by E. C. Tubb
"Maybe I should have waited," she said. "But I wanted to please you."
Or to sweep him along in the rush of events, giving him no time to think or plan? In turn, he searched her face, seeing the blank stare of mirrored eyes, his own features reflected in the silver lenses she wore.
He said, "Where are we bound?"
"Driest. That's all I can tell you."
A fact he would have learned as soon as he had boarded the vessel and any name she chose to give would be meaningless. Again he searched her face, seeing his own reflection waver a little, blurring as she blinked, vanishing as she turned her head. A time for decision, of knowing that here, now, was the moment of no return.
"Earl? About the booking-did I do right?"
He nodded. A gamble-but all life was that and he was tired of running, of hiding, of living in dirt and shadows. If Earth was to be found he would find it or die in the attempt. As the man on Driest would die if he had lied.
Chapter Six
Rauch Ishikari reminded Dumarest of a snake. A tall, slim man, aged, dressed in expensive fabrics which shimmered like scales. His thin, aquiline features bore the stamp of arrogance afforded by position and wealth. His voice, though melodious, bore a trace of cynical mockery. But it was his eyes which dominated the rest: almond slits of enigmatic gray. Set in the creped face they looked like polished shards of stone.
He said, "A final warning, Earl. I have no wish to destroy the innocent."
A chair stood bolted to the floor before the desk behind which he sat. Steel clasps were set in the arms; more on the legs to hold the ankles. The point against which the head would rest was of polished wood. Abruptly it smoked and burst into flame from the invisible beam which ate into the wood. A moment, then the flame was gone, the charred patch a blotch against the rest.
"Lie and the beam will pass through your brain. Are you ready?"
Silently, Dumarest sat in the chair.
He relaxed as the manacles closed to hold him tight. If this was a trap he was in it and there had been no chance to escape. Not from the moment of leaving the vessel when waiting guards had closed in to escort them both to a spired and turreted mansion set high above the town. The palace of a ruler, into which Karlene had vanished leaving him to the ministrations of men more like guards than servants. Then the meeting with Ishikari, the verbal sparring, the abrupt cessation of preliminaries.
Now the manacles, the chair, the laser which, at a touch, would burn out his life.
He said, "You play a hard game, my lord."
"Game? Game? You think this is a game?" Anger edged Ishikari's voice. "If it is you play with your life as the stake!"
"And you?"
Almost he had gone too far and he tensed, watching as the man behind the desk reared, stiffening as if he were a reptile about to strike. There was a long moment during which tiny gleams of light splintered in trembling reflections from the rings he wore, then, as if with an effort, he relaxed.
"I play no game," said Ishikari. "Unless the search for truth be a game. But the path you tread is a dangerous one. Did you tell the woman the truth?"
"About Earth, yes."
"You were born on that world?"
"I was."
"And?"
Ishikari listened as Dumarest went into detail, then fired other questions, probing, inhaling with an audible hiss as Dumarest spoke of the night sky, the moon which looked, when full, like a silver skull. A long time but then it was over, the manacles opening to allow Dumarest to rise. As Dumarest rubbed his wrists his host offered him wine.
"An unusual story," he said, lifting his own glass. "But a true one if the detectors are to be believed. I drink to you, Earl-man of Earth!"
The wine was like blood, thick, rich, slightly warm, traced with a tang of spice and the hint of salt. Dumarest sipped, feeling the liquid cloy on his lips and tongue.
"Earth," mused Ishikari. "A world of mystery. Ask after it and you will be told that it is a legend. A myth. A dream of something which never was. Details bolster that belief; why aren't its coordinates listed in the almanacs? If it is the repository of such enormous wealth why hasn't it yet been found by the expeditions which must have searched for it? Obvious questions but other claims negate them. You know of them?"
The question was like a bullet.
Another test? If so Dumarest passed it. His host nodded as he listened, added his own comments as Dumarest fell silent.
