Symbol of Terra

Chapter Four

He slept late, waking to find the window filled with glowing light, uneasy at his tardiness. As he stirred a pounding came from the door, sound which must have woken him, and Dumarest reared on the bed, calling out as his feet touched the floor.

"What is it?"

"Please, sir, a message from my master. He will receive you at zenith."

Baglioni's voice and Dumarest frowned. "When? At noon?"

"At zenith, sir. Food is waiting your pleasure downstairs."

Dumarest stood upright and felt a momentary nausea. The product of too great an effort maintained too long or the lingering traces of an insidious drug. It could easily have been administered in the food or wine served at the dinner but if so for what purpose? He glanced at the door to his room, firmly held by a chair rammed beneath the knob, if he had been drugged to sleep deeply then no one had been able to get to him. Unless the intent had been merely to keep him out of the way.

Standing beneath the shower he recalled the final events of the previous night. Toyanna, Shior whom he had met later, a man built like a whip, slim, graceful, one who could have been a high-wire artist. Vosper who had played with a deck of cards and betrayed a gambler's skill. Others, faces and voices, among them Govinda's, and then the midget guiding him to his room.

To the bed in which he had slept like a log.

Ice-cold water lashed his body to drive away the last of his somnolence. The clothing he had worn at dinner lay where he had thrown it. He ignored it, donning his own, checking the edge of his knife before thrusting it into his boot. Downstairs a servant led him to a small chamber furnished with a table and chairs.

Lopakhin sat in one if them, eating, grease shining on his lips. He waved a fork in greeting.

"Earl! Good to see I'm not the only laggard. Help yourself." The fork pointed as he spoke, halting at the dishes on the table, many of them steaming. "Broiled fish in that one. Eggs in that. Spiced meat over there. Fruit, bread, porridge- God know's who eats it, and this holds something like jam. In the other pots is coffee or tisane. Two kinds, mint and something else." He busied himself with his food. "Don't stand on ceremony, just dig in."

Dumarest chose a portion of fruit, some of the porridge, a piece of bread accompanied by a cup of mint tisane.

Sitting he said, "Is every night like last night?"

"No. That was a special occasion."

"To greet me?" Dumarest added, "I was expected, but how did anyone know I was coming?"

"A call, maybe." Lopakhin wiped his mouth and put down his fork. "Someone you asked direction from could have warned Chenault you were coming." He saw the shake of Dumarest's head. "No?"

"I'd heard of Chenault but didn't know just how to find him. It took time to find out."

"And you didn't want to ask direct. Why? Because you didn't want anyone to know your destination. And you walked the last, what? Hundred miles?" Lopakhin pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "I see what you're getting at."

"Things like that worry me," said Dumarest. "I'd like to know how it was done."

Lopakhin looked at his plate as if trying to read an answer in the smeared mess of his food. Then, with an abrupt gesture, he pushed it aside.

"You've met Hilary. We fight and argue at times but we're close. Two of a kind but on her it shows more than it does on me. Can you imagine what it must have been like for her? A child, tormented, made different from any other she knew, set up as a spectacle to be laughed at, goggled at, used, abused. Most in that position would have become little better than animals. Some would have gone mad. A few could have found escape in some other way. Closing in on themselves and finding something inside of them they didn't know they had. A trait. A talent. Something given as compensation, maybe."

"Like your artistry?"

"I didn't say that."

"I know. You were talking about Hilary." Dumarest pushed aside his barely touched food. "So she's a sensitive. Able to tell if strangers are approaching. Is that it?"

"Something like that."

"Is that why Chenault keeps her?" Dumarest rose as Lopakhin made no answer. "Never mind. It isn't important. But thank you for telling me."

"If you're one of us you should know. If not then it doesn't-" The artist broke off. "I'd rather you didn't mention who told you."

About the sensitive or the near-spoken threat? Dumarest thought about them both as he headed toward the great doors. They were locked but a postern yielded beneath his hand and he stepped into the clearing before the house. It was deserted, silent but for the musical tinkle of water, and he stepped across it to where the side of the valley reared high before him. A glance at the towering mountain still hiding the sun and he began to climb. Halfway up he halted to sit and look at the Valley of Light.

