Angado dot-29 Page 13

  "Is that how you used to talk?"

  "To Perotto and his cronies? At times, yes. It amused me to see their contempt."

  "Is that all?"

  "No," admitted Angado. "The spoiled sons of rich families tend to act the fool until it is no longer acting. To go into raptures over a trifle, to swear vengeance on a slight, to vow undying fealty to a friend-" He shook his head in disgust. "How little they know of real values. You've taught me a lot, Earl."

  Dumarest said, dryly, "I hope enough for you to stay alive."

  "I'll be careful." Angado spun in an elaborate pirouette. "A fool left Lychen and a fool has returned. One concerned about his finances and for no other reason. He'll be apologetic, gracious, swearing it's all a mistake and promising retribution- but I'll remember Yuanka."

  "And remember a man can smile and murder as he smiles."

  "I shan't forget." Angado hesitated then said, "There's a lot I shan't forget, Earl. I-"

  "You don't owe me."

  "I can't agree. If it hadn't been for you I'd be stuck on Yuanka."

  "If it hadn't been for you I'd be dead." Dumarest rose from the deep chair in which he'd been sitting. "We each helped the other. The slate's clean."

  "But your money!"

  "What good is money to a dead man?"

  Dumarest moved from the chair and crossed the room to stand as Angado had done before the window. It gave on a wild and rugged scene; bleak rocks, cracks, slimed stone the whole dominated by the sheet of water which dropped from above so close it seemed it could be touched. A waterfall of stupendous proportions falling to the floor of the chasm far below. Mist filled the crevice, hiding the upthrust teeth of stone with shifting rainbows, clouds of drifting spume. The roar of the impact was the deep, prolonged note of an organ.

  One muted by the treble glazing, absorbent padding, the very shape of the rocks molded with cunning skill to reflect and minimize the noise.

  "My grandfather built this, Earl." Angado had come to stand at Dumarest's side, his voice quiet, brooding. "I think he wanted to leave his mark and chose to build a challenge against nature itself. Beauty turned on beauty to enhance the total effect. At times, standing on the balcony, I've felt what he must have done. The utter insignificance of a man when compared to the universe. How futile all our striving seems. We're like rats fighting to garner corn we'll never be able to eat. Denying others for the sake of greed and, in the end, what does it all amount to?"

  Dumarest said, "How many know that I'm here?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "How many?"

  "A few. Servants, of course, and some others. Those of the ship would have talked and to deny your existence would have been stupid. You're a friend. Someone I met while traveling." Angado's eyes were direct. "In my circles it is considered impolite to be too curious about such associations. You'll be safe here, Earl."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "You talked. Back on Yuanka when you'd been sedated prior to treatment you said enough for me to know you were looking for something and something was looking for you. My guess is you're afraid of the Cyclan." Angado paused then, when Dumarest made no comment, added, "It's your business, Earl, but as I said you're safe here. Just eat and sleep and laze around and leave the worrying to me."

  "Thanks."

  "Forget it. We're friends, aren't we?" Angado frowned as he noticed the time. "It's getting late and I don't want to offend my hostess. Wynne is a wonderful person but can be too punctilious at times. I'd like to take you with me, Earl, but it's better left for another time. I can learn more from her if we're alone."

  "She might think the same."

  "She might," Angado agreed. "But I'm no longer the man she used to know."

  He left with a lift of his arm, smiling, his step light as if already he was fitting into his part. One which might delude those who had known him if they didn't look too close. Alone Dumarest roamed the apartment. It was large, a collection of rooms adorned with various works of art; carved blocks of crystal, vases shaped in erotic patterns, tapestries depicting scenes of bizarre fantasy. Decoration reflecting the imagination of the man who had built a cave in the side of a cliff simply to stare at a moving sheet of water.

  Seen from the balcony it was awesome. Dumarest felt the wind of its passing, the moisture from it which dewed his face, heard the deep, sonorous note from its impact against the rocks far below. A hypnotic sound as the water itself held a dangerous attraction. The fall seemed static; a curtain made of shimmering crystal, adorned with transient gleams of reflected light. Beauty which masked the power of it, the crushing, destroying force born of relentless gravitation.