"The mother world from which all men originated-a ridiculous concept when it is remembered how many divergent races inhabit the galaxy. Yellow, white, brown, black-how could one world produce so many different types? We are all one basic race, true, the ability to interbreed proves that, but-"
"We evolved on widely scattered worlds from the impact of space-borne sperm? Seeds driven by the pressure of light to settle on a multitude of planets? Spores which all produced the same basic type?" Dumarest shrugged and sipped at his wine. "I find the one-world concept easier to swallow."
"As a concept, perhaps, but is it the answer?" Ishikari shook his head in doubt. "What to believe? How to unravel the one thread which will guide us through the maze of legend and myth?"
"I thought you had the answer. Karlene said-"
"She told you that I would help you and I will. Follow me."
He led the way into another chamber, one with a high, vaulted roof set with lambent panes now filled with the dying light of day. Tinted squares which threw a dusty shadow over racks of spools, shelves of moldering volumes, oddly fashioned artifacts. Stray beams glinted on metal, crystal, plastic; things which could have been vases or toys or illustrations of tormented mathematical systems. At the far end rested the screen and controls of a computer.
"It is voice-activated," said Ishikari. "I want you to sit at it and tell it all you know about Earth. Everything, each tiny detail, every small item. That and more. All you have learned in your traveling among the worlds." He added, "It will join other information already in the data banks. The machine will correlate the information, find associations and meaningful relationships. Determine probabilities and yield valuable conclusions."
"The coordinates?"
"Perhaps. It's a possibility."
But not good enough. Dumarest looked around the room, guessing at the guards who must be watching, the weapons which had him as their target. A man of Ishikari's position would never risk his life as he appeared to be doing. Was this pretense to gain trust? To lull suspicions? Yet where was the point; if he was in a trap it could be sprung at any moment.
Casually he moved through the room to a table which stood against a wall. A convoluted abstract stood at one end. On the other rested Loffredo's volume and the enhancement he'd had made.
"You doubt my good faith." Ishikari came to join him. "I took the liberty of copying your papers, and the computer is assessing the detail they contained for anything of relative value. Not proof of my intentions, I admit, but one thing is. Look." He lifted the sheet bearing the quatrain. "Now this."
He lifted a book from where it rested in the shadow of the abstract. It was old, thick, stained with mold and wear. The pages were fretted beneath their protective covering of transparent plastic. Dimmed illuminations shone with the ghosts of silver and gold, ruby and emerald. The script, once thick and black, now sprawled like the gray and tangled web of spiders.
"Look," said Ishikari again, and touched something on the abstract sculpture. Light shone over the book from some source within the convolutions; electronic magic which thickened the script and brightened the hues as if defeating time. "The quatrain. See?" The tip of his finger traced the words. "And here. The word 'Earth' as before." Pages rustled. "Here again, you notice?"
Dumarest said, "What is it?"
"The book? A collection of verse containing pertinent philosophical concepts regarding life and reality." Ishikari riffled the pages. "Life, death and reality. The verse in the book you found shows that. Odd how an itinerant trader could have come by it
."
"He could have seen that book." Dumarest gestured to it. "Or one like it."
"A remote possibility. It's more likely he saw it written somewhere. On a wall, perhaps? If so, why?"
Dumarest sensed that he was being led down a path the other had followed before. Spurred to reach a matching conclusion.
"A wall," he said. "But who would write such a verse on a wall unless it was a special place? As a warning? As a concept to bear in mind? A creed, perhaps, or the part of a creed?"
"In which case it surely would have been carved, not written." Ishikari put down the book. "Where would you find such a thing carved on a wall?" He paused, waiting. "A special place," he urged. "You've already mentioned that."
A special place, a carving, a creed. Verses dealing with life, death and reality. Words cut deep into adamantine stone so as to carry their message endlessly through time.
"A church?"
"A temple," corrected Ishikari. "The temple of Cerevox." He add quietly, "I believe it holds the answer we both are seeking."
