World of Promise dot-23 Read online

  On Podesta a man had rescued a child.

  Okos checked the region, the details, absorbing the data at a glance and feeling the glow of mental satisfaction at having made a correct prediction which was the only pleasure he could know. Podesta-Dumarest had revealed himself-revealed too the world which must be his destination.

  A window filled one wall of the room and Okos turned toward it, halting to stare through the crystal at the mass of buildings beyond-the spires and towers, domes and turrets, parapets and peaks all adorned with variegated flags denoting different universities, various seats of learning, the clustered departments, the massed halls. The product of a world whose main industry was the imparting of knowledge and which sprawled in city-sized confusion.

  Even as he watched another ship settled on the distant field to discharge its cargo of fresh students. Another batch to add to the hordes which thronged the streets and lodging houses, the eating places and taverns, the emporiums, the bookstores, the cut-price tutorials. A mass of variegated humanity, nondescript in their ubiquitous robes. Soon Dumarest would be among them-when would he arrive?

  Chapter Three

  It had rained, the downpour followed by freezing winds which had turned the water into ice, coating the buildings with a glistening frost which glittered in the late afternoon sun as if the towers and spires and soaring peaks had been dusted with crushed and scattered jewels. Against the white brilliance the flags displayed their varied hues, their markings, their shapes: oblong, square, forked, lozenged, some with puffs and slashes, others with a stark and simple dignity.

  "Damn!" The man at Dumarest's side stamped his feet, white plumes of vapor wreathing his uplifted cowl. "I hate the cold!"

  Rani Papandrious, a merchant and a successful one, now aimed to acquire a degree and the entry it would give him to the higher echelons of society on his home world. Beyond him a girl sucked in her breath as she stared with wide eyes at the flags, the frosted buildings. She had been backed by her family and launched into a strange environment in a desperate hope that she would provide for them all.

  Papandrious shook his head as she walked from the field toward a group of waiting figures.

  "They'll skin her," he said with professional cynicism.

  "Take all she's got and then leave her stuck in a slum dormitory, classes she can't handle, a job she won't be able to keep."

  A judgment Dumarest didn't share. Those waiting were students with little love for the hovering vultures and, while they might sponge on the girl's generosity, they would be fair in their fashion. She would pay but she would learn and, later, she too could be meeting the new arrivals.

  As could Bard Holman who had been the last down the ramp after arguing with the captain. A dispute he was reluctant to abandon.

  "We have a case," he complained. "Passage booked to Ascelius and nothing said about diversions and pickups and delays on the way. I've lost classes and time and both will cost money. An extra semester will ruin my budget. The way I see it we're all entitled to a compensatory payment."

  A fledgling lawyer, city-bred, inexperienced in the ways of space, he had no case. The captain had provided what he had contracted to supply and had probably lost money on the deal.

  Sheen Agostino smiled as he stamped away. She was small and round and dark and had come to gain a post-graduate degree in computer programming, a woman with an innocent openness gifted with the ability to recognize the humor of every situation.

  "So young," she said. "And so impatient. So eager to learn and to conquer his world. Even to listen to him makes me feel old."

  Papandrious was gallant. "You don't look it, Sheen. In fact you look really lovely. You agree, Earl?"

  "Of course."

  "What else could a gentleman say?" Her tone held laughter but her eyes were grateful. "Well, friends, I guess it's time for us to part."

  "But we'll meet again?" The merchant was eager to establish a comfortable relationship. "I'll contact you," he promised. "In a couple of days after we've settled down. We can have a meal, and talk, and share mutual entertainment." Courtesy made him turn to Dumarest. "And you, Earl? You will join us?"

  "Thank you, but no." Dumarest saw the relief in the man's eyes. "I'll be too busy. I've a lot of catching up to do."

  "You will, Earl." Sheen was positive. "And you'll make the best geologist this world has ever produced. Just keep thinking that."

