The Coming Event

CHAPTER THREE

Each day now on waking Vera Jamil spent longer on her toilette, painstakingly arranging her hair, adorning her eyes with touches of cosmetics, adding extra perfume to her bath. These small acts held their own excitement as did the selection and arranging of her clothing. Vanity, of course, but it gave her pleasure and, at times, brought back memories of her youth when Amrik had been alive and they had found magic in the shadowed compartments of Zabul.

A time long gone now yet still she could feel the pain when learning of his death. Still see the smile on his face when they had lifted him from the casket. If nothing else his dreams had been pleasant and she wondered if they had been of her. That was a bad time and she had longed to return to the surcease of forgetfulness, resenting the obligatory periods of wakeful activity. What need did she have of physical stimulation? Of renewing contacts with reality? Amrik was gone and with him had gone her happiness.

Now a small part of it had returned.

It was everywhere in the only world she had ever known; the stir and bustle of expectation, of activity directed to a definite object. Time seemed to have gained a new dimension and she felt the pulse of her blood and the tingle of renewed interest. Luck, she thought; at any other time she would have missed the participation she now enjoyed. Missed the close association with the stranger who had created the new conditions.

"Earl!" She rose as he entered the chamber and turned to him, hands extended, palms upward, smiling her pleasure as he touched them with his own. "I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."

He returned her coquetry with a smile. "Sorry, Vera, but I've been busy."

"I know." Her gesture embraced the shelves, the racks and files and books, the computer data banks of the installation in her charge. "I've been compiling your activities for posterity."

She was too eager but Dumarest retained his smile. Vera Jamil was the custodian of the Archives and could help him ferret out the secrets he hoped they contained. Now, as she produced a pot of steaming tisane together with the traditional cakes of hospitality, he forced himself to mask his impatience.

"Some of the young men were talking of your training program," she said, handing him a cup of the scented tisane. "They admire you even while nursing their bruises. Do men really have to fight like that on other worlds?"

"At times, yes."

"It seems unnatural." Vapor wreathed her eyes as she stared at him over the rim of her cup. "To fight and hurt and maybe to kill. Why can't everyone live in peace?"

"Because all worlds are not like this one." Dumarest set aside the cup and ate a cake. It was good and he said so. "Did you bake it?"

Her flush gave the answer. "An old recipe. Amrik-a friend, used to like them."

"A wise man." Dumarest caught the shadow which drifted over her face and knew better than to labor the point. "Dare I ask if we've made any progress?"

Again the flush, this time caused by his use of words. How nice of him to make her feel an equal partner!

"A little," she said. "There is so much data and you did say to check it all. Give me a moment and we'll get down to business."

She rose to clear away the tisane and cakes, a tall, slender woman, delicately fashioned, her hair a mass of convoluted strands. Hair so blond as to appear almost silver, rising high in an elaborate coiffure, set with small gems which shone like trapped stars. Her face held the ageless placidity of all the Terridae; she could have been five years older than himself or as many centuries. But, in the real experience of living, she was little more than a child.

"Here is a summary of all references together with computerized assessment. Here is a condensation which negates all duplication. This is a compilation of personal notations; items from old logs and navigational tables together with data from personal journals." She looked at the piled sheaves. "I'm afraid it's rather a lot."

An understatement; the data was indigestible in sheer volume. Dumarest selected a file and ran his eyes over the neat columns of references. The woman had done a thorough job but had missed the point of his search.

He said patiently, "What I hoped for was actual coordinates."

"We have them." She picked up a folder. "The exact location of more than a hundred worlds each of special significance to the Terridae." She added, regretfully, "I'm afraid there's no way of telling which is Earth."

"But surely there are references? Even if the data was coded there must be a key." He saw by her expression that she didn't understand. "Think," he said. "At the beginning the Terridae must have had some information as to the whereabouts of Earth. They would have wanted to safeguard it, perhaps, and what better way than by including it within a framework of dogma? Statements which hold an inner meaning once you know the key." He sought for an example and found it in the creed of the Original People of whom she must know. "Listen," he said, and his voice took on the muted pulse of drums. "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."

"Earl?"

"From terror," he said. "That could mean 'From Terra.' Do you see what I'm driving at?"

She said, uncertainly, "Yes, I think so. It's like a riddle, but-" She broke off with a helpless gesture. "I don't know how to solve it."

A failure, but she wasn't wholly to blame. Information retrieval was a skill in itself and one she'd had no reason to develop. Dumarest looked at the files and picked one at random. A listing of data culled from ancient logs including the names of crewmen, cargoes carried, planets visited. Trivia which the Terridae held of value because it had associations with their past. Given time and dedication he would be able to discover their origins, the reason for their withdrawal from normal planetary congress, the ideals which had led them to the formation of their dream. The Event. The finding of Earth.

