World of Promise dot-23 Page 7

  Talk, damn you! Die if you must, burst your heart, your brain, but talk before you go. Talk and tell me what Rudi had learned!

  "Earl!" Ragin was standing before him, face close, eyes anxious. "Steady, man! Steady!"

  "I'm all right."

  "You sure? You looked like murder."

  "It's nothing." Dumarest felt the perspiration on his face, the quiver of muscles, the raw tension in his stomach. He breathed deeply, inflating his lungs, fighting to be calm. "It's all right," he said. "I just want him to remember."

  "He's an old man," said Ragin. "For him it isn't easy."

  "You then? Can't you remember? You must have sat in on the discussions."

  "Some, yes, but not all. I was almost a passenger and went along with the others." Ragin frowned, thinking, throwing his mind back into the past. "It began as a game, one of those what-would-happen-if things. What would happen if some of the old legends were true? Earth was mentioned, I forget why, and we took it from there."

  "And?"

  "That's about all?" Ragin met Dumarest's eyes. "All I remember," he added quickly. "It all happened years ago and things happened to blur the memory."

  The desire to eliminate a mistake, of not wanting to appear a fool even to the inward self. A defense used by sensitive minds to maintain their delusions of superiority. Forget it and it ceased to exist. Think of it if you must but only as an amusing episode or a time of good fellowship, the meetings themselves the main reason for the existence of the group.

  Ragin's reaction-Cucciolla?

  "He had a book," he said. "Rudi had a book and it gave some hints and clues. Mostly rubbish, of course, but we applied the science of logical determination to the given statements and came up with some interesting speculations. As Carl said, it began as a game and progressed from there. Without Rudi to fire our imaginations it would have died within a week."

  "The book?" A gesture told Dumarest it was useless to search. Rudi had taken it or it had been lost or destroyed. "The hints, then? The clues you mentioned?"

  "I remember the first," said Ragin, glad to be of help. "Something connected to a religion of some kind. The creed of a cult which worked to remain secret. The Folk?" He frowned. "No, the People. The Original People. An item about a single home world. Ridiculous, of course, a moment's logical thought proves the inconsistency. How could so many divergent types have evolved on a single planet? How could there have been room to hold them all?" Those questions, for him, needed no answer. "But I think there was something else. A name. What was it now?"

  "Erce," said Cucciolla. "It was Erce."

  Erce-the name meant nothing. Dumarest looked from one to the other, at the books, the recordings. Had nothing been saved from those meetings?

  "There was no need," said Cucciolla when he asked. "We met and talked and thrashed things out but nothing was important enough to keep. As Carl said we were swayed by Rudi and went along with him. A desperate move on the part of some, admitted, but what had they to lose? And we trusted him."

  That was a mistake, but Dumarest didn't mention it. There was no need to destroy their happiness with the past. Rudi had succumbed to greed but he hadn't been the first and wouldn't be the last.

  "Erce," he said. "Are you certain about that?" He watched them look at each other, nod. "Was there anything else? Think," he urged. "At one point in your discussion the need for Rudi to travel must have been mentioned. You simply wouldn't have given him money for no apparent reason. He wanted to book passage, right? To where? He returned, correct? From where? You'd backed him and he must have made a report. Those places would have been named, surely?"

  These would be clues to work on failing all else, and Dumarest kept at it long past the time when good manners dictated he should leave. It was past dawn when he finally emerged from the building into the street and he stood with the cold wind stirring his hair as it stirred the flags high above. Early as it was the streets were busy-the three-shift system of the universities had destroyed the divisions of day and night in the city.

  In a cafe he drank strong coffee while thinking, half-listening to the gossip which wafted around and over him like windblown leaves.

  "Another suicide in Bolloten's class." A girl relayed the news while chewing at a bun. "That's the fourth this semester. One more and I hear they'll terminate his contract."

  "Someone should cut his throat." A man scowled over a bowl of gruel. "He pushes too hard."

  "But teaches fast. Three years' work done in two. If you can't take the heat you shouldn't stand near the furnace."