  This was basic advice to bolster a determination which could falter when faced with harsh reality, but even as she gave it she recognized how little he needed it. A recognition which made her feel a little stupid.

  Dumarest came to her rescue, building on the lie he had told, the story he had given his fellow passengers to assuage their curiosity.

  "I'll remember that, Sheen, and when I feel like quitting it'll help. It's just that I could have waited too long. Maybe, with the best instructors, well, we'll see."

  A seed sown for future reaping if the need should arise. Her studies would give her access to the computers with their stored data, but to ask too much too soon would be to invite rejection or, worse, a sharpened curiosity. Later, if necessary, he would contact her and she would remember his present indecision.

  Now she said, "Just don't rush into anything, Earl. Take your time and study the prospects. You'll find a complete listing of all available courses together with fees, times and such at any of the information booths. The ones operated by the combined universities can be trusted to deliver what they promise. The free-lance establishments may promise a shortcut and cheap tutorials but you need to be a genius to gain from their offers." She held out a hand, slender fingers touching his own, before falling back to her side. "Good luck, Earl."

  Luck had saved him often in the past and he needed it now more than ever. Standing alone before the bulk of the vessel he looked over the field. To one side the wind caught a scatter of debris and lifted it to send it swirling in a drifting cloud of fragments which dissolved to fall in a powdery rain. Biodegradable material falling into their basic constituent elements beneath the action of sunlight and temperature change.

  A good sign-Ascelius promised to be a clean world.

  The shadows were lengthening when Dumarest left the field. The group of loungers had mostly dispersed, those remaining despite the growing cold ignoring him as he passed, sensing their attentions would be unwanted, their interest unwelcome. He ignored them in turn; the answers he needed would come from those less fortuitously placed. Ascelius might be clean but it was still a jungle and a dun-colored robe could mask a predator more dangerous than any beast.

  He walked on, deeper into the city, heading for the busy streets and areas, watching for those who followed for too long and too close, those who stared too hard, those who looked away too soon. Small signs which could betray those with a special interest. He saw none and entered a tavern when lights began to glow from lamps fixed high on the walls. It was as he'd expected, a room set with tables and benches, a bar at one end, a counter bearing dishes of various foods presided over by a stout man with a shock of gray hair and a face seamed with time.

  "Fill your plate for a veil, stranger." His voice was a boom. "Bread an extra five mins." He watched as Dumarest made his selection. "Just arrived?"

  "It shows?"

  "To an experienced eye." The man nodded at the plate which could have held more. "The longer you stay the hungrier you get. Not many students come in here who don't pile their plate as high as it will go. You want wine?" He beamed at Dumarest's nod. "Take a seat and the girl will serve you." His voice rose to a roar. "Trisha!"

  She was tall, thin, her face bearing a waxen pallor, the eyes sunk in circles of darkness. Her hair, blonde, hung in a lank tangle. Beneath the rough gown she wore her figure was shapeless. The hands which tilted the flagon over Dumarest's goblet were little more than flesh stretched over bone.

  A student, he guessed, working to pay for her tuition, starving herself to pay her fees. She watched as he paid for the win
e, added five mins as a tip. As she reached for the coins he dropped a two-veil piece before her hand.

  "For you, Trisha." He noted the hesitation, the inner struggle, and added, quickly, "For nothing but your time. Sit and share wine with me. It's allowed?"

  "If there's profit in it then it's allowed." She poured a second goblet, watched as Dumarest paid for it, took a cautious sip. "Do I have to drink it?"

  "No. I just want to talk."

  She said softly, "You could be wasting your time. If you hope to buy me forget it. I'm not that desperate."

  "I need a little help," said Dumarest. "I want to save time and fees-there is a charge made for information?"

  "You name it and there's a charge." She sipped more wine, relaxing. "What do you want to know?" She listened then looked across the chamber. "Lahee's your man. I'll send him over."