* * *
At dusk Driest became alive with a brash and raucous vitality. Barely had the sun lowered beneath the horizon than lanterns were lit, casting lurid pools of lambent color on pavement and road, the sides of buildings, those thronging the streets and market. Men and women, drinking, laughing, selling produce, skills and, failing all else, themselves.
A crowd in which Dumarest wandered. He had had no trouble in leaving the palace though he was aware of the two men following him at a discreet distance. Guards like ghosts more sensed than seen and he wondered at Ishikari's caution. The bait the man had set was stronger than bars.
"My lords! Ladies! I beg your attention!"
A grating voice accompanied by the clash of metal and Dumarest halted to stare at a peculiar figure. One who wore red, blue, yellow, green-a plethora of vivid hues forming the bizarre depiction of a face. A ragged shape which capered and chanted to the rattle of a sistrum he held in one hand.
"I can dress wounds, treat minor ills, alter a garment. I am adept at massage. I can sing and relate stories to while away the tedium of monotonous hours. I have served as a valet, cook, guard, tutor. I can handle a raft. Hire me and have no regrets."
Next to him stood a vibrant thing which keened; an alien creature from some distant world. It's owner jerked at its leash and, as it reared, snarling, displaying fangs and claws, yelled of its value as a watchdog.
Beyond, a cripple lifted the stump of an arm.
"Lost in the Zhenganian conflict. Supply a prosthesis and I will serve you for a year."
A woman, veiled, silent, the card on her breast telling all she was a bountiful nurse.
Another, young and lissom, who smiled at Dumarest with frank admiration. "My lord? I am trained in the dressing of hair. A seamstress. Hire me for your lady and she will thank you."
He said, "I have no lady."
"Then, perhaps, the greater need of my services. Who else to tend your clothing and give you equanimity of mind?" She stepped a little closer. "Hire me for a month. Test my abilities. A week? A day?" She sighed as he shook his head. "Remember me should you have need."
Dumarest moved on to a plaza where stalls sold refreshments and beggars lay in wait.
"My lord! Give of your charity!"
A man with a face raw with oozing pustules, the orbs of his eyes white with a nacreous film. His bowl remained empty; there were a dozen ways of counterfeiting such sores and the membrane of an egg would emulate true blindness. Another, legless, had better luck. A monk better still.
He stood, his bowl of chipped plastic in his hand, tall and gaunt in the brown homespun of his robe. His feet were bare but for sandals. His hair, cropped, surmounted a face too old for his years. One with cheeks sunken in deprivation, eyes which stared with compassion at the universe.
"Thank you, brother." He looked at the coins Dumarest had dropped into his begging bowl. "You are generous."
"Your name?"
"Fassar."
"Are you in charge of the Church here?"
"No. Brother Tessio leads us." He added, "Should you wish to ease your heart the church is close to the field."
The usual place but Dumarest had no intention of kneeling beneath the benediction light, of confessing his sins and receiving subjective penance and absolution. Never had he gone through the ritual of a suppliant, not even for the sake of the bread of forgiveness given at its termination. The wafer of concentrate which, to the hungry, was reason enough to feign true remorse.
The monks did not object-each who knelt beneath the benediction light was hypnotically conditioned never to kill. A fair exchange.
Dropping another coin into the bowl he said, "Perhaps you could help me. Cerevox." He repeated the word. "Does it mean anything to you?"
"Cerevox?" The monk thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No."
"Would the others know?"
"I can ask them."
"Please do. Just the monks. I'll ask later at the church."
Dumarest moved on. To one side a stall sold skewers of meat, pasties, spiced bread in flat wedges. It was busy and he passed it then halted at another selling mulled wine. Holding the mug he stood beneath a lantern which bathed him in violet brilliance.
Had Ishikari lied?
If he had he had done it with professional skill. An actor, judging time and emotion, triggering reactive patterns as if he played an organ. Building on Dumarest's natural relief of being freed from the chair and seeing a display of his old things, the talk concerning the computer and then, as if by happy chance, the book and papers and the old volume and the verses it contained.
The temple of Cerevox.
Cerevox?
