didn't work out."

  "But you traveled together?"

  "Yes." She looked at her glass and drank and set it down empty to straighten and look at Dumarest with bold admission. "A game, he called it, and he played it as if acting a part. The passages booked, the separate embarkations, the later meeting in a hotel on Alba. Our honeymoon he called it-the bastard!"

  She was a woman hurt and unable to forget the pain of the wound, the damage to her pride. A promise had been broken and her body used as a convenience by a man from whom she had expected love. This passion had been little more than lust when robbed of affection.

  Dumarest said, "But you lived together. You hoped he would draw cl
oser. You spoke of his hopes and plans and ambitions." His hope, the only one left, that Boulaye would have told her what he had erased from the computer. The clue he had gained-the answer, perhaps. "Myra?"

  "We talked," she admitted. "Or rather he talked and I listened. You must understand the situation," she added as if it were of momentous importance. "You've seen Jussara and the others. You know how spiteful they can be. The academic world isn't a gentle one, Earl. It's dog eat dog all the way. That's why I had to be careful. A matter of self-preservation. You can appreciate that."

  "Of course. What did you talk about?"

  Her hand rose to touch her hair as if seeking reassurance as to her appearance. Crystal tinkled as she refilled her glass, the thin tintinnabulation blending with the pulse of sound from the recording. Emerald and ruby gave her lips the moistness of newly shed blood.

  "Things," she said when the need to answer became a demand. "General things."

  "Did he ever mention Erce?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Try to remember," he urged. "Try."

  Remember the nights and the whispers in darkness, the voids needing to be filled when desire had fled and only emptiness remained. When the ego needed to reassert itself and savor the sense of mastery and a joke could be enjoyed if a joke had been played. He saw her eyes veil with ruptured time and her mouth grow hard before she shrugged and laved her lips with more wine. She drank too much wine for her own good but it could provide the key to unlock repressed memories.

  She smiled as he handed her more.

  "Aren't you drinking with me, Earl?"

  "Of course." A lie compounded with further pretense. "To a happy meeting, Myra!"

  "To love!" She looked at her empty glass. "Rudi never knew what it was," she said to the crystal. "To him it was a joke-why else should he have laughed?"

  Dumarest's silence was question enough.

  "I thought at first he was laughing at me but it was more than that. He had nothing but contempt for those who'd trusted him. An educated man, a professor, taking pleasure in his ability to lie and cheat and delude." She looked up with a sharp movement to hold Dumarest's eyes with her own, "Erce? You said Erce?"

  "You've heard of it?"

  "I'm not sure." Her frown traced creases between her eyes.

  "There was something like it-a scrap of legend he mentioned one night after he'd rutted like a beast. Erce? No- Circe. That was it. Circe. Something to do with an ancient who had turned men into swine. A woman, naturally, who else would be to blame?"

  Dumarest watched as, again, she helped herself to wine. The level now was low in the flagon, small motes of ruby clinging like miniature wounds to the upper crystal, scarlet tears suspended over an ocean of green. She moved with the careful precision of a person who lacks true coordination, over-reacting as the wine spilled over her hands, her laughter false and brittle.

  "Green, Earl, the color of jealousy. Did you know I was jealous?"

  The fruit of insecurity, of fear and hurt. Yes, he had known.

  "As a child I did nothing but study. Learn and learn and learn all the time. Stuffing my brain with facts and figures until I dreamed of equations. A computer could have done better with far less effort and far greater efficiency, but my family was ambitious. Learn," she repeated savagely. "Deny yourself any pretense of childhood, sacrifice all your natural yearnings, eliminate all joys-and one day you'll win a degree and be rich and respected. Lies! God, Earl-how can they so torment a child?"

  The glass snapped in her hand, the twisted stem turning into small spears which gashed her palm and sent red to mingle with the green. She dropped the shards with a small cry of pain, her lips gaining added color as she sucked at the wound.

  "Let me see that!" The wound was nothing but his touch brought calm. He felt the quivering lessen as he wiped the flesh with a tissue, felt the heat, the sudden dawn of mounting desire. An emotion he did not share.

  "Earl!" Her free hand rose to touch his hair. "Why do we waste time in stupid memories?"

  "Circe," he said. "Was there more?"

  The caressing fingers froze against his hair and her voice shared their sudden ice. "You prefer words to love, Earl? Talk to me?"

  He said gently, "You spoke of ancients-let me tell you of something once told me on a distant world. To all things there is a season; a time to eat, to sleep, to taste the wine. A time to sow and a time to reap. A time to rest and a time to love." He paused while around them the pulsing music surged like the beating of muffled drums. "A pleasure anticipated is a pleasure doubled, Myra-or did they fail to teach you that?"