  Like the girl he was tall, thin, bearing the same marks of emaciation. He sat and picked up the wine she had left, throwing back his head as he drank without invitation. An accepted member of the fraternity, his robe stained, the capacious pockets bulging, the array of flags and pennants stitched to his breast frayed and faded. A friend, he had been given the chance to win what he could.

  "Trisha tells me you want to learn things. Save money at the booths. Maybe I can help."

  "If you can't then send me someone who can," said Dumarest. "And pay for that wine before you go."

  "It was Trisha's!"

  "You want to argue about it?" Dumarest held the other's eyes, spoke more gently as they dropped from his own. "I can guess the system-pass me along for as long as the traffic will bear, right? Well, the chain ends here. You know what I want, can you supply it?"

  "Geology," said Lahee. "You want to know all about rocks." He dug into his pockets and produced papers, books, a pen with which he made rapid notations in a neat and precise script. "If you've the money to pay for it the Puden University is the best. Try and get with Etienne Emil Fabull. If he's booked solid you could bribe someone to yield his place. I'll handle it for you if you like." He paused, hopefully, sighed as Dumarest made no answer. "Well, let's run over the other prospects."

  He droned on, listing various colleges and instructors, balancing their relative values, touching on the scale of fees and other expenses. Dumarest listened to the list with apparent interest while he studied the speaker. Lahee was older than he had seemed at first; much of the emaciated appearance stemmed from the passage of time as well as from the lack of food. A perpetual student, he had found a niche in this academic jungle and made it his way of life. An accredited student still, but now more a parasite than an eager seeker after knowledge.

  But safer to use than a computer.

  They could be monitored, fitted with response triggers to check anyone asking a certain type of question or adjusted to file the details of all making inquiries. That risk he preferred to avoid.

  As Lahee fell silent Dumarest said, "Thank you. You've been most helpful and I appreciate it."

  "Glad to hear it." The man moved the scatter of books and papers before him, gathering them into a neat pile, the sheet he had marked close to one hand. "Would you say half the booth fee was fair?"

  "It seems reasonable." Dumarest looked at the books, noting their age and condition. The covers were frayed, the spines cracked and gaping, pages obviously loose-rarities here on Ascelius where there was a vested interest in the elimination of old textbooks and manuals. Undegraded only because of their owners' care. "May I?" He reached for them before Lahee could object. "If you're hungry eat," he suggested. The food he'd bought was still untouched on his plate. "A bonus."

  "You'll be careful?" Lahee was anxious despite the hunger which drove him to the food. "Those things are my living."

  "I'll be careful."

  Dumarest gently turned the pages. Only one book held anything of real interest, but he scanned it as casually as he had the rest. A list of names, subjects and the colleges at which they had been associated dating from some fifteen years earlier to four years from the present. Most of those listed would still be teaching, some could be dead, one in particular certainly was.

  Dumarest looked at the name, the college at which the man had taught, one of the answers he had come to find.

  Clyne was old, matched only by Higham, beaten only by Schreir. An equal partner in the Tripart which formed the acme of scholastic renown on Ascelius. The original building had long since been overlaid by massive extensions; the rooms, dormitories, laboratories and halls spreading and rearing to form towering pinnacles surmounted by the proudly arrogant flags of emerald blazoned with a scarlet flame. A throbbing hive of industry with teeming students studying as they slept and as they ate on a rigid, three shifts a day schedule. A machine designed to instill knowledge and to set the stamp of achievement with acknowledged degrees.

  At times Myra Favre thought of it as a thing alive; the data-stuffed computers the brain, the atomic power plant the heart, the students and faculty the corpuscles flowing through the arteries of corridors, the pulsing nodes of chambers. An analogy born from her early study of medicine before she had realized her lack of suitability for the field, just as she had later learned that physics was not for her, nor geology, nor astronomy. She had wasted years before she had found her niche in administration and friends and good fortune had established her in her present position.

  "Myra?" Heim Altaian smiled from the screen of her communicator. "Just an informal word. Convenient?"

  A shake of the head and he would break the connection to wait for her return call. Returning his smile she said, "Go ahead."