It was well named: at sunset it would be filled with golden hues, at night the burning darts of firebirds and the flare of other nocturnal creatures together with the sheen of plants releasing stored energy in pale effulgence. At dawn would be the ghosts of dying brilliance, the fading gleam of vanishing stars but now, with the sun sending streamers of brilliance to halo the mountain, it held a muted softness. A lambent glow in which details were blurred and perspective distorted.

A small world which Chenault had made his own. A house which was more like a castle. Guests and servants who acted as retainers. If they didn't accept him as one of their number would he be killed?

Lopakhin had hinted as much and it was a real warning. Had he been drugged to keep him somnolent while his fate had been decided? Did Chenault summon him as a friend or as an executioner?

"Earl!" He heard the voice and rose as Govinda called again. "Earl! Where are you!"

"Here!" He waved as he saw the scarlet flash of her hair. "I'm up here!"

"It's getting late." The pale blur of her face stared at him, framed by the mass of her hair, a face which, suddenly, became achingly familiar. "Earl?"

He stumbled as he ran toward her, his boot hitting a root, causing him to fall, to roll down the slope and come to rest hard against the gnarled bole of a stunted tree. One which showered him with droplets and eye-stinging pollen from the profusion of pendant tails adorning the branches. Rising, rubbing at his eyes, he saw her running toward him but now she looked as she had before. "We must hurry." She looked at the sun now burning at the peak of the mountain. "It's zenith and Chenault will be waiting."

He sat in a room flanked with shelves bearing old books, moldering files, logs, reports, journals, ancient manifests, recordings dusty and faded with time. An assembly interspersed with brighter, newer items; globes, star charts, almanacs, computer readouts all set in neat array. The room was windowless, light coming from glow-plates set in the roof, a soft illumination which dispelled all shadows.

"My hobby." Chenault's gesture embraced the room. "Or my obsession, some would say. It rather depends on your point of view. Tell me, Earl, what do you know of legends?"

"I know that others claim that in every legend lies a grain of truth."

"Others? What of yourself?"

"I wouldn't know." He saw Chenault smile and added, bluntly, "You know why I'm here and what I'm looking for but what I hope to find is no myth. Earth exists. I know it. I was born on that world. To me it is no legend."

"But to others it is nothing else."

Dumarest shrugged. "A point of view. Some would say you are mad for wasting your time with old papers and idle dreams. Because they say it does it make it true? A man I trusted told me you could and would help me. That is why I'm here. If he was wrong tell me and I'll leave."

"He wasn't wrong."

"Shakira," mused Dumarest. "The circus of Chen Wei. He owned it but he hadn't founded it. That was done long ago. By your father? Your grandfather?"

Chenault said, "How did you know?"

"Your name. The appearance of your hall. Those you keep around you. Once the circus gets into your blood you can't get rid of it. Chen Wei- Chenault, the coincidence is too strong. Do you ever regret letting it go?"

"At times, yes. Then it is like a pain. But I had no choice and Tayu's need was greater than my own. We reached agreement and I retired to follow my own pursuits. The money from the sale allowed me to do that, to help others and… and… well, all that is history. But, yes, I did know you were coming and what you hoped to gain." Chenault smiled, relaxing. "You're a hard man, Earl. I knew it the moment I saw you. A hard and determined man. Only a fool would take you for one. Now, let us talk about legends."

A subject which had become his life and he glowed as he spoke of mythical worlds, of strange regions reputedly discovered and later forgotten, of mystical plants and beasts, of isolated areas on lost and forgotten planets. Tales Dumarest had heard before but he sat patiently, listening, waiting, knowing the other must take his time.

"Eden, Paradise, Heaven, Avalon-all legendary worlds, Earl. All with one thing in common; places of ease and beauty where pain is unknown and no one ever falls sick or grows old or dies. Hope-worlds, Pearse calls them. Planets built of imaginative longing. Born in conditions of despair and hardship; tales whispered to children to console them for their bleak and hopeless lives. Live, be good, and when you die those worlds will be waiting. With time the essential qualification became forgotten and now men actually believe such worlds exist and are waiting to be rediscovered together with others, El Dorado, Jackpot, Bonanza — a dozen others including Earth."

"Which is no legend."

