Earth is Heaven

Chapter Three

From her window Eunice could see the distant haze rising from the Purple Sea, the mountains to the west, the dull pattern of fields to the east. These things held little interest against the crescent-sweep of the town, which rested in the curve of jagged hills; the down-sloping mass threaded with a maze of narrow streets, the whole touched with shifting, vibrant color.

It was a good view and Eunice was proud to command it; many high in the hierarchy of Krantz had to be content with less. Proof of the importance of the Family to which she belonged-the Yeketania took care of their own. And Vruya was kind.

Thought of him turned her from the window to face the room. It was one she had made her own; high-roofed, circular, decorated with abstract symbols learned from ancient tomes. Seated on a long bench a row of bright-eyed dolls regarded her with unwinking attention. Facing the window a mirror held the subtle distortion of a limpid pool. A plume of scented smoke rose from a container of hammered brass. A clock measured the hours. A bowl held a fluid as black as liquid jet. An ornate box held bones marked in an elaborate pattern.

These things reflected her personality as did the drapes, the chair and table, the thick books adorned with scarlet ribbons.

One lay open on a desk, the pages held by a skull set with ruby eyes.

Ignoring it she turned to the dolls. Vruya held the place of honor, small, wizened in his ceremonial robe, the thin, peaked face holding the whimsical expression she knew so well-she had seen it often as a child.

Impulsively she picked up the doll and kissed it, breathing into the mouth, transferring some of her strength and vitality into the replica and so into the man it represented.

"Live, Vruya," she said, replacing the doll. "Live and grow strong."

Her movement disturbed the next in line; Mada with her sour face and bitter mouth. A bitch, but she had influence and so was capable of harm. She had little patience with those of the Family who had yet to prove their worth.

A situation soon to be changed; once married and a mother Eunice would be entitled to preference. Even Sybil who despised Urich would have to defer to her then; a dozen years of barren waste would provide no bastion for the woman once she had laid her child at Vruya's feet.

The phone rang as she straightened from the dolls. It was Helga with her usual spite.

"Eunice, my dear!" In the screen the woman's face creased and puffed beneath its paint, betrayed a sadistic pleasure. "I simply had to call and let you know about Myrna. Such fantastic news!"

"She's pregnant?"

"You knew!" A cloud passed over the painted face as she said, "No, you couldn't have done. The test only proved positive an hour ago and I was the first she told. Of course we must have a celebration. I thought tomorrow evening would be nice. Just a small gathering and we'd best restrict it to the Family. No friends or outsiders. I'm sure you understand."

Urich wasn't to be invited-she understood well enough.

"Eunice?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think I can make it." She added, with venom, "I'm pretty busy just now. Or have you forgotten I'm to be married soon."

"My dear!" The raddled face was clownish in its pretense. "How can you forgive me? But the news-Myrna is so close. Just like my very own daughter. And you, to be married, well, well. To a fine man, I'm sure. How could it have slipped my mind? Sybil mentioned it the last time we met. Urich, isn't it? A pity he's an Outsider but-" Her shrug was pure insult. "We have to take what we can get at times. And they do say age isn't everything. A mature man can have unexpected compensations. Tomorrow evening, then?" Helga's smile held acid. "I'm sure you'd like to congratulate Myrna on her achievement."

The screen blanked and Eunice looked at her own reflected image. It was startlingly young, the face round, smooth, bearing a childish immaturity matched by her eyes, the soft line of her jaw. Blond hair added to the doll-like impression and only the curves beneath her gown betrayed her ripe femininity.

With sudden anger she slapped the screen wishing it was Helga's face.

Should she call Urich?

In a moment she was punching his number. If nothing else he would provide comforting reassurance as to his love and their future security. Impatiently she waited for his face to appear on the screen. Instead she looked at a stranger.

"Madam?" He was of the Ypsheim, his brand livid between his eyes, and dutifully polite. "How may I serve you?"

"I want Urich Sheiner. Isn't that his office?"

"It is, madam."

"Then where is he?"

"Absent." He added, "He is on duty in the plaza. At the Wheel."

On it a man was dying.

He was naked, wrists and ankles lashed to the rim, the wheel itself tilted so as to face the full glare of the sun. Dust coated the emaciated body and insects were busy at work on the wounds now caked with dried blood. The one who had wielded the whip had been an expert; the cuts, while extensive, were only superficial. Death would come from exposure and would not be soon.