  "Just thought we could discuss a few things. How are you on available space?"

  "Short as always. Why do you ask?"

  "I've an idea which could expand your potential. Registrations are low on some of our non-industrial subjects and I thought we could arrange a mutually beneficial exchange. Higher number takes over the smaller. Agreed?"

  "In principle, yes." She maintained her smile. "You know I'm always willing to cooperate, Heim. Why don't you send over a list of classes and numbers and I'll run a comparison check before making a final decision. Of course you won't send me any deadbeats and debtors, will you?"

  "Only honest to God paid-up students, Myra. You know you can trust me."

  As she could trust a predator, she thought as the screen went dead, her smile dying with the image. Altaian would unload all the rubbish he could, and she would do the same to him if given the chance-classes which had proved to be failures, instructors not worth their salt, students who hovered on the edge of debt. Always it was the same after a new intake and always there were problems which had to be solved one way or another. A part of her job was to solve them. Another was to insure the financial profitability of the university. Fail on either and Clyne would have a vacancy for someone to fill her place.

  "Madam Favre?" Her secretary appeared, a young, well-made girl with a thick tress of golden hair draped over one shoulder. "You asked for a report on the latest enrollments."

  "Bring it in."

  The resume was as she had expected-high enrollments in the usual courses, less on the non-industrial, a few hopeless subjects which must be pruned or compromises made. Pursing her lips she studied the details. Professor Koko would have to face reality or subsidize his classes from his own pocket, and knowing the man, she could guess at the reaction her ultimatum would bring. Another argument she could do without and there would be more if she agreed to Altman's suggestion and switched students from Clyne to Schrier. Yet the books had to be balanced and no dead weight could be tolerated.

  Had she failed?

  The fear was always present and each time after a new intake came the moment of truth. If student enrollment was low in certain subjects then she was wrong to have agreed they should be included in the curriculum. If tutors proved unpopular, the same. Too many mistakes and she would have demonstrated her failure to make valid judgments. One too many and her career would be in ruins.
And she was too old to start again.

  Unconsciously her hands rose to her face, fingers searching for the telltale signs of flaccidity she knew must soon become obvious. As yet she looked as she had ten years ago but the years were passing and each worked its measure of destruction. In another ten years visitors would cease to regard her as a woman almost too young to hold her responsible position. In another twenty they might regard her as too old.

  "Madam?" The secretary again and Myra almost snapped her irritation before she remembered to smile. The girl meant well and it wasn't her fault that she owned such an attractive face and figure. Not her fault that she was young. "Doctor Boyce asks you to call."

  "Make the connection." Myra waited, fuming at the ridiculous protocol which demanded that she, the inferior, contact the Dean, the superior, even though his secretary had made the initial contact. Why the hell couldn't he have just rung direct? She arranged her face as he looked from the screen, her smile a blend of pleasure and deference. "Dean! This is a pleasure!"

  His smile was as mechanical as her own. "One shared, Myra. We don't talk often enough but you know how it is. At times I wish we could find some method of extending the day. To be brief I've been checking the enrollments and I'm not too happy. You have the matter in hand, of course?"

  "Of course, Dean." Inwardly she wondered who had been carrying tales. The secretary? It was possible-that baby smile could mask a scheming brain. "It is merely a matter of simple adjustment. In a few days, I assure you, the stockholders will have no possible grounds for complaint."

  She saw by his expression she had hit the target, but he was quick to refute such mundane considerations. "My concern is for the academic side, Myra. The standards of Clyne must be maintained. We want no stupid nonsense such as other establishments indulge in simply to attract large enrollments. Reuben, for example, with their one-semester guaranteed-degree course in anatomical manipulation. Or Professor Pell who-" He broke off, remembering, fearful of saying too much. Higham was of the Tripart and Pell taught in Higham. "I won't go into detail, my dear, but you can appreciate my concern. I just thought I'd let you know the atmosphere, so to speak."