  Leaning against the rail Dumarest looked below. A master-mason had cut away the rock to leave the balcony suspended over the chasm and he stared at the roiling mist rising from the depths. At night the mist was illuminated with colored glows but was now a mass of white and gray, twisting, turning, rising like innumerable fountains. Hands which reached and arms which invited and he felt the attraction of it, the urge to throw himself over the rail into its embrace.

  An impulse he resisted, stepping back to lean his shoulders against the wall as he looked upward at the summit of the fall. No rock had been allowed to remain to break the smooth outward curve, one enhanced by skilled adaptation, and Dumarest appreciated the artistry behind the concept. Here was nature as it should be, complete, perfect, a living example of a poem or a piece of music. Art in its purest form with all irritations carefully erased. An ideal-nature was not and could never be like that. As no life could be all harmony. As no death could be a gentle release.

  Dumarest had met death too often; the small death when he had ridden Low, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Another kind of death, more traumatic, when the host-bodies he had occupied when using the affinity-twin had ceased to exist. Real, physical death softened only by the knowledge that it was only the body which was dying and not himself. Yet the pain had been real, the fear, the helpless terror of an organism that struggled to survive.

  And he had met death beneath Abo's knife.

  A death as real as any he would ever know for the agony had been present, the bleak realization of final extinction, the oblivion into which he had fallen. A darkness which had encompassed the universe and no death, no matter how exotic, could do more. Only the prelude could be extended but when death came, it came, and for him it had come on a small world in a dirty ring circled by avid, hungry faces eager for the spectacle he provided.

  But did the dead ever dream?

  Looking at the waterfall Dumarest remembered the dream he had had, or had it been a vision? A sea as wide and vast as any ocean could ever be. A sun which had drawn vapor from it, to condense into droplets, to fall as scattered rain on hills and plains and mountains. To be lifted again, to fall, to end in rivers which returned to the sea. A cycle repeated endlessly for all time.

  Did the ocean care what happened to its substance? Did the drop of rain know from where it had come and to where it must go?

  Was conscious life nothing but a temporary awareness of individuality?

  A shadow touched Dumarest and he felt a sudden chill, one vanishing as the cloud which had covered the sun moved on beneath the pressure of wind. An incident which broke his introspection and he straightened with a sudden resolve. There had been too much thought of dying-now he needed to find life.

  And it was time to look for the person on Lychen he most wanted to find.

  * * *

  An elevator rose from the apartment to the upper surface, one circled by spiral stairs which he used for the sake of exercise. A long climb which sapped at his weakened reserves and Dumarest sat on a bench as he surveyed the area. To one side sprawled a hotel holiday complex; something of recent construction that, he guessed, would never have been allowed by Angado's grandfather. Lawns surrounded it dotted with flower bed
s set in a riot of vivid colors. A long observation walk reached out over the head of the falls invisible from below. The body of massive timbers supported a mesh of lighter beams forming a protective barrier. Rags surmounting the structure streamed in the wind.

  A breeze which carried a fluttering scrap of paper to rest against his boot.

  "Please, sir, may I have my drawing?"

  She was about eleven, tall, well-made, with strong white teeth showing between generous lips. A girl now solemn though the hazel eyes held the hint of laughter, her round face stamped with determination. She wore a long striped dress bound with a wide sash at the waist, the ends falling on her left side to a point below the knee. In her left hand she held a sketching pad and a sheaf of pens.

  "My drawing, please."

  "May I look at it?" Dumarest stooped to grasp it, holding it until she nodded. "Did you do this all by yourself?"

  "Yes."

  It was an animal, brightly colored as no real beast could ever be; the body red, the snout green, the tail blue to match the paws. A creature of fantasy yet in true proportion, the colors blending to form a pleasing whole.

  "That's Ven," she said. "He's a sort of mole but I like Ert better, he's a bear."