An odd name but one with a haunting sense of familiarity. Dumarest ran it through his mind; cerevox… cerevox… cerevox… cerevox. Cere. Vox. Cere? Cere?
Erce?
A simple anagram-was that the answer? No, the change made no sense. Ercevox? Vox? Vox?
The monk stood where he had left him. Without preamble Dumarest said, "Vox. The word Vox. What does it mean?"
"I'm not sure. It is very old but, I think, yes, it means voice or voices. I will check if you wish."
"It doesn't matter. And forget the other. Cerevox. Forget it."
Two words, not one, and the simplest of anagrams. Had the meaning intended to be hidden? Or was it a secret known only to those who knew more than most? Earth had more than one name. Terra was another. Erce yet another but with a slightly different connotation. Not just Earth but Mother Earth. And Vox?
Earth voices? No. The voices of Earth? Not that either. What then?
Dumarest halted, mind alight with sudden understanding, careless of the crowd around him, the man who bumped into him and swore then moved quickly away as he saw his expression.
The Cerevox Temple.
The Voice of Mother Earth!
* * *
Karlene's room was on an upper floor, the servant who had guided him running, squealing away as the panel burst open beneath his boot.
"Earl!" Karlene turned from where she stood at the side of her bed. Her eyes widened as she saw his face. "Earl! For God's sake! Don't look at me like that!"
She backed as he closed the gap between them, her legs hitting the edge of the bed, her body toppling, hanging suspended as he caught her arms and held her against the pull of gravity. In her eyes he could see the snarling image of his face.
"I want the truth," he snapped. "All of it. What is Ishikari to you?"
"A friend. I-" She gasped as he set her jarringly on her feet, mouth opening with terror as steel shimmered in his hand. "No! Please, no!"
"Talk!" Light shone from the blade as it neared her throat. An empty threat but she couldn't know that. "Tell me about Ishikari!"
"He helped me," she said. "A long time ago now. I was in trouble and he helped me."
"And?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did he send you to Erkalt?" He rea
d the answer. "Why?"
"I had-" She broke off, swallowing. "Please, Earl. You're hurting me."
With the threat of the knife, the fingers which left ugly welts on the delicate pallor of her skin. The threat vanished as the blade slid into his boot. The welts would take longer.
He said, less harshly, "He gave you instructions, right? And you can't tell me about them. But you can tell me if you left instructions with the Hausi on Oetzer to use hybeam to radio ahead so that we would be met. Did you?" Her nod was an admission. "Did you tell him to radio anyone else? The Cyclan?"
"No. No, Earl, I swear it!"
"What do you know of the temple?" He saw the sudden laxness of her face. "Damn it, girl! I won't hurt you. Just tell me about Cerevox."
From behind him Rauch Ishikari said, "You're wasting your time, Earl. She can't."
He stood within the room, guards flanking him at the rear, the snouts of their weapons ready to lower a barrier of destruction from either side.
Dumarest said, "If they fire they will kill the woman. You wouldn't want that."
"Would you?"
"No."
"Then we are agreed." Ishikari stepped to one side his hand gesturing toward the door. "I can find us a better place in which to talk. If you will precede me?"
A matter in which he had no choice; beneath the empty courtesy lay the cold determination of steel. The passage was empty, a door standing open a short way down. The room held a table, chairs, ornaments, a flagon of wine and glasses on a tray. Wine which could have been drugged. Dumarest shook his head as Ishikari gestured for him to help himself.
"I'd rather talk."
"About Karlene? What do you want to know." Before Dumarest could begin Ishikari lifted a hand. "First let me explain something. There are certain things she cannot talk about. I mean that literally. As a child she was conditioned never to reveal certain things about herself. You have seen her tattoo? Asked her about it? She couldn't answer you. Couldn't remember. Am I correct?"
"Perhaps. She dodged the question."
"As she did when you asked her about the temple?" Ishikari stepped to the flagon and helped himself to wine. Lowering his glass he said, "She cannot answer that question. Demand a reply and she will escape into fugue."