  "Hear about Pell's tussle with the bursary?" A man spoke over a mouthful of bread. "They were going to dump him when he came up with that paper on sensitives."

  "Convenient."

  "It saved his skin. Any guesses where he got it?" A scatter of laughter greeted the question. "All right, but only a fool would sign up with him for easy credits. In a half-semester they'll be valueless."

  "I can't see that," protested a woman. "What if he did get it from Okos? What difference does it make?"

  "None, my innocent, but what the Cyclan lift up they can also let down. What good is Pell to them? Take my advice and stay away from his classes."

  A man said wistfully, "Anyone care to stake me to a dorm bed for the winter? Treble back when I graduate or I'll be your willing slave in the spring. No takers? Well, no harm in trying."

  So spoke the voice of poverty, and it would be worse outside where students huddled together in the chill of the night dreading the bleak time which would leave many of them frozen in the gutters.

  Dumarest rose and left the cafe, making his way to the field where he stood in a secluded spot watching the ships, the men gathered at the perimeter, loungers with no apparent purpose and no obvious means of making a living. There would be touts among them and students and those with time to kill. Others could be there for a different reason and he tensed to a mounting sense of danger.

  A cyber on Ascelius-why?

  The Cyclan could have little interest in such a world; their concern with graduates would come only after they had gained positions of authority. The universities themselves would resent the services the Cyclan had to offer, priding themselves on their own intellectual ability. Even the Tripart had little influence beyond its immediate sphere and the Cyclan were noted enemies of wasted effort.

  A coincidence, perhaps, but Dumarest knew it could be fatal to assume that. It was time for him to leave and yet he had gained nothing but a few names, times, places none of which held seeming importance. This was scant information on which to base a search but it was all he had and all he was likely to get from those involved. There had to be another way.

  Chapter Five

  "Earl!" Sheen Agnostino smiled as she came toward him. "It's good to see you again."

  "You will help me?"

  "Of course, but I'm not too sure of what you want. You were a little vague when you called. The computers, you said? You want to use the computers?"

  "I want you to use them for me. Is it possible?" As she hesitated he added, "It's a matter of urgency or I wouldn't ask. That's why I don't want to use the normal channels- there would be delay and I'd have to hire an expert and, well, you know the system." One feeding on another and charging as much as the traffic would bear. Cost he could meet but time he could not afford to waste. "I'll pay, naturally, just let me know the fee."

  "Earl, surely you don't think I'm that mercenary?"

  "I will pay." He was firm. He'd learned her financial condition as they had traveled together and was glad of it; now he had a lever to gain her cooperation. "Don't refuse, Sheen, on this world you can't afford to be generous." He delved into a pocket. "Will this be enough?"

  She looked at the coins, thick octagonals each set with a precious gem, each enough to support her in comfort for a month. A dozen of them lying in the hollow of his hand. "Earl, I can't-"

  "There will be a fee for use of the terminals, right?" He knew better than to bruise
her pride. "Please, Sheen, I need your help."

  His appeal held more weight than the money he offered and he relaxed as, slowly, she took the coins. Money to ease her tension, to provide sustenance, to gain her a coveted position. To provide security and, for him, her aid now and her silence later if she should be questioned.

  "We'd best go to the central node." The decision made, she was all efficient action. "I'll get you a technician's smock and you'd best carry a clipboard. Just look thoughtful and act deaf if anyone should talk to you. If you can't avoid a reply say that you're checking on the monitor system." A suspicion verified. He said, "So records are kept?"

  "Of course-how else to know the information flow and dispensation of charges." She added further explanation as, after seeing him muffled in a smock, she led him into the underground depths of the computer system. "At first each university had its own computer and data banks but it was decided that it would be more efficient to combine all resources. After all there is nothing really secret about knowledge and a data bank is basically only a library, so all gained by the pooling of facilities. Arrangements had to be made for the dispersement of income but that was a relatively minor problem. The main trouble came in arranging a feedback of resolved data into the general banks."