  Dumarest looked at the pad she held out for his inspection. Again the creature was colored in bright hues and was standing upright like a man. Another creature of fantasy and, like the first, it bore the stamp of a real talent.

  "May I?" Taking the pad he turned the sheets, pausing as he saw a round, pitted, silver disc. One in close proximity to a circle bearing a cross, A drawing which could have depicted a moon-and the crossed circle was a symbol of Earth. "Did you think of this all by yourself?"

  "Of course. I intend to be an artist when I grow up and an artist must be able to compose a picture."

  "I'm sorry." Dumarest forced himself to be casual. "I meant did you see these designs anywhere? In an old book, perhaps? A painting?" Hope died as she shook her head. "Are you sure?"

  "We haven't any old books. Mummy says they smell. Grandfather has some but he keeps them locked away." She held out her hand. "May I have my pad now, please."

  "Of course." Dumarest closed it and looked at the cover. "No name?"

  "Of course I have a name. Everyone has a name. I am Claire Jane Harbottle. My pad, please." Taking it she said, "You don't look well. You should walk around and get the air. My nanny says it is very healthy on the platform. Goodbye, now."

  She ran off with a rustle of fabric, a girl oddly demure in formal garments, yet full of life and vitality. She would make her mark if her talent was allowed to flower and, if nothing else, she had given him good advice.

  Dumarest rose and wandered between the flower beds as he followed a sweeping path which would bring him back to the observation platform. The wind stung his eyes, gusting, the flags streaming to fall and hang in limp abandon, to flutter again in varied hues, to droop and hang again. An odd pattern for such a place and Dumarest wondered at the vagary. A thought swallowed by another of far greater importance.

  Had the girl merely dreamed up the notion of a pitted sphere and a circle barred by a cross or had she actually seen them somewhere? A decoration of a nursery wall, a painting, an illustration in a book-something seen and forgotten to rise to the forefront of her mind when triggered by the need of artistic expression. If so her grandfather could be of help- but would Lychen hold two people who could solve his problem? Did both know how to find Earth?

  A stone turned beneath his foot and he stumbled, catching his balance, annoyed at his lack of attention. He had wandered among a collection of statues, tall figures simply clad and wearing haughty and disdainful expressions. Some had been adorned with flowers, others with cruder additions many displaying a ribald sense of humor. They fell behind as Dumarest lengthened his stride and headed toward the platform. If the girl was still around he wanted to learn more from her. Or from the person she would be with.

  He heard the scream as he reached the foot of the ramp, a high shriek followed by words.

  "Claire! Come back, Claire! For God's sake, child, come back!"

  Wind had caught a picture, wafting it to catch against an upper timber and with grim determination she was going after it. Dumarest saw the small shape climbing doggedly up the framework, to grab at the paper, to miss as it blew to a farther point. To grab again as the flags stirred and wind blasted in a sudden gust.

  One which thrust at the exposed shape, catching the striped dress, billowing it, using it as a sail to push the small figure off its perch.

  To send it toppling from the framework into the air, the sweep of the waterfall, the long drop to the rocks below.

  Dumarest moved as the woman screamed again, this time in horror, not warning. He stooped, hand lifting weighted with his knife, eyes judging time and distance, the movement of the sash over the timbers. His arm swept in a wide circle, steel glittering as it left his hand, thudding broadwise through the sash and into the wood beneath. A spike which held her suspended, twisting in the wind which caught her hair, her dress, the sash around her waist. Before it could slip free Dumarest had the girl cradled in his arms.

  Chapter Twelve

  Edelman Pryor was seventy years old and looked it. He wore drab garments and walked with a shuffle but still had a sharp mind and intelligence. His home matched the man, old, decaying, full of dust and forgotten corners yet retaining a staid dignity-demonstrated by the decanter, the wine, the courtesy with which it was served.

  "Your health!" He lifted his glass to Dumarest. "And my thanks for what you did. If I had money you could take it all. The girl is precious to me." He sipped and added, "We are not related in blood, you understand, but she is kind enough to call me her grandfather. When young she used to stay here with her mother."

  "Her father?"