"A hundred!" A leather-lunged man yelled the odds ten yards from where Urich was standing. "One gets you a hundred if you guess the moment of death to within five minutes. That's a ten-minute total bracket-how can you go wrong? A hundred to one! The best odds you'll get. You, sir? You?"

An accomplice in the crowd set the pace. "I'll take ten."

"To win a thousand. Time?"

"Sixteen hours fifty minutes." He added, "Tomorrow."

"A shrewd judge of form, sir. The thin ones have stamina." The bookie made out a slip and exchanged it for cash. "Now you, sir? Madam? Step up and make your bets!"

A vulture, but he wasn't alone. Others offered less odds for a wider bracket and they would shorten as time passed. Urich paced ten steps before the Wheel, turned, walked back to his previous position. The sun was warm on his back and shoulders, heating the helmet he wore and causing him to sweat. He touched neither the helmet nor the perspiration; as officer in charge of the detail he had to set an example. Even so it was hard to remain dispassionate.

"You there!" He snapped at the bookie. "Move away!"

"What? I-"

"Guards! Clear the area! No one within twenty yards. Move!"

Above him the dying man groaned.

It was a sound he didn't want to hear. Did his best not to hear, but it was impossible to avoid. For a moment he was tempted to use the laser holstered at his waist then sense returned and his hand fell from the weapon.

To kill would be an act of mercy-but the shot which ended the other's suffering would blast his own life to ruin.

"Captain?" A guard looked up at the groaning man. "He wants water."

Another mercy he dared not give, as the man should have known. Then he saw the young face and haunted eyes. This was a man new to the detail and yet to learn. But to him, at least, he could be kind.

"Take a break, soldier. Get a drink and duck your head. Fifteen minutes. Go!"

"Sir!"

He returned the salute and turned to see one of the other guards, an older man, stare at him with sympathetic understanding.

"Something wrong, Benson?"

"No, sir."

"You can take a break in turn when Carrol gets back."

"Thank you, sir. It will be appreciated." The guard looked at the crowd, the groaning figure. "I guess he'll be gone by dark. Midnight, I'd say." He inhaled, sweat gleaming on his face. "I won't be sorry to get back to normal duty."

He would be guarding the ships and patrolling the fence to make sure none robbed the Families of their dues. The Harradin and Marechal, the Duuden and the Yekatania-all had a vested interest in landing fees and taxes, cargo-tithes and repair costs. As they had in the auctions and markets, the open dealing, the free license which provided the main revenue of Krantz.

In which, soon now, he would share.

He paced on, turned, paced back hoping the sound of his boots would drown out the groans. A forlorn hope-only the excited shouts of the backers did that. A flurry of bets based on experience and greed. It took an effort not to let them annoy him. A greater effort to remember that, as a potential member of the Yeketania, he would be partially responsible for similar scenes to come.

"Sir?" It was one of the Ypsheim. A woman with a canteen in her hand. "Please, sir, could I give him some water? Just a little, sir. Please."

"It is forbidden."

"Just a drop, sir." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "One drink, sir, and in an hour he will be dead. I swear it."

Beneath the grime her face held beauty and her hair, rich and full, belied the dust greying the strands. The man's daughter? His wife?

"Captain." Her hand reached out to touch his arm. "One drink, sir, and he'll be at peace. Be merciful and I'll give you anything you want. Do anything you want." Then, as he shook his head, "For God's sake-what kind of a man are you?"

"Move!" Benson was between them, his baton held in both hands, pushing against the woman, sending her back into the crowd. "Get away from here! All of you-back! Back, I say!"

The incident was common enough and over as soon as started, but it left a taste which lingered. One which soured his mouth as Urich paced before the Wheel. A woman pleading to give the surcease of death. Killing from motives of love. She would have given him anything he'd asked for if he'd agreed.

Would Eunice have done that for him?

He imagined her standing as the woman had stood, young, her beauty masked by dust and grime, pleading with a man she must have hated. Pleading yet promising and willing to keep her promise. His daughter, they would have thought. As he had thought-but was it so strange for a man to marry a younger woman?

One young enough to be his child?

At the rear of the crowd the woman with the canteen said, "You were wrong, Leo. He isn't what you thought."

"Because he refused you?"

"I read his eyes. They were hard, cold. He is of the Quelen."

"Not yet, Ava. He has yet to be married. What you read in his eyes was fear."

"I looked for understanding."

"He has it-later he may show it."

"And Gupen?" Her eyes strayed upward to the Wheel, the man lashed to it. "What about him?"

