World of Promise dot-23 Page 10

  Luck didn't last. Even as he reached them the wind died, distant shouts sounding thin, others, closer, loud with menace. A figure loomed before him, a hand lifted the club it held swinging toward his head. Dumarest dodged to one side, struck at the arm and felt bone snap beneath the edge of his stiffened palm. The man cried out and fell back to be replaced by others; shapes which became blurred with snow, seeming to vanish, to multiply, to be all around.

  Dumarest spun, striking out, feeling the jar of flesh against his hands, the shock as something smashed against his temple. A club fell as he drove his fist into an open cowl, feeling the yield of cartilage, the warmth of blood from the pulped nose.

  "Earl! This way, Earl!"

  The voice rose above the wind, guiding him toward a blob of light, an open hatch, the figure standing limned in the glow.

  "Hurry, Earl! Hurry!"

  He felt a hand on his arm and tore free to race forward and dive head-first through the opening. He heard the port slam shut as he rolled on the deck, the rasp of locking bars as he rose to stare at the woman before him.

  Charisse Chetame said, "It seems, Earl, that once again you owe me your life."

  Chapter Seven

  The sting was minor, a pain which came and vanished in a moment to be followed by a soothing coolness. Reaching up, Dumarest touched his left temple, finding a smoothness covering the area, the torn skin and bruised flesh left by the impact of the club.

  "You are fortunate," said Charisse. "A little harder and it would have broken bone. Lower it could have torn out an eye. More to the left and there could have been shock to the interventricular foramen and the temporal lobe."

  Dumarest said, "You know your medicine."

  "Of course." She moved about the salon as a girl came to clear away the equipment-the same girl Dumarest had seen before or one just like her. As she left Charisse said, "Ascelius-it has a reputation among students for hard teaching, but they don't know what that could really be. At three I slept with a hypnotute which poured data into my brain. At seven I knew every bone in the human frame, every major organ, the disposition of arteries and veins and nerves. And that was only the beginning. After that came the study of cellular structure, tissue classification, glandular excretions-the whole spectrum of living matter."

  "Your father?"

  "A hard teacher who had no time for anything less than the best." She moved to a table, a shelf, back to the chair at his side. The curve of her thighs tautened the fabric of her gown. At her throat gems winked in flashing scintillations. "And you, Earl? Did you find what you wanted on Ascelius?"

  "No. How did you come to be there?"

  "Business. A matter of delivering some cultures to the medical institutes." She dismissed further discussion of the matter with a gesture of her hand. "It was the most amazing luck that I should have seen you and recognized you through the snow. What had you done to antagonize those men? Had they been hired by some jealous husband? A thwarted lover or a rejected woman seeking revenge? And why didn't you use your knife?"

  He said, "They have a system-trial by lie detector. Intent is all important."

  "Of course. Had you drawn your knife and used it and killed you would have been guilty of murder. The intent to kill would have been inherent when you drew the blade. Not consciously, perhaps, but it would have been present and the machines would have revealed it. But why not just wound?" She answered her own question. "A matter of reflexes. Against an opponent the need to survive becomes paramount. Against a crowd that need would trigger the automatic basic levels of reactive response so you would fight at maximum efficiency. A dead opponent is a safe one-wounded he still presents a threat. Well, you are safe from them now."

  For he was far from Ascelius and deep in space, wrapped in the cocoon of the Erhaft field and bound for Kuldip. Soon they would utilize the magic of quicktime, the drug slowing the metabolism and turning hours into minutes, weeks into days. A convenience to lessen the tedium of the journey.

  He said, "I must pay for my passage."

  "Naturally, but later, Earl. Later. For now let us talk. Did you learn nothing on Ascelius? Nothing to help your search?"

  Had he told her?

  "Legends," she said. "When I was healing you that first time on Podesta you spoke of them. Of your home world and how you had left it. Of how you were trying to find it again. Delirium I thought at first but it made sense of a kind. Yet how can a world be lost? Are you certain you haven't confused the name?"

  "There are no listed coordinates," he said. "So no one knows how to reach it. And, no, I haven't confused the name."

