by E. C. Tubb
"I rushed in. You looked too easy. I guess I underestimated you."
"And maybe you wanted to show off a little right?" Dumarest smiled, removing the sting from the rebuke. "It's a natural reaction. Now let's do it again and this time remember what I said."
This time he made no concessions, crouching in a fighter's stance, poised on the balls of his feet, the bar of metal held before him, point upward, the metal slanted to one side. Had it been a real knife the hold would have given the opportunity to slash in a variety of directions, to thrust, to turn so as to catch and reflect the light. His face matched the stance, falling unconsciously into the bleak mask of a man determined to kill, fighting for his life.
Kirek tried to copy him, a tyro against a veteran, but he had the elements and was willing to learn.
Dumarest opened the encounter, doing as he would never have done in a ring, moving to touch his dummy knife against the other's and by so doing presenting him with an opportunity.
One he took, moving in to knock Dumarest's bar aside with his own weapon before lunging forward in a vicious thrust.
Metal rang as Dumarest parried, striking back in turn, the slash deliberately slow and falling short by an inch. Kirek parried the proffered weapon, cut at Dumarest's stomach, missed and, too late, tried a backhanded slash. He grunted as Dumarest weaved, dodging the attack to slap his own bar of metal against Kirek's side.
"I win," said Dumarest. "Resent it?"
"No, of course not, but-"
"You were good," said Dumarest. "And you can be better. All it needs is practice. But you're all trying to rush things. Erik!"
"Earl?"
"Keep them at basic drill for a while. You've matched them too soon. Wait until they have mastered the basic movements and can do them without conscious thought. Then have them go through routine attacks and parries. If they learn bad habits now they'll be hard to get rid of later." He added, seeing the shadow in the young man's eyes, "But you've done well. Far better than I'd hoped for. You're just a little too impatient."
"Can you blame us for that?"
"No, but it takes time to train a man. Once you've taught these they can teach others. That goes for all of you." He glanced at the men, the other instructors. "Just don't try to run before you can walk."
The noise rose again as, dressed, Dumarest walked with Althea from the gymnasium. In a small enclosure filled with plants and heavy with the scent of flowers she halted and sat on a bench.
As he joined her she said, "You were kind in there, Earl. You could have made Alva look a fool."
"Alva?"
"The man you fought. Alva Kirek. He is Volodya's nephew. You didn't know that?"
Dumarest shook his head; the relationships of the Terridae were a mystery to him, but he saw no point in solving it. Marriage, family life, personal loyalties-all must be strange when conducted among those who spent the major part of their lives in ornamented caskets waiting for the culmination of a dream.
"You were kind," said Althea again. "Against you he was slow and clumsy and you could have made him a laughingstock. The lesson might have done him good."
Dumarest said, "It never pays to make an enemy. I want that man on my side not against me." This was a slip and he cursed the fatigue which had led him to make it. "We need dedicated men," he said. "Those who will be willing to endure hardship."
"Men willing to kill?"
"Men willing to fight," he corrected. "To reach out for what they want. To destroy those who try to stop them."
"Violence."
"Protection." He turned to face her, looking at the face blurred in the dim illumination, the wide, luminous pools of her eyes. "Without it what do you have? The trust that others will not harm you? The hope you will be ignored and left to go your own way? Your ancestors knew better. They knew that all life is a continual act of violence. Why else did they build Zabul?"
"As a haven."
"True, but an armed one. In the beginning it was a fortress designed to safeguard the Terridae in their caskets. How else to ensure protection from fire and flood and war? From quakes and natural hazards? Where better to wait as the years drifted by and the Event came nearer? But they weren't prepared just to wait. The original plans make it clear what they intended."
"But we bred," she said. "Grew in numbers-can we be blamed for that?"
"You made a choice. The Terridae wanted children and, losing the initial drive, became apathetic. Zabul was designed to be moved-why else but in order to search for Earth?"
"The Event will happen," she said uncertainly. "That is what we believe."
"It will happen," he promised. "I'm going to see that it does. But I can't do it alone. And it must be done fast."
"I know Volodya said that, but he will be reasonable. The committee will see to that. He-"
"I'm not talking of Volodya."
"What then?" Her eyes widened. "The Cyclan? But Lim is dead. You destroyed the Saito."
Dumarest leaned back, closing his eyes, seeing again the white gush of searing flame from the pyre his bomb had created, which had destroyed the cyber and reduced the ship to a cloud of expanding, incandescent vapor. That battle was won, but the war continued and he knew the forces of the Cyclan must be on their way.
When would they arrive?
Too much time had been wasted while Volodya had made up his mind to throw his weight on the winning side. There had been too many arguments, manipulations, indecisions. The dead weight of inertia had forced him to move slowly when every nerve had screamed for haste. The young had needed to be convinced, their support assured. The Council had to be weakened by subtle innuendo. A dreaming race had to be shaken into wakeful acceptance of the imminence of their destiny.
The work had sapped his stamina and clogged his mind with fatigue and toxins, which introduced the danger of a careless tongue-already he had made one slip which the woman had seemed to ignore. How many others had escaped him due to impatience and frustration?
