Eye of the Zodiac

by E. C. Tubb

  A weakness in his prison, but those accustomed to regarding only doors and windows as a means of egress would have overlooked the obvious. And any prisoners, held in this place, would provide their own mental chains.

  He jumped from the roof, landing as lightly as a cat, freezing, crouching to spot the silhouette of any guard against the sky.

  He saw nothing. Either there were no guards, or they were on the other side of the building facing the door.

  Rising, he ran quickly towards the Alphanian Chamber. It rested as a somber bulk beneath the stars, a fitful gleam of yellow light showing through the cracks of shutters, the join of the great double door.

  It was held by a simple lock which yielded to the point of Dumarest's knife and he pushed one of the leaves open, slipping inside to close it behind him.

  Turning, he looked at a museum. A church. It held something of both.

  There were alcoves in which were painted designs fashioned of gleaming points, joined and surrounded by a tracery of lines. The depiction of animals, a woman, scales, a scorpion. Twelve of them, each faced by a thin stream of incense rising from bowls of hammered brass.

  There were cases in which rested ancient books, strange artifacts, rocks and scraps of fabric. There was what could only be an altar, a high place set to the rear of a low dais. A painting of a woman, weeping. Another of fiery destruction. A third of something bright and wonderful emerging from a shattered egg.

  The wall behind the altar was covered. The curve continued as it rose to merge into a smooth dome, a hemisphere broken only by the main part of the chamber. Beneath it, set in precise relationship to the apex of the dome, rested a squat construction which gleamed with polish.

  Dumarest gave the place one quick glance, found it deserted of life, and moved around the walls studying the designs. The figures matched the mnemonic he had learned so long ago, the Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins… the Crab, the Lion… The signs of the zodiac.

  The thing for which he had been searching. And useless.

  They were too abstract, the points which could only have been stars, too numerous and devoid of true relationship. He had hoped for set constellations easily remembered, signposts in the sky which would point the way to Earth. Instead, he looked at artistic impressions which could have no association with reality. Again he walked along the walls, looking, studying, trying to remember.

  Had there been an archer in the skies? A man with the body of a horse drawing a bow? A woman emptying a pot of water? A pair of twins. A set of scales? A crab?

  Not actual representations, but a pattern of stars, bright points which if followed with a marker would have left such designs. He remembered nothing, and such rudimentary portraits could not have been forgotten.

  Impatiently, Dumarest moved to the books within the cases. The doors were closed and he forced one, leafing through a volume which smelt of mold. The pages were faded, stained. A record, as far as he could see, of names, births, deaths, matings. Another held details as to plantings, yields, types and varieties of vegetation. A third held rough designs of primitive, hand-operated machinery, grinders, scrapers, a potter's wheel.

  He replaced it, closed the doors, moved towards the altar and the odd device it contained. Here, perhaps, he would find the answer. The lost but all important coordinates by which Earth could be found.

  As he neared it he heard the sound of muffled voices, the creak of the opening doors. Dumarest looked upwards, searching for a place to hide, but the dome was unbroken.

  To run was to fight. To fight at this time was to die. When Phal Vestaler entered the Alphanian Chamber attended by a score of guards, he found Dumarest kneeling before the altar, his head bowed, hands clasped in an attitude of supplication.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Communing?" Aryan's voice held incredulity. "It isn't possible! He is unaware of the Mysteries." He sat at the table, annoyed, irritable at having been summoned so late. "It was a pretense, a ruse to save his life."

  The truth, but Dumarest didn't like to hear it stated so dogmatically. He stood at the end of the table, uneasily aware of the guards at sides and rear. To them, he had committed an unpardonable crime. They would not hesitate to move in should the word be given. His life, he knew, hung on a thread.

  And yet, he had an ally. From where he sat at the head of the table Vestaler said, quietly, "I told you what I had found. Nothing had been disturbed."

  He had said nothing about the matter of the forced bookcase.