  "At the time was busy on other worlds. Now he is home where he belongs. Why didn't you want him to know what happened?"

  "Would it help if he did?"

  "No. He would give you his thanks and anything you might ask but-"

  "It would be a memory he can do without." Dumarest tasted his wine not surprised to find it thin and acid. "The governess will say nothing for her own protection and the girl is wise beyond her years. Even her mother needn't be told."

  "The dress?"

  "Only the sash was damaged. An accident." Dumarest shrugged. "To the young such things happen all the time."

  But the incident had been of value, giving him an introduction to the old man, one arranged by the governess who had been too relieved to argue. Now, sitting in the dim chamber, sipping the weak and acid wine, Dumarest waited for the courtesies to end.

  "You're a friend of young Angado," said Pryor. "I heard of his return. I hope for his sake he has learned caution during his travels. Are you close?"

  "We traveled together."

  "And are staying with him?" Pryor sipped his wine as Dumarest nodded. "Well, he could do worse. And your own reason for coming to Lychen?" He blinked when he heard it. "An interest in antiquities? Books, maps, old logs? What appeal could such things have for a man like you?"

  "The same as they have for yourself." Dumarest set down his glass. "I learned something today and saw items of interest. A drawing of a moon and a symbol I recognized. Things which could have been seen here in your house. Perhaps in the books you keep locked away."

  "From a curious little child who was into everything she saw." Pryor chuckled and finished his wine. "There's no mystery about it. I collected the books for a client and the things you mention could be found within them. One at least held symbols and pictures and charts of some kind. I must confess they held little appeal but they did represent a profit. As did the maps and logs and other items I bought for later resale. As a dealer, you understand, specializing in the abstruse and rare. In fact one of my acquisitions is to be seen in the museum; a plaque inscribed with what must be a hymn of praise to an ancient god. One called Apollo. You have heard the name?"

>   "No."

  "A pity." Pryor was disappointed. "I loaned it to the museum for the duration of my life but I expect it'll stay there for as long as they want it. Or until someone is willing to pay the demanded price. But if you are really interested in ancient things then I may have something which could interest you." Rising, he went to a corner and rummaged in a cabinet, returning with an object in his hand. "Here."

  It was squat, grotesque, a female figure with swollen belly and huge, sagging breasts. The face was blurred, the nose a rounded knob, the eyes deep-set pits of blankness. Three inches high the depiction was wholly engrossed with female sexual attributes.

  "I've had it for most of my life," said Pryor. "It's very old and must have been an object of veneration at one time. Some say it is a fertility symbol but I'm certain it must be more than that. The representation is that of the mother-figure and so could have associations with the very source of human life. If so it is an ideal depicted in stone. Primitive, crude, but unmistakable."

  And to him of high value-why else should he have kept it so long? Dumarest studied the figurine, sensing the raw power of it. A woman. A mother. A female born to breed. Naked, unashamed of the attributes which made her what she was. The epitome of every male consumed with the desire to gain the only immortality he could ever know-the children which would carry his genes.

  "Erce," whispered Pryor. "Once a man told me she was called Erce."

  Mother Earth, a name Dumarest had heard before. One appropriate to the figure; turned, it would be Earth Mother.

  Earth Mother?

  "The man who told me that told me more," Pryor reached for his glass, found it empty, refilled it with a hand which created small chimes from the impact of the decanter with the rim. A quiver which sent ripples over the surface of the wine. "It's nonsense, of course, as anyone can see, but an interesting concept in its way. You may have heard of it. Some profess to believe that all life originated on one planet. All the divergent races on one small world. Logic is against it. The numbers are of no importance, natural increase would account for that, but how to account for the diversity of color? How, under one sun, could people be white, black, brown, yellow and all the shades between? They would be affected by the same climatic conditions, the same radiation, water, air, food. How to account for the different germ plasm?" He drank and wiped droplets from his lips. "As I said it's just an interesting concept. The image itself yields a certain tactile pleasure which you may enjoy. The story, of course, is nothing. An exercise in logic, you might say. No intelligent man would give it a moment's credence."