  "It happens," she said. "My father was interested in old things and he made an attempt once to plot the altering pronunciations of ancient words. Words like 'mother,' for example, and 'father.' They tend to move forward in the mouth. From the back of the throat toward the lips. See?" She pursed her own. "From guttural to sibilant-kiss me, Earl!"

  It was as he remembered and yet oddly different. The fire was absent, the thrust of triggered desire, and he wondered at her reason for the caress. A proprietary gesture? A curiosity as to his own reaction?

  "Just to remind you that we aren't exactly strangers." Her eyes held his own as she resumed her seat. "Now, to get on with what we were talking about. Take a word and move it forward in the mouth. It grows distorted, changes, becomes easier to pronounce if altered a little. The misplacement of a vowel or the alteration of emphasis on a consonant makes all the difference. In a few years the word becomes unrecognizable. Take Eden, for instance."

  "Eden?"

  "Another legend," she said, ignoring his interest. "A world, perhaps, like your Earth, but I doubt if it's as real. My father thought-you've heard of it?"

  "Vaguely."

  "A paradise, Earl. Odd how all these mythical worlds are claimed to be that. Legend has it that Mankind started in Eden. That it was owned by some kind of goddess and that she lost her temper and threw everyone out when they offended her. If anything at all the story has to be allegorical but that isn't the point I'm trying to make. My father thought that Eden had to have been 'Garden.' You see? A simple change and an ordinary word becomes something novel."

  He said, "Was your father really interested in old legends?"

  "Yes, really. There are old books at home, records and such. He used to value them and spend hours studying them. You can examine them if you like."

  "A promise?"

  "Of course." Bored with the subject she changed it. "Earl, do you remember how we parted?"

  After the frenzy came a period of calm during which he must have slept. The serving girl had ushered him from the vessel.

  "I remember," he said dryly. "It was a little abrupt."

  "Maybe too abrupt I've thought about it often and wondered if I'd made a mistake. Business," she added bitterly. "I had the beast to deliver and things to take care of. I didn't realize just how unusual you really are. Why are we always in so much of a hurry?"

  He shrugged, not answering, looking at the flashing splendor of her necklace. Remembering the other gems she had worn, points of light which had winked in her hair. A trait she seemed to favor and he wondered at the idiosyncrasy. The scintillation drew attention from her face and eyes, her lips and cheeks, an effect most women would regard as detrimental. Jewels were normally used to accentuate, not rival, natural charms.

  "You look pensive, Earl." Her hand lifted to touch his cheek. "The wound troubling you?"

  "No. It's fine."

  "Something else, then?" Her smile encouraged his confidence. "Disappointed, perhaps?"

  "A little, yes."

  "At the wasted journey, I understand. And you must be tired." The touch of her fingers became a caress. "So very tired. The fight and the shock of your injury and I'll bet you had no sleep-what else can you expect?"

  "I'm fine." A lie; the fatigue she had mentioned was gritting his eyes and dulling his vision. He resisted the desire to yawn. "I'll be all right."

  "Of course you
will." Her hand fell from the nape of his neck. "Natural sleep is the best medicine there is. Your cabin has been made ready." She rose, waited for him to join her, smiled as she led the way to the door. "I'll take you to it and, Earl-you are safe now. There is no need to lock your door."

  There had been a face which had smiled at him and touches which had felt like the impact of snow before they turned to flame but he had been too tired to notice and had ignored them to wander like a ghost in a haunted land of dreams. Now, awake, he lay supine and looked at a ceiling decorated with writhing serpents. At walls bearing the snarling faces of assorted beasts. At the bed on which he rested in naked comfort.

  Luxury matched by the thick carpet, the glowing plates set to provide a softly warm illumination, the rest of the furnishings.

  Visible proof of the wealth of the Chetame Laboratories.

  Of Charisse who owned them.

  Leaning back, he remembered their conversation. The collection of old books and records her father had studied and of the legends he had wanted to pursue. Eden-he knew of several worlds named that, but had there, at one time, been a single spot as Charisse had said? A garden-if the word had changed that's all Eden could mean. And Earth?