  "And what if you hadn't sent for him? Discovered his escape?" Aryan flung the accusations like missiles. "And why did you send for him at all, Master?"

  The question Vestaler had been expecting. Aryan would not take kindly to the intention of a private talk with Dumarest, but the man did not know what Zafra had reported. The hope her words had aroused.

  A mistake, he thought, but one done now and impossible to ignore. Yet, if he hadn't sent for Dumarest, discovered him missing and gone with the anxiety of experience directly to the Alphanian Chamber-what then?

  His rank and title, certainly. His position and all that went with it. Shame and punishment, reduced to menial labor, shunned and despised as if he had been a ghost.

  All that, if the man had lied. If he could not convince the others that he had entered the chamber for reasons other than to rob.

  "Kill him!" snapped Aryan. "Kill him and have done."

  "Wait!" Usdon's hand slammed against the table. "At least, let us hear what he has to say."

  "He will spill lies," sneered Croft. "He knows nothing and-"

  "You are certain of that?" Dumarest's voice rose to fill the chamber as he stepped forward, halting as his thighs touched the edge of the table. A calculated move designed to demand attention. "Do you think you are alone in the universe? The only ones who hold the ancient beliefs?" His voice deepened, grew solemn. "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united." The words he had heard from Leon, words he had heard before.

  He fell silent, looking from face to face. Aryan, Croft, Vestaler, Usdon, Barog who as yet had said nothing. An old man who watched and voted, but who rarely spoke.

  Now he said, slowly, "Do you claim to be one of our number?"

  "Of your number, no. Of your following, yes. Do you think you are the only ones with such a creed? There are others on a host of worlds. Do you regard it as impossible that I am one of them?"

  Croft said, sharply, "We are the true Original People. Others may claim that, but they lie. They use machines."

  "You have a forge using bellows," said Dumarest. "You grind corn with the aid of a millstone, weave with a loom, fashion pots with a wheel. These things are also machines."

  "But they do not use the demon of power."

  "And so you consider yourself justified. A peculiar interpretation of the creed. The cleansing mentioned has a deeper significance."

  "You dare to condemn us? You?"

  Aryan said, "You have still not told us why you entered the Alphanian Chamber."

  To take the opportunity before it was too late. To learn what he could while he was able, but Dumarest couldn't tell him that.

  "I am far from my people," he said quietly. "A stranger-and I know the rule. In my position, wouldn't you have done the same?"

  A good answer, thought Vestaler, but Croft wasn't satisfied. He leaned forward on the table, still brooding over the imagined insult, the sense he had received of being corrected. Machines were the product of evil; because of them Man had become diversified. How could anyone who followed the creed believe otherwise?

  He said, curtly, "I still think you lie."

  "An easy thing to say when you sit in Council backed by your guards," said Dumarest. "Would it be as easy if we stood face to face outside? But then, of course, you don't believe in personal combat. Leon told me that."

  "Leon Harvey! That renegade? That coward!"

  "Coward?" Dumarest shook his
head. "Call him what you like, but never call him that. Consider what he did. He, alone, left the valley and ventured through the wilderness to the town. A boy doing that and more. He found work, kept himself, gained money, traveled to another world. Coward?" His voice took on a chilling note of contempt. "From where I stand, it is you who are the coward, not he."

  "Master!"

  "You provoked him," said Vestaler shortly.

  "But Leon-"

  "We know what Leon Harvey did. There can be no excuse, that I agree."

  "And yet this man defends him!" Croft was repulsive in his anger. "They are two of a kind. Has he come here to rob us further? A man who claims to have befriended a boy? That is enough to condemn him. I say he is a criminal and deserves to die. The rule demands it!"

  The rule, always the rule, the iron barrier which Dumarest had yet to break. Croft was a fanatic as was Aryan, but hope could lie with the others. At least they had not demanded his life.

  He said, slowly, "Have any of you ever stopped to think why Leon ran?"

  "Can there be any doubt?" Usdon spoke before Croft could further vent his anger. "He could not face the ordeal."