"Pearse says otherwise. Have you read him? And the study by Mikhailovik on the subject? The work of Dazym Negaso?" Chenault rose and moved to a shelf to return with a thick volume. "The third edition," he said, "Completely revised. Listen." He turned pages then, in a flat voice, read, "Earth, the name of a mythical planet held in veneration by the Original People, a backward sect found on various planets scattered throughout the galaxy. The sect is a secret one and neither seeks nor welcomes converts, fresh adherents being obtained from natural increase. The main tenet of their belief is that Mankind originated on a single world, the mythical planet Earth, and after cleansing by tribulation, Mankind will return to the supposed world of origin." Chenault closed the book. "Well?"

"There is more," said Dumarest. "He talks of the Original People and their esoteric rites. He also mentions the inconsistency of a variety of human types developing on one world beneath one sun."

"The main argument of those eager to discount the theory," said Chenault. "But all using it overlook the obvious. We have varied types of human now, yes, those with black skins and with brown, with yellow and white together with a range of hair colors and consistencies; curled, lank, oval, round, kinked-and even divergences in physical shape; long-armed, broad-shouldered, round-headed and peaked. But all can interbreed. All belong to the same species. To any ethnologist the answer is obvious." Chenault set down the book and leaned forward over the table at which he sat. "One race, Earl. One type-the changes took place after leaving the Mother Planet. After!"

Born of wild radiations found in space and on worlds close to violent suns. Genes altered to form new patterns. Mutations many of which must have died as unviable but some had survived to pass on their altered characteristics. Dumarest had seen them; catlike men, wolflike, women who had the markings of serpents, haired like goats, some with skin thickened in places into scales. And Chenault must have seen more; things of nightmare, creatures distorted beyond easy recognition, shaped in mockeries of birds, beasts, spiders, fish.

Freaks to stock sideshows.

"It fits, Earl," he said. "If Mankind originated on one world they couldn't be as they are now. The changes must have come after they had left. Perhaps they had to leave because of the changes." He paused. Then, in a voice which held the roll of drums, he intoned, "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

The creed of the Original People-was Chenault one of them? But if he was why had he revealed himself? Or was he throwing out bait to win support and, maybe, more information?

Dumarest said, "You are confusing legends. As I understand it Earth is supposed to be a world loaded with riches. Rivers of medicinal wine, trees heavy with fruit, hills studded with gems. Find it and you find the wealth of the galaxy."

"The things left behind," said Chenault. "The goods which had to be left, the installations, the buildings, the facilities, the treasure of knowledge, Earl. Of knowledge. Can you imagine what secrets they must have known? No, there is no conflict. Not when you study it with an open mind. Not when you delve a little beneath the surface. Did you know that Earth has another name?"

Dumarest nodded. "Terra."

"Exactly. Now it begins to make sense." Again Chenault intoned the creed. "From terror they fled… Not 'terror,' Earl, but Terra. Terra! They ran from Earth!"

It made sense but words, like figures, could be made to supply a variety of truths. Chenault had chosen his some time ago; despite the timbre of his voice, the deduction wasn't new, and Dumarest remembered the ritual of the blessing, the symbolic gesture and the words intoned, the response.

He said, "Tayu, Tama, Toetzer, Toyanna, Tyner-how many of you have names beginning with T?"

"Why?"

"It's a mistake unless you want to advertise yourselves. Coincidence can be stretched too far. And if you're using it as a means of identification there are better ways."

"Such as this?" Chenault made the gesture he had made at the table, hands forming a T. "How many would know what it means? Would you? But if I did this?" He drew a T on the table with a finger dipped in ink. At the upper junction he added a circle then, deliberately, quartered it with a cross.

"The symbol of Earth," said Dumarest. "Of Terra. But I'm not interested in legends. All I want is to get back home."

"We share the same ambition."

"You act like a secret society. Why? There is no need."

"No?" Chenault leaned across the table. "I don't agree. Think about it, Earl. How long have you searched for the coordinates of Earth? How often have you been frustrated? If the planet exists, and you know that it does, why can't it be found?"

A question Dumarest had pondered too often and still the answers remained the same. It wasn't listed in the almanac and, as all planets were listed, it couldn't exist. The logical answer which refused to recognize its absence of logic. Another, equally vapid: Earth was a legend and who could believe a legendary world was real? And how could an actual world have such a stupid name? Earth was dirt, soil, the stuff you grew crops in. Worlds had proper names or they weren't worlds at all.