  He tried it, mouthing the word, advancing it toward his lips, noting the increasing difficulty in pronouncing it aloud. The hiss which came when trying to push the diphthong too far. The change.

  Earth… Earse… Earce… Erce…

  Erce?

  Erce!

  The name Boulaye had gained from an old book or so he had claimed. Another name for Earth? An older one?

  Where had the man gone after he'd left Myra Favre on Alba?

  Dumarest rose to pace the floor, trying to flog himself into action. A shower stood in a corner of the room and he stepped into it, ice-cold water lashing from jets to wake his flesh from lethargy.

  An old book-how long would a book last on Ascelius unless protected from biodegradation? A copy, then, but from where?

  The sting of water ceased and he dried himself before looking into a mirror. It was of tinted glass, designed to flatter, lessening the harshness of mouth and eyes. The dressing on his temple had diminished a little; the compound absorbed into his flesh. A mote of darkness rested beneath the transparency at the healing lip of the wound.

  Turning, he searched for his clothes, finding them in a cabinet. Dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared thoughtfully at the writhing decorations on a wall. He felt that he trembled on the edge of a discovery but it eluded him as had the identity of the face in his dream. Myra? Charisse? Isobel Boulaye?

  Would her husband's ghost never be at rest?

  The man had come into possession of a book, common currency among students. Could one of them have given it to him in return for a favor received? Or mentioned something which had aroused his interest? Caused him to send for a copy, but if so, from where? And what had been the trigger to send him on his journeying? Erce? Erce-and something else. What had Myra said before she died? A word her lover had mentioned in laughter.

  A clue?

  Dumarest rose and stepped toward the door. It opened at his touch and he passed from the cabin into the passage. It was deserted, the air holding a strange, acrid taint at variance with the ornamentation. There should have been perfume, the odor of incense, rich and decadent smells to match the opulence. Beneath his boots the deck was covered with soft fabrics which muffled his tread. As he neared the forepart of the vessel a uniformed man stepped forward to bar his way.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but this is a restricted area."

  "I'm a guest of Charisse Chetame."

  "I know you are, sir." The man was big with the easy confidence of a man who knew his own capabilities. "The restriction remains."

  Dumarest said quietly, "I was only identifying myself. I would appreciate the loan of some star charts of this area together with an almanac and measuring devices."

  "Sir?"

  "A problem I wish to resolve." Dumarest added, "A hobby of mine and it will serve to pass the time. I would appreciate your cooperation."

  The guard barely hesitated; a guest of the owner would have influence and his request was harmless enough. "It will be my pleasure to help, sir. This area, you say? I'll have them sent to you in the salon."

  Dumarest nodded, turned, walked back down the passage toward where the engine room would be, the cargo holds, the generator. Another guard materialized to stand before him.

  "I'm sorry, sir-"

  "I know," said Dumarest. "This area is restricted."

  "That is correct, sir." The man could have been the twin of the other guard. He added, "Aside from the control section and the private cabins the rest of the vessel is free."

  "The salon?"

  "Yes, sir, of course."

  Like the cabin it was extravagantly decorated with the likeness of beasts, birds, things which crawled. It was deserted, the charts and things Dumarest had asked for lying heaped on the table. Sitting, he adjusted them, unrolling the charts, holding them fast with magnetic clips, checking the almanac, placing the protractors and dividers, the rules and scales close to hand. An astrogator would have done it faster, an engineer as well, but he was capable enough.

  And Sheen Agnostino had narrowed the field.

  Boulaye had been on Alba with Myra Favre and he knew the time of their official honeymoon. Knew too the time she had returned and so the period the man had available for journeying. Alba was a busy world set close to suns and teeming planets; Tampiase, Cilen, Elgent, Kuldip, Chord, Freemont-all would have been within reach.

  Dumarest sat back, looking at his notes, the charts, the almanac which gave stellar positions at definite times. Stars moved and so did their worlds and that movement affected journey times. A thing he'd needed to check as he had others: Boulaye's character, his determination, his resources.