  "The ordeal," said Dumarest. "To climb to the summit of a pinnacle, to sit there during the night, afraid to sleep in case of falling, listening to the predators below, the things which climb and sting. A healthy lad should have no trouble in staying awake. A fit one to hang on. Agreed?"

  Usdon nodded.

  "Then why, always, do some fail?"

  "Guilt," snapped Aryan. "Fear. A knowledge of their own weakness. A proof that they are unfit to survive."

  "No!" said Usdon sharply. "My-" He broke off, unwilling to mention his own recent loss.

  A reluctance Dumarest recognized. A fortunate circumstance which would back his gamble.

  "We spoke of cleansing," he said to Croft. "You sneer at others who believe as you do, but who use machines. Use them, but are not dominated by them, that is the important difference. Power, in itself, can do no harm. It is like a spear which, in itself, is a useful tool. It is the man using it which makes it evil. A spear, a knife, a gun, all tools, all forms of power. Any form of power can be misused. The ordeal is a form of power. The power you have over the young. A power you have misused."

  He heard the sharp intake of breath, the instinctive protest at what they considered to be an insanely unfair accusation. Bluntly he pressed on.

  "A boy ran from the only home he had ever known. He left his mother, his friends, his people. He plunged into the unknown-and yet some of you call him a coward. You never even considered that he might have a reason. And none of you seem to care about the boys who vanish, or the ones who are found turned into ghosts. Do you want to continue sacrificing your youngsters? Do you enjoy the tears of their mothers? The misuse of your power?"

  "It is a test," rapped Aryan.

  "An initiation. We have always had it," echoed Croft.

  Barog, more observant than the others, less blinded by pride said, "You misjudge us. We are not evil men."

  "You know," said Usdon. He looked at his hands, they were trembling. Too late, he thought bleakly. No matter what happened now, it was too late. Sham was gone-nothing could bring him back. Nothing. And yet, others could be saved if Dumarest had not lied. If he could prove his accusation to be just. "You know," he said again. "Know what happens to the boys, what robs their brains."

  "Yes," said Dumarest. "I know and I will tell you-for a price."

  * * * * *

  Iduna shivered as she stepped from the door of the house, a reaction caused less by the chill than the sight of armed men looming in front of her in the starlight. The waking had been abrupt, a touch and a whispered command, her demand for explanation ignored. Perhaps, now, she was to be taken to some secluded place, there to be quietly disposed of, speared to death and buried.

  Varg Eidhal's voice was a rumbling reassurance.

  "Don't worry, we mean you no harm. It is just that you are wanted in the Council Chamber."

  "Why?"

  "Just walk beside us."

  To a mockery of a trial, questions which could have no answers. A sentence which, somehow, she had to avoid.

  She stumbled a little as she entered the warmly lit chamber. Eyes, accustomed to the outer darkness, unable to see detail immediately. Then she saw men seated at a table, more guards, the tall figure of Dumarest.

  "Earl! What-"

  "It's nothing serious, Iduna." He was, she saw, relaxed, apparently in command of the situation. She drew a deep breath of relief. "I just want you to answer some questions." He nodded to where Vestaler sat at the head of the table. "The truth now, there is no need to lie."

  He watched the ring of faces as she verified what he had already told the Council. Yes, she had accompanied her brother on an expedition. They had crashed. He had died in the crash and their guide had also been killed. By a beast? Well, yes, in a way.

  "In what way?" Aryan was quick to note the hesitation. He frowned as she explained. "So Dumarest killed him. Are you accusing him of murder?"

  "No, the man was badly hurt, dying, in great pain. There was nothing else we could do."

  "We?"

  "He, Dumarest, he was merciful."

  A type of mercy to which they were unaccustomed, and Vestaler frowned. Yet, the point was not worth pursuing at this time.

  "Tell us of the Kheld."

  "The Kheld?" She glanced at Dumarest. "Why, we, that is my brother, thought they could be found in the mountains. An ancient form of life native to this world, which at one time had threatened the town. My brother," she added, "was suffering from strain."