  "That among other things-but since when has wisdom been found in books?" Her hand lowered from his hair and she turned again to the wine, shrugging as she saw the broken glass, turning again to face him, to look at him with a new confidence. "Wisdom," she mused. "You have it, Earl, the kind that must be learned and can never be taught. Kindness, too, so that you are gentle with a woman who lacks your strength. Compassion so you do not mock. Tolerance for her stupidities and, I hope, a measure of affection." Her eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "That, at least, Earl-do not deny me that."

  The moment lengthened as the music came to an end, the sudden silence seeming to gain added dimension from the tension between them. The silence shattered as, from beyond the windows, came a sudden crackling and flicker of light.

  "What-"

  "It's the tests, Earl. The decorations-didn't you see them?" She was at the window before he could answer, the doors swinging wide to reveal the night, the small balcony, the railed parapet. More light shimmered on the frost and ice on both.

  "Myra!"

  "Come and look!" She smiled before stepping from the warmth of the room. "See? It's for the festival. The Ludernia-Earl, we'll have such fun! Look, darling! Come and look!"

  The wind caught her hair, pressing the gown against her body as she moved toward the parapet and Dumarest saw her sway, one foot slipping on a patch of ice as she reached for the railing.

  "Myra-be careful!"

  He was moving as she stumbled, diving forward fast and low, seeing her turn, the sudden, startled look on her face, the eyes widening with horror as she fell back against the parapet. For a moment she seemed to hang suspended on the knife edge of a balance and then she had vanished and he was left with the wind in his hair, a shoe in his hand as he listened to her fading, dying scream.

  Chapter Six

  Welph Bartain was tall and thickly built with a face schooled to mask emotion and eyes which held a cynical weariness. A man in late middle age, his hair grizzled, his skin creped with a mesh of lines engraved with experience, he was a captain in the proctor's department. He waved Dumarest to a chair after he had introduced himself, smiling as, without instruction, Dumarest set his head against the rest, his hands on the wide arms.

  "I see you understand our procedures. Madam Blayne noted that you were cooperative." She had presided over Dumarest's second interrogation while a small, wasp-like man had conducted the first. Now, apparently, there was to be a third. Bartain smiled as if reading Dumarest's thoughts. "No. I am here merely to conclude the examination. I must apologize for the unusual delay but trust you have not been too uncomfortable. You have no complaints?"

  "None." The guard had been accommodating; food and wine had been available at personal cost, books and tapes and means of passing the time on hand. For the rest the cell had been a place to wait, to sleep, to think. Dumarest said, "Why the delay?"

  "The Ludemia." Bartain shrugged, his face dour. "It happens twice a year in summer and in winter and I don't know which is the worse. The cold makes students desperate but the heat affects minds in strange ways and always we are kept busy. Now, as regards yourself, the charge was made by three independent witnesses that you threw Myra Favre over the balcony of her apartment on the evening that the festival decorations were being tested outside her building. She was seen standing on the balcony. You were seen rushing toward her. She was heard to scream as she
fell. Correct so far?"

  "Correct."

  "You protest your innocence?"

  Dumarest said dryly, "I understood you to say that this was not to be a third interrogation. Surely you trust your machines?"

  "A matter of routine. Please answer."

  "I am innocent of the charge of murder." Dumarest added, "I am at a loss to know why I should be doubted. She slipped, I tried to save her but reached her too late. I have said that from the beginning."

  "As I explained, this is a matter of routine." The officer picked up a sheaf of papers, apparently reading from them though, as Dumarest knew, his eyes never left the telltales set along the edge of his desk. "Dumarest," he mused. "You claimed to have a doctorate but-"

  "I made no such claim. That was a pretense of Myra Favre's."

  "A woman no longer young," continued the officer. "One vulnerable to attention and who would have been attracted to an intriguing stranger who claimed a mutual acquaintance. A person of responsibility who could help a man eager to make his way. Martial arts," he said. "An odd subject-did you honestly believe you would gain a large enough enrollment?"

  "I've explained all that," said Dumarest. "But, since you put the question, yes. I believe that such a course would be attractive to those who come here for a quick and easy degree."

  "And others who live in less gentle cultures." Bartain turned a page. "Why did you come to Ascelius?"

  "For knowledge."

  "And where better to obtain it." The officer's tone matched the cynicism of his eyes. "Or so those running our universities tell us. Well, to get on-did you provide the emerald and ruby wine?"

  "No."

  A question he had been asked before-one of thousands repeated in various ways, set in different contexts, aimed like bullets or thrown like feathers. Probes to determine the truth of his story. The chair in which he sat was a, complex lie-detector and the interrogations had been his trial. Were still his trial. The captain was obviously conducting a series of random checks. It was an hour before he dropped the papers and leaned back in his seat.