  A man basically weak who wanted to gain with the minimum of effort. One easily swayed. One with a twisted sense of humor; a sadistic bent which could have stemmed from a knowledge of his own inadequacy.

  Which world had he visited? On which had he learned where Earth was to be found?

  Again he felt himself to be on the edge of a discovery and yet lacking the ability to take the one step which would make things clear. Tampiase? A possibility, but if he had visited it Boulaye would have had little time and what was so special about the world? Elgent? A place of sands and winds-eliminate Elgent. Chord? There was a cult of ancestor worship which turned the cities into necropolises. A promising situation for a man who had learned an old and ancient name for the planet Earth. Had he gleaned a clue in some esoteric ritual? Deciphered some fading inscription?

  Dumarest closed his eyes, wondering at his bafflement. Not at the inability to solve the problem but at the fog which seemed to cloud his memory. The word Myra had said she had heard while lying at her lover's side. Not Erce-of that he was certain. One which had sounded like it and which he'd taken for a distortion.

  Opening his eyes, he looked at the beasts ornamenting the walls, the writhing depictions of life in many forms. Decoration inspired by the legend of Eden? The goddess which had ruled over a multitude of forms? What had Myra said?

  Dumarest looked at his hands, the charts, the answer which had stared him in the face all along.

  Circe-the woman who had turned men into beasts.

  How better to describe a genetic engineer.

  Kuldip was a small, dark world warmed by a distant sun; a smoldering furnace blotched with ebon, ringed by a scarlet corona. The mountains had weathered into hills, the seas dried into lakes dotted with islands and scummed with weed. From the hills men wrested ores, gems, precious metals. From the seas the product of massive bivalves. The main industry was the Chetame Laboratories.

  "It's big." Dino Sayer lifted a hand, pointing. "The largest installation on the planet."

  He was an old man, his body frail beneath his uniform of russet and emerald, his head bald, the skin seeming to bear a hig
h polish. His face was seamed, lined and scored with the clawed feet of time, his eyes a pale azure, the whites flecked with yellow. A technician high in the hierarchy of the laboratory. The guide provided to show Dumarest around.

  "It's grown," he said, his hand moving to point. "A century ago we only had that building, that space, those stockades. When Armand took over he engaged on a period of expansion and gained finance to put up the rest."

  "Armand Chetame?"

  "That's right. Charisse's father. A genius." Sayer shook his head in regret at the man's passing. "I came to him as a boy and he treated me like a son. Taught me, educated me, guided me every step of the way. Others, too, of course, but he was like that. He wanted to build the best team he could get and he set out to do it. I reckon he did it too."

  Dumarest recognized the pride in the old man's voice, his proprietary tone. The laboratories had been his life and he would stay with them until he died. Dumarest looked over the edge of the raft at the long, barrack-like buildings, the warehouses, fences, towers, stockades. Animals grazed on lush vegetation, some looking up as the shadow of the raft darkened the ground before them.

  "Prototypes?"

  "Basic stock," explained his guide. "Ruminants, naturally, providing meat, hides, bone, horn-all the animal can be utilized. We adapt their germ plasm to various requirements as the need arises. Another of Armand's ideas-he figured it was better to have a selected basic than to develop from scratch at each order. For one thing we can fill a small demand and do it without waste of time."

  "Yields?"

  "That depends on the requirement." Sayer was pleased at the informed interest. "If you own ground on a rough, tough world you aren't interested in milk-yield as much as survival ability. You want your beasts to be able to live on local growths, withstand extremes of temperature, be aggressive enough to defend themselves against predators and breed fast enough to show a profit. From the basic stock we can provide all that. Gestation is four months and a calf is weaned in as many weeks. High metabolic factor for the initial period slows after maturity has been reached. A hide tough enough to withstand fire, thermal fat distribution to withstand cold, coat capable of rapid moult and regrowth and so adapted to short seasons. You can freeze those beasts in solid ice," he boasted. "Keep them frozen for a month and, as long as they can breath, they'll survive. They'll grow fat where other cattle will starve."