A balancing act, he thought, feeling himself sink deeper into a semi-doze. To push and yet to appear to be only a reluctant follower. To urge and suggest and persuade and never, ever, to appear more than helpful. As a stranger he would be resented despite open denials. Those who would accept promises and glittering images of the splendid future about to come would gibe at the work necessary to achieve it.
Dreamers-he was trapped in a world of dreamers. Easy prey for the Cyclan when they came unless, first, he could form his own defenses. If Volodya would allow him to. Unless the newly formed committee grew too fond of personal authority.
But that was a knife edge he had to walk if he was ever to find Earth.
CHAPTER THREE
Each day now on waking Vera Jamil spent longer on her toilette, painstakingly arranging her hair, adorning her eyes with touches of cosmetics, adding extra perfume to her bath. These small acts held their own excitement as did the selection and arranging of her clothing. Vanity, of course, but it gave her pleasure and, at times, brought back memories of her youth when Amrik had been alive and they had found magic in the shadowed compartments of Zabul.
A time long gone now yet still she could feel the pain when learning of his death. Still see the smile on his face when they had lifted him from the casket. If nothing else his dreams had been pleasant and she wondered if they had been of her. That was a bad time and she had longed to return to the surcease of forgetfulness, resenting the obligatory periods of wakeful activity. What need did she have of physical stimulation? Of renewing contacts with reality? Amrik was gone and with him had gone her happiness.
Now a small part of it had returned.
It was everywhere in the only world she had ever known; the stir and bustle of expectation, of activity directed to a definite object. Time seemed to have gained a new dimension and she felt the pulse of her blood and the tingle of renewed interest. Luck, she thought; at any other time she would have missed the participation she now enjoyed. Missed the close association with the
stranger who had created the new conditions.
"Earl!" She rose as he entered the chamber and turned to him, hands extended, palms upward, smiling her pleasure as he touched them with his own. "I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
He returned her coquetry with a smile. "Sorry, Vera, but I've been busy."
"I know." Her gesture embraced the shelves, the racks and files and books, the computer data banks of the installation in her charge. "I've been compiling your activities for posterity."
She was too eager but Dumarest retained his smile. Vera Jamil was the custodian of the Archives and could help him ferret out the secrets he hoped they contained. Now, as she produced a pot of steaming tisane together with the traditional cakes of hospitality, he forced himself to mask his impatience.
"Some of the young men were talking of your training program," she said, handing him a cup of the scented tisane. "They admire you even while nursing their bruises. Do men really have to fight like that on other worlds?"
"At times, yes."
"It seems unnatural." Vapor wreathed her eyes as she stared at him over the rim of her cup. "To fight and hurt and maybe to kill. Why can't everyone live in peace?"
"Because all worlds are not like this one." Dumarest set aside the cup and ate a cake. It was good and he said so. "Did you bake it?"
Her flush gave the answer. "An old recipe. Amrik-a friend, used to like them."
"A wise man." Dumarest caught the shadow which drifted over her face and knew better than to labor the point. "Dare I ask if we've made any progress?"
Again the flush, this time caused by his use of words. How nice of him to make her feel an equal partner!
"A little," she said. "There is so much data and you did say to check it all. Give me a moment and we'll get down to business."
She rose to clear away the tisane and cakes, a tall, slender woman, delicately fashioned, her hair a mass of convoluted strands. Hair so blond as to appear almost silver, rising high in an elaborate coiffure, set with small gems which shone like trapped stars. Her face held the ageless placidity of all the Terridae; she could have been five years older than himself or as many centuries. But, in the real experience of living, she was little more than a child.
"Here is a summary of all references together with computerized assessment. Here is a condensation which negates all duplication. This is a compilation of personal notations; items from old logs and navigational tables together with data from personal journals." She looked at the piled sheaves. "I'm afraid it's rather a lot."
An understatement; the data was indigestible in sheer volume. Dumarest selected a file and ran his eyes over the neat columns of references. The woman had done a thorough job but had missed the point of his search.
He said patiently, "What I hoped for was actual coordinates."
"We have them." She picked up a folder. "The exact location of more than a hundred worlds each of special significance to the Terridae." She added, regretfully, "I'm afraid there's no way of telling which is Earth."
"But surely there are references? Even if the data was coded there must be a key." He saw by her expression that she didn't understand. "Think," he said. "At the beginning the Terridae must have had some information as to the whereabouts of Earth. They would have wanted to safeguard it, perhaps, and what better way than by including it within a framework of dogma? Statements which hold an inner meaning once you know the key." He sought for an example and found it in the creed of the Original People of whom she must know. "Listen," he said, and his voice took on the muted pulse of drums. "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."
"Earl?"
"From terror," he said. "That could mean 'From Terra.' Do you see what I'm driving at?"
She said, uncertainly, "Yes, I think so. It's like a riddle, but-" She broke off with a helpless gesture. "I don't know how to solve it."