  She talked on, explaining, acting as one colleague to another, her voice low enough to avoid being overheard by those who passed by-technicians, Dumarest noted, wearing smocks similar to his own. Mature men and women with a scatter of younger types who, like Sheen, were taking a postgraduate course. At a corner a grizzled oldster wearing the crossed flashes of electronics snapped, "Your business?"

  Dumarest gave it, waited as Sheen spoke in turn, moved on as the man waved permission.

  "A check," she explained. "Sometimes students try to sneak into the central node and gain the answers to various test papers. It means nothing."

  Dumarest wished he could share her confidence. If the man were efficient he would check, and if he did a record would be made. If nothing else, he could be evicted with his business undone.

  "Here." Sheen paused at a door. "We'll use this terminal."

  It was a screen above a keyboard set before a chair in a room painted a drab gray. The light did nothing to soften the bleakness. Dumarest looked at each corner, checked the rim surrounding the screen, finally leaned his back against a side wall with the door to his right. Sheen Agnostino frowned as he told her what he wanted.

  "To track a man, Earl? His absences, journeys, returns? Is that all?" Her white teeth gnawed at her lower lip as she listened. "I see. Well, let's start with the name. Boulaye? Rudi Boulaye?" Words danced in whiteness over the screen to steady into marching columns. "Excellent qualifications," she murmured. "High reputation as far as academic achievement was concerned. All history, of course, he is no longer connected with the faculty of any university."

  "But the records remain?"

  "Unless erased, yes." Her fingers moved as Dumarest spoke. "Ten years, you say? Ten?"

  "From twelve to ten." This was a guess but the time bracket should be wide enough. "He went on a journey and returned to take up his duties again until he left after his marriage about eight years ago." Unnecessary details, the entire known life-span of the man should be stored in the data banks. Dumarest scanned the words appearing on the screen, heard the woman's comment.

  "Nothing unusual there, Earl."

  Nothing-but there had to be more. Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he checked the columns; lists of classes, periods of study, absences, illnesses; the trivia of normal existence. An inexperienced operator would have wasted time checking them all but Sheen knew what she was about.

  "A journey," she said. "He could have booked through an agency." The words flickered and changed on the screen. "Thirteen years too far back?"

  "Check it out."

  A long time but not impossible, yet if the man had found what he had been looking for how had he managed to restrain his impatience for so long? Another question to be added to the rest-another answer impossible to find.

  "He took a ship to Karig just over twelve years ago." Sheen glanced at Dumarest from her position before the screen. "The only journey he took before leaving for Elysius about-"

  "I know about that. How long was he away?" Dumarest frowned at the answer. "Ten months? Are you sure?"

  "That's what the data says." Sheen touched more keys as she made a cross-check. "From time of obtaining leave of absence to time of resuming his academic duties a total of ten months eleven days." She anticipated the next question. "It would have taken six months normal to reach Karig."

  Which meant Boulaye had never reached the world he had booked as his destination. Again Sheen, anticipating, provided the needed data.

  "The vessel was the Mantua, a free trader operating on the fringe of the Iturerk Sink. It would have called at Alba and Cilen before reaching Karig."

  If it had followed its posted schedule, but free traders followed profit not routine. It could have missed either or both the named worlds if Boulaye had paid high enough to gain a private charter. Or had the man left the ship at the first port of call? If he had then where would he have gone?

  Ten months-in a sector of space in which suns were close and worlds numerous the choice was large.

  "Earl?" Sheen Agnostino was waiting at the screen. "Is there more?"

  "Check Varten and Hutz." Names gained from Tomlin and Cucciolla as planets visited while on the quest. Lies to add to the rest; neither could have been reached in the available time. Yet Boulaye had found something-where? "Check the transit time to Alba," said Dumarest. "Double it and deduct it from the total. Halve the remainder and check on what worlds could be reached in the available time."