  "He was deranged?"

  "No."

  "Deluded, then?" Vestaler rapped the table as she hesitated. "You must answer the question. Was your brother wholly normal?"

  "Yes. It was just that he had this determination to find the Kheld."

  "Did he?"

  "No."

  "Have you any proof, any kind of proof whatsoever, that such creatures exist?"

  Again she hesitated, not knowing just what to say, wondering what the assembly was all about. To lie and perhaps damn herself and Dumarest, or to tell the truth and perhaps do the same.

  "Shall I repeat the question?"

  "No, that will not be necessary." The truth, Dumarest had said. For want of a better guide she obeyed. "No, I have not."

  "You have never seen them? The Kheld, I mean."

  "No."

  From where he sat Croft said, harshly, "A lie. I knew it. Another to add to the rest."

  A logical summation, but Usdon wasn't satisfied. A stubborn hope, perhaps. A confidence in the boy which had never been shaken. Sham could not have failed. There had to be an explanation.

  Dumarest gave it.

  "Iduna did not share my experience," he said. "She was asleep at the time. I told you that, but you insisted on questioning her."

  "With reason," said Aryan. "Your story is preposterous. An invisible something which you heard, but did not see. The stuff of legends, stories to terrify children. If they exist, why haven't we seen them?"

  "Or heard them?" said Croft, triumphantly. "Answer that if you can."

  He was trapped, thought Vestaler bleakly. Dumarest had bargained well. His life and that of the woman, to be spared for the sake of his information, the proof. The information he had given, the lack of proof would snap shut the jaws of a trap of his own making.

  "You haven't seen them," said Dumarest, quietly, "because if you had, you would have become a ghost. As for hearing them, perhaps you have. Think," he urged, "remember. You have all undertaken the ordeal. Did none of you hear a thin sound in the air then? A chittering? Feel an impression of menace?"

  He waited for an answer, but it was too long ago. Even if they remembered, none would admit it. Perhaps with cause. To be the first to back his claim would be to share his implied guilt.

  "The Kheld are old," he said. "Perhaps now very few in number. They must be an aerial form
of life, and so would never enter the valleys. The updraft would be too strong. The pinnacles are high, ideally placed for the creatures to reach. On them you set boys, easy targets for such predators. They come, take what they need, leave without trace."

  "If what you say is true, then why are not all the boys affected?"

  A shrewd question, Barog was no fool.

  "I said they were few," reminded Dumarest. "Perhaps they maintain a territorial area, perhaps each boy provides food for more than one. Frankly, I don't know. But I can guess what happens. The boys are lone, afraid, each a prey to his own fears and imagination. And then the Kheld draw near. I have heard the sound. It numbs, clogs the brain-and I am a grown man. A boy would be terrified. Perhaps the very emotion induced by the Kheld is what they feed on. That, or some form of nervous energy-again I am not sure. But there is a way to find out."

  "And that is?"

  "You are all grown men. Prove it."

  Usdon sucked in his breath, quick to understand.

  "Prove it," snapped Dumarest. "Do what you demand children do. Undertake the ordeal." His finger rose to point at Aryan. "You!" At Croft. "You!" At the others, one after the other. "Prove that you are men-if you dare!"

  * * * * *

  Eidhal was a boy again, a child who clung to the summit of his pinnacle and tried to forget all the rumors and inflated tales, the fears, the memories of those who had undertaken the ordeal and had not returned. A young lad, alone and frightened, as he watched the wheeling of the stars, heard the soft sough of the wind as it rose from the valley.

  An illusion, he was not a child and he was not alone. Aryan sat on the finger of stone to his right, Croft beyond, Dumarest to his left. Two other volunteers from the guards further down, Usdon beyond them.

  A bad place but he had insisted, insisted too that there be seven of them, the smallest number to undertake the initiation. The others of the Council were admitted to be too old. Barog would never have managed the climb, Vestaler had been overruled.