A failure, but she wasn't wholly to blame. Information retrieval was a skill in itself and one she'd had no reason to develop. Dumarest looked at the files and picked one at random. A listing of data culled from ancient logs including the names of crewmen, cargoes carried, planets visited. Trivia which the Terridae held of value because it had associations with their past. Given time and dedication he would be able to discover their origins, the reason for their withdrawal from normal planetary congress, the ideals which had led them to the formation of their dream. The Event. The finding of Earth.
And he had promised to lead them.
He set down the file, conscious of the woman's stare. How long before she guessed his ignorance? How long before Volodya lost his patience? Pressures to add to the rest but ones he must ignore for the present. As he must gain the help Vera Jamil could give.
He said, smiling, "You've done wonderfully, Vera. I'm just a little stunned at all the information you've managed to accumulate. Now we have to boil it down even further to basic essentials."
"Refine it, you mean?"
"In a way, yes."
"But, Earl, if we knew where Earth was we would have gone there long ago."
The obvious, but he had an answer. "When the location was discovered the time needn't have been right. Details would need to be attended to, arrangements made, things like that. There could have been external pressures which forced a postponement. Then, as time passed, the location could have been forgotten."
"Lost?"
"No, forgotten. Haven't you ever had anything of value which you set to one side for safekeeping then had trouble remembering where you put it? Most of us have had that experience at times. That could have happened to what we're looking for now and our job is to find where it could be. The location of Earth, I mean."
It was hard to remember that she was a grown woman and not a child. Harder still to retain his equanimity when she said, "But you have the answer, Earl. Does it matter if we can't find the location in the Archives?"
"We need confirmation," he said quickly. "Earth lies in a region bounded by the patch of dust lying to the galactic north of Silus, the energy pool known as Morgan's Sink to the galactic west of Crom, and the Hygenium Vortex. Run that area through your computer and determine if any of the planets mentioned fall within those parameters."
Looking at the files she had accumulated, the product of so much labor, she said, "Earl, I'm sorry."
"For what? Trying so hard?" Reaching out he rested the tips of his fingers on the crest of her hair. "I didn't think you'd have the confirmation waiting for me. As you said, if you had the location, you'd be there now. But we'll find it, Vera. Together we'll find it."
Dumarest felt the touch and woke, instantly alert, one hand moving to snatch up his knife and to rest the point against the throat of the woman at his side.
"Earl!" Althea Hesford cringed from the threat. "Earl, for God's sake!"
"I'm sorry." Dumarest set aside the blade, looking at the woman in the pale glow illuminating the room. A nacreous shine emulated the light from a legendary moon. In it the copper sheen of her hair looked darker than it was. "You touched me," he explained. "Startled me. I just reacted."
"I only wanted to see if you were awake."
"Why?"
"To talk." She sat upright in the bed, the soft glow giving her naked flesh a silver sheen. "I couldn't sleep and you felt like a coiled spring lying beside me. You're too tense, Earl. You could have killed me just then. In a week or two, unless you ease the pressure, that could happen. Not deliberately, I'm not saying that, but by simple reflex action."
She was wrong but he didn't argue. "So?"
"You need to relax. If you don't want to take drugs then why not settle for a period of rest in a casket?"
Advice well-meant but he wasn't going to take it. "I haven't the time for that."
"You could find it. You don't have to do everything yourself. You could delegate your authority."
"And what the hell does that mean?" As she made no answer
he said, more quietly, "It means you rely on others to do your work. If that is a mark of efficiency then they must follow your example and do the same. In the end you wind up with everyone delegating everything to everyone else and no one doing the actual work."
"It needn't be like that."
"No, but that's the way it happens. You should know. Once you handed authority to the Council what happened? What always happens when you delegate authority to someone else. They hung on to it. It took a near-revolution to make them yield."
To resign and hand over to others who would follow the same path:-something he didn't mention. Instead he said, "Is that why you woke me? To tell me I need to rest?"
"No! I-" Then her own tension broke and she laughed. "Put like that it sounds insane. I'm sorry, darling, I guess it's because I've something on my mind."
"Such as?"
"Vera Jamil. You know she's in love with you?"
"Is she?"
"She is and you must know it. And she isn't the only one. Earl! I'm jealous!"
"Of Vera?" Deliberately he kept his tone casual. "I need her help, Althea, and if a few kind words will get it then that's what I'll give. But she isn't in love with me. She's enamored of change. She's waking up as others are and realizing what life can be all about."
"Pain," she said quietly. "Hurt. Fear. Anger. Envy. Frustration. Rejection-you want me to go on?"
"Life," he said. "It was never intended to be easy."
"I know. You told me, life is a continual act of violence." She leaned forward to hug her knees, the mane of her hair veiling her face, the curves of her torso. "You seem to believe that."
"The spermatozoon which fertilized the egg from which you sprang fought against a billion others for the privilege. The antibiotics in your body battle endlessly against invading bacteria. Your brain was developed because you enjoyed a high-protein diet. Each mouthful of food comes from the dead. Life is what it is, woman, not what you'd like it to be."
And he was suited to live it better than anyone she knew. To fight and kill in order to survive-how many others in Zabul could do the same? Even Volodya was strong only in relation to those around him. How to hold such a man? To keep him close so as to shelter beneath his protection?