  An elementary exercise but even as he gave the instructions Dumarest realized its futility. There were too many imponderables: had ships been available? Had Boulaye retraced his path exactly? Had he even left on the Mantua at all? A passage booked was not necessarily a passage taken as he well knew. A man, suspicious, hugging a rare and precious secret, could well have taken a few elementary precautions to avoid potential followers.

  "Two worlds, Earl." Sheen turned to face him as she made her report. "Tampiase and Kuldip."

  "Kuldip?"

  "The closest." Her face glowed with reflected light as she turned again toward the screen. "You know it?"

  "I've heard of it." He remembered Charisse, the Chetame Laboratories-could there be a connection? A moment's thought and he dismissed the idea-what would a geologist have in common with a genetic engineer? But what connection could Boulaye have had with any of the named worlds? What clue had guided his search? Where could he have obtained it? Dumarest said, "Can you run a wide-spectrum search pattern, Sheen? I want anything which could tie Boulaye in with Earth."

  "Earth?" She turned toward him, her profile etched with light, but she did not smile. "Earth," she said again and busied herself at the keyboard. Words flickered to form a column. "Earth," she read. "Ground. The home of a small animal. An electrical connection. Soil. A mythical planet. The opposite of sky. Crude as in 'earthy.' To-"

  "The world," interrupted Dumarest. "Check Boulaye with that."

  A moment then, "That's odd." Her voice carried surprise. "There seems to have been a deletion. I'll try rerouting." Her hands moved with skilled practice as she explained what she was doing. "There is more than one way to ask a question, Earl, and a good computer operator knows how best to get the desired information. If you can't pass it then go around if or over it or attack it from the rear-ah!" She fell silent, looking at the screen. At the single word it contained.

  "Erased," said Dumarest. "Everything?"

  "Not the data."

  "Then-"

  "No," she said. "It can't be done. Think of a room," she urged. "One filled with a billion books. Books which hold the answer to every question you care to ask. If you wanted to build something, a raft, for example, they could tell you how. But you'd have to dig. One book might teach y
ou how to temper steel, another how to cut a thread, a third how to weld. More would teach you how to mine for minerals, smelt metals, process the raw supplies. Then you'd need to discover the correct alloy for the antigrav units and how to make the generator and all the rest of it."

  A lifetime of work and that was knowing what you wanted to begin with. But, once done, others could follow.

  "Boulaye?"

  "He erased the program," she said. "Whatever he was looking for he didn't want others to find." Pausing, she added, "I'm sorry, Earl. It's a dead end."

  "No!" He had worked too hard, risked too much, come too far to give up so easily. More quietly he said, "Check it out, Sheen. Try everything you know. Perhaps there could have been an accompanying program, dual references, something like that." He waited as her fingers manipulated the keys, spoke again before she could shake her head, "Erce. Try Erce."

  Nothing. She said, "It's not even listed, Earl. Is it a word? A name?"

  A dream or a lie, something culled from a rotting book or a device to gull others-Dumarest thought of Boulaye, of how the man had died. Would he have enjoyed such a jest? Who would have known if he had?

  The day had darkened with a bitter wind whining from the north, the air filled with stinging pellets of ice which settled to form a slick film on the streets and buildings. High above the flags streamed from their poles, ranked as sentinels against the sky, their gaudy hues paled against the leaden clouds. Soon it would be dark with manmade stars illuminating the heavens; patches of glow from serried windows, pools of lambence from lanterns, light which would mask but not remove the misery of those caught in the storm.

  "Please, mister, I'm in the third year. One more semester and I'm home dry." A hand opened at the end of a swaddled arm. "A veil, mister. Just a veil."

  A student at the edge of desperation or a beggar pretending to be just that; the voice was one Dumarest had heard on a thousand worlds, the whine as much a part of poverty as were sores and rags and skeletal faces. He walked on, turning into a narrow alley, leaving it to cross a wide avenue, skirted a bunch of students studying beneath a suspended lamp to watch others busy getting garlands on lines set high across the thoroughfare. The holiday gaiety was unmatched by the dour foreman who shouted instructions as he beat his hands against the cold.