Words to deny the obvious, but men believed in them and not his living, breathing assertion of the truth. To state it was to invite mockery, contempt, arrant disbelief. A weaker man would have been made the butt of cruel jests, one less controlled would have wasted strength in angry combat.

"A lost world," mused Chenault. "Your world, I mean. You left it, wandered on the ship which carried you and, when you tried to return home you found no one believed it to be real. Well, stranger things have happened. I remember one time when-" He broke off, one hand lifting to his chest.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Give me a moment." Chenault lowered his head as if to hide his face and eyes. Time during which Dumarest sat listening, his face impassive, his eyes half-closed. "Forgive me."

Chenault straightened in his chair. "The penalty of age."

"You want me to get something? Water? Wine? Some brandy?"

"No."

"A doctor?"

"No. I'll be-" Again the hand lifted as Chenault almost slumped to the table. Dumarest rose, touched his shoulder, the exposed column of the throat. "No!" Chenault twisted. "Leave me. Get-" His voice faded. "Tell her I need her. Hurry!"

"Who?"

"Pia. Pia. Tell her."

Dumarest left the room, almost running, reaching the dining room, a chamber holding musical instruments, another set with gaming tables. Vosper sat dealing himself a hand.

"Chenault's ill. He wants the woman, Toyanna. Where can I find her?"

"The laboratory or in her room on the first floor but-" He shrugged as Dumarest moved away, concentrating on his cards.

Pia Toyanna was halfway down the stairs when Dumarest found her. She wore a simple gown, green edged with black, belted snug to her slender waist. She carried no satchel and her hands were empty. She listened to Dumarest with an air of impatience.

"Yes. Yes, I understand." She nodded dismissal. "Just leave this to me."

"Do you need help?" Chenault was a big man. "If he needs to be moved you could have trouble."

"I can manage." She faced him, eyes and voice determined. "You've done all you can do. Now please leave things to me."

Dumarest watched her go, following her as she headed to where he had left Chenault, frowning when she moved on to a door lower down the passage. As he made to follow a figure stepped before him. Baglioni, small but determined, lifted his left hand. The dart gun in the other glimmered with reflected light.

"This area is restricted, sir. Please do not force me to use this against you." The dart gun lifted in his hand.

Dumarest said, "Do you think it would stop me?"

"I'm certain of it." The midget remained calm. "It fires a spray with a cover four feet in diameter at a distance of as many yards. I shall fire as soon as you lessen that distance. One dart must surely hit your face and one will be enough to knock you out. To cost you an eye, perhaps, if you should be unlucky. Personally I wouldn't care to gamble on the odds."

Too high against him but not for Dumarest. He knew he could close the distance between them and reach the man before he could fire. But to do it would reveal his speed and make an enemy and all to no purpose. Chenault had the right to act as he chose within his own house.

Casually Dumarest said, "I wouldn't either. Will Tama be all right?"

"He will receive the best of attention, sir. That I assure you. You need have no concern. Now, if you would care to return to the dining room, refreshments have been served."

Cakes and sandwiches and drinks of various types together with a collection of condiments.

Vosper, selecting a cake, sprinkled it with an aromatic red powder and tasted it with the tip of his tongue.

"Too sweet." He added more powder. "You shouldn't have been in such a hurry, Earl. I could have saved you that run-in with Baglioni. And Toyanna knew she was needed."

"Why didn't she go directly to Chenault?"

"Didn't she?" Vosper shrugged. "Maybe she went to get her medical kit. She couldn't have done much for Tama without one." He tasted the cake again, nodded his satisfaction, and began to eat. "Care for a game? Anything you like as long as it's for real money. I lose interest when playing for fun. Your choice; Starsmash, Spectrum, High, Low, man-in-between. You name it."

"Poker?"

"Sure." Vosper beamed. "My favorite." Finishing his cake he glanced toward the gaming room. "Want to eat or shall we get at it?"

"You sound like a shark," said Dumarest. "Are you?"

"No."

"A telepath? How did you know about my run-in with the midget?"

"A shrewd guess. When Tama's in trouble Baglioni comes running to protect him. It happens every time." Vosper laughed. "A telepath. I wish to hell I was. I'm just an engineer."