"A hundred to one!" yelled the bookie. "Place your bets! A chance to make a fortune! You, sir? Fifteen and the time?" Money and paper changed hands. "Thirteen ten tomorrow. A wise choice. And you, sir? And you? And you?"

On the Wheel the man twitched and groaned as insects gnawed into his flesh.

He was a mote drifting through an infinity of darkness touched with transient gleams. Sparkles which vanished as soon as observed; shimmers which spread as if to illuminate the universe and then yielded again to darkness. An analogy Avro could understand, as it was a model he could appreciate for its bare simplicity. The darkness was ignorance and the gleams the flowering of reasoning intelligence. A birth repeated again and again and each time, as yet, flaring only to die. Sense and logic destroyed time and again by the forces of brute ignorance, but one day the cold glow of reason would eliminate all shadows and would illuminate the entire universe with its radiant splendor.

This was the ideal to which he had dedicated his life.

Avro moved, feeling nothing, not knowing if he had moved at all. The mental command had been given and his body should have obeyed, but here, in the tank, he was divorced from all external sensation. Locked in an electronic web, drifting in a controlled temperature, blind, deaf, unaware of direction, he lacked any point of reference by which to gain orientation.

An experiment-one which had killed.

Not the sensory deprivation itself-all cybers were accustomed to that-but the fields which now lay open for him to investigate. The path Elge had beaten and which had turned him into an idiot, but Avro had followed it and was still following.

What had driven Elge mad?

Not the expanding consciousness of the mind, for that was common to all cybers when achieving rapport with the massed brains of Central Intelligence. To use the Samatchazi formulae to activate the grafted Homochon elements in his brain. To become as one with the massed brains, to merge and be encompassed in that tremendous gestalt which spanned the known galaxy. To yield information which, instantly assimilated, could be evaluated and passed on to other cybers. To receive data and instruction in turn and then, when rapport was broken, to drift in a mind-dazzling intoxication.

The recordings?

They had been taken from aberrated units forming a node. The minds composing it had built systems of logic based on a variety of premises and their models were flawless examples of the power of detached reasoning. But they were products of insanity; the premises chosen had borne no relation to the actual universe and so the models served no useful function. Yet each held a certain beauty. An individual fascination. Mazes in which the mind could wander to be enticed by tantalizing concepts. To become lost and disoriented and…

Had Elge really gone insane?

The possibility was a blaze of light paling the transient gleams. The body was nothing; merely a receptacle for the brain which in turn existed to accommodate the mind. If the brain could exist without the body, and that had been proved, could the mind exist without the brain?

And if the ego, the individual awareness, should leave the brain-what would be left?

Had Elge been eliminated too soon?

If so it had been an error and so was to be deplored but Avro had no regrets. His mind recalled the picture of what he had seen; a vegetablelike mass, gibbering, the eyes vacuous, empty of the least shred of awareness. And he had been treated, with drugs and electronic probes and all the skills the Cyclan possessed. Treated and found wanting and disposed of like so much garbage.

An empty container thrown into the reclamation unit, but what had happened to the contents?

The vista in Avro's mind changed, turning from the dark emptiness illuminated by transient flickers to something vast and subtle in shape and form. A tremendous structure which held the attributes of a cathedral and yet was to that as a cathedral was to a mud hut. A riot of swirling color, mist which formed walls and columns and spires, vaulted arches and towering peaks and endless promenades. A building fashioned by the power of mind and filled with a multitude of presences.

Its shapes came close and teetered and moved away to be replaced by others as, in the air, invisible hands wrote involved equations which dissolved to form basic symbols.

Universes were built on the premise that gravitation was a negative force. That matter was emptiness and space a solid. That reason fashioned shape and shape determined function. That time was reversed.

A universe in which all were the parts of a single machine.

One in which…

Avro jerked, stung by a sudden jolt of electronic force. Stimulus to wake his body to normal function.

The vista in his mind dissolved. The forms and colors and soaring fabrications. An enticing dream which shredded to leave nothing by greyness, the growing impact of the tank, the ship in which it rested, the pulse of the engines which hurled it between the stars.

The town was slashed by a wide boulevard running from the plaza to the field. One edged with a maze of narrow streets holding a variety of establishments. In one of them a thing danced to the sonorous beat of a drum.

"A yevna," said Vosper. "They are plentiful on a certain world in the Chandorah. A man could get rich dealing in them."

Dumarest said nothing, ignoring the man sharing his table, concentrating instead on the creature weaving on the floor of the tavern. It was almost as tall as himself, stick-thin, articulated limbs wreathed in diaphanous membranes which caught and enhanced the light in shimmering rainbows.

"You feed them sugar," said Vosper. "Sweetness such as honey and syrup. For that they will sell their own kind. But there is no need to buy. Land, set the bait; use the nets when they come-and you have a fortune ready to be loaded into your hold." He added, casually, "Of course they don't live long."

"An advantage," said Dumarest dryly. "Quick turnover and repeat orders."

"You are quick to grasp the essentials." Vosper reached for a bottle. "More wine?"

It was thick, purple, cloying in its sweetness. Dumarest sipped as he watched the yevna finish its dance. A girl replaced it, strumming a harp, her voice as sweet as the wine.

"She could be yours, Earl." Vosper was blunt. "There are few things on Krantz that couldn't be yours. A man with a ship and the universe to rove in-need I say more?" He leaned back, toying with his goblet, a short man, round, no longer young. His clothing was good but showing signs of wear and the rings on his hands were gilded pretensions. As was the chain around his neck, the jewel in the lobe of his left ear. An entrepreneur advertising the wealth he did not possess, but scenting an opportunity. "Of course," he mused. "The ship should be able to leave."

"Meaning?"

"No harm, my friend. No harm." The flash of white teeth illuminated his smile. "But you have been on Krantz two days now. Your ship needs repair and your crew-" He broke off, shrugging. "We are men of the world, you and I. Between us there need be no pretense. A ship, a depleted crew, no cargo aside from some basic foodstuffs and not much even of that-Earl, it is obvious."

Dumarest sipped at his wine.

"A raid," said Vosper. "But it went wrong. Well, such things happen. A remote village, eh? A quick landing, gas, men to pick up the victims and stuff them into the hold. Food to maintain life while they transported to another world. One with a need for contract-labor. Cash down and no questions asked." The neck of the bottle made a small clicking sound against his glass as he poured more wine. "A simple, routine matter. One done often enough but which can still go wrong. The gas not working, say, men waiting on guard, masked, armed. Your crew shot down and the ship leaving those not dead as it runs to safety." Vosper lifted his glass. "To the Chandorah," he said. "To Krantz."

Where slavers landed to auction their loads. The Erce had been just such a vessel once, working as Vosper had said, it was natural for him to have jumped to a wrong conclusion.

"You're not drinking," said Vosper. "The wine too sweet? Girl!" He gestured at a waitress. "A new bottle. Something light and dry." He watched the movement of her hips as she moved from the table, and the sway of her breasts as she returned. "Thank you, my dear. Here." He dropped coins on the table. "Did you know the man on the Wheel?"

"No." She scooped up the coins. Her face was a mask, the cruciform cicatrice on her forehead between her eyes matching the one carried by the harpist. "Is that all?"

"For now, yes." Vosper shook his head as she left. "Stubborn," he said. "Proud and, some would say, arrogant. A liar too, most of the Ypsheim are related, in any case she would know the victim. Or know of him." Pausing, he said, "Did you bet?"

"No."

"I won fifty. Short odds but it's a waste of money to go for a tight bracket. Stupid to go for a long forecast. The bookies aren't in business for fun. Watch the betting and ride with the house; that way you can pick up a little now and then." Vosper tasted the new wine, pursed his lips, filled a glass for Dumarest. "Did you see him?"

"No. What had he done?"

"Tried to ship out without permission. The guard caught him climbing the fence. He must have hoped to get on a ship somehow. Stowaway."

To be evicted into the void when caught. Dumarest remembered the perimeter fence, close-meshed, high, cruelly barbed. There were ways to get on a field other than through the gate, but climbing such a fence wasn't one of them.

"He was executed for that?"

"There's a law against it. Gupen knew it and knew what would happen to him if he was caught." Vosper shrugged. "A gambler-who lost. I hope, my friend, you play a better game."

Dumarest said bluntly, "I don't play at all. Not at those odds."

"Gupen was a fool. There are easier ways to commit suicide. But you are a man of sense. For you the odds must be favorable and the reward worth the risk. A high profit and a quick return. Right, my friend?"

This was creed of any free-trader and Dumarest sensed the man was edging close to his real business. One not to be hurried and yet one which could not be held in suspension too long. A clever man with experience in negotiating deals; milking the opportunity for all it was worth.

His face went blank as Dumarest said, "Thanks for the wine."

"You're leaving?"

"On business, yes."

"We shall meet again?"

"Maybe." Dumarest rose, turning to add, "When you've something solid to offer."

As he headed for the door the venya began to dance, again this time wailing in faint distress.