And he had promised to lead them.

He set down the file, conscious of the woman's stare. How long before she guessed his ignorance? How long before Volodya lost his patience? Pressures to add to the rest but ones he must ignore for the present. As he must gain the help Vera Jamil could give.

He said, smiling, "You've done wonderfully, Vera. I'm just a little stunned at all the information you've managed to accumulate. Now we have to boil it down even further to basic essentials."

"Refine it, you mean?"

"In a way, yes."

"But, Earl, if we knew where Earth was we would have gone there long ago."

The obvious, but he had an answer. "When the location was discovered the time needn't have been right. Details would need to be attended to, arrangements made, things like that. There could have been external pressures which forced a postponement. Then, as time passed, the location could have been forgotten."

"Lost?"

"No, forgotten. Haven't you ever had anything of value which you set to one side for safekeeping then had trouble remembering where you put it? Most of us have had that experience at times. That could have happened to what we're looking for now and our job is to find where it could be. The location of Earth, I mean."

It was hard to remember that she was a grown woman and not a child. Harder still to retain his equanimity when she said, "But you have the answer, Earl. Does it matter if we can't find the location in the Archives?"

"We need confirmation," he said quickly. "Earth lies in a region bounded by the patch of dust lying to the galactic north of Silus, the energy pool known as Morgan's Sink to the galactic west of Crom, and the Hygenium Vortex. Run that area through your computer and determine if any of the planets mentioned fall within those parameters."

Looking at the files she had accumulated, the product of so much labor, she said, "Earl, I'm sorry."

"For what? Trying so hard?" Reaching out he rested the tips of his fingers on the crest of her hair. "I didn't think you'd have the confirmation waiting for me. As you said, if you had the location, you'd be there now. But we'll find it, Vera. Together we'll find it."

Dumarest felt the touch and woke, instantly alert, one hand moving to snatch up his knife and to rest the point against the throat of the woman at his side.

"Earl!" Althea Hesford cringed from the threat. "Earl, for God's sake!"

"I'm sorry." Dumarest set aside the blade, looking at the woman in the pale glow illuminating the room. A nacreous shine emulated the light from a legendary moon. In it the copper sheen of her hair looked darker than it was. "You touched me," he explained. "Startled me. I just reacted."

"I only wanted to see if you were awake."

"Why?"

"To talk." She sat upright in the bed, the soft glow giving her naked flesh a silver sheen. "I couldn't sleep and you felt like a coiled spring lying beside me. You're too tense, Earl. You could have killed me just then. In a week or two, unless you ease the pressure, that could happen. Not deliberately, I'm not saying that, but by simple reflex action."

She was wrong but he didn't argue. "So?"

"You need to relax. If you don't want to take drugs then why not settle for a period of rest in a casket?"

Advice well-meant but he wasn't going to take it. "I haven't the time for that."

"You could find it. You don't have to do everything yourself. You could delegate your authority."

"And what the hell does that mean?" As she made no answer he said, more quietly, "It means you rely on others to do your work. If that is a mark of efficiency then they must follow your example and do the same. In the end you wind up with everyone delegating everything to everyone else and no one doing the actual work."

"It needn't be like that."

"No, but that's the way it happens. You should know. Once you handed authority to the Council what happened? What always happens when you delegate authority to someone else. They hung on to it. It took a near-revolution to make them yield."

To resign and hand over to others who would follow the same path:-something he didn't mention. Instead he said, "Is that why you woke me? To tell me I need to rest?"

"No! I-" Then her own tension broke and she laughed. "Put like that it sounds insane. I'm sorry, darling, I guess it's because I've something on my mind."

"Such as?"

"Vera Jamil. You know she's in love with you?"

"Is she?"

"She is and you must know it. And she isn't the only one. Earl! I'm jealous!"

"Of Vera?" Deliberately he kept his tone casual. "I need her help, Althea, and if a few kind words will get it then that's what I'll give. But she isn't in love with me. She's enamored of change. She's waking up as others are and realizing what life can be all about."

"Pain," she said quietly. "Hurt. Fear. Anger. Envy. Frustration. Rejection-you want me to go on?"

"Life," he said. "It was never intended to be easy."

"I know. You told me, life is a continual act of violence." She leaned forward to hug her knees, the mane of her hair veiling her face, the curves of her torso. "You seem to believe that."

"The spermatozoon which fertilized the egg from which you sprang fought against a billion others for the privilege. The antibiotics in your body battle endlessly against invading bacteria. Your brain was developed because you enjoyed a high-protein diet. Each mouthful of food comes from the dead. Life is what it is, woman, not what you'd like it to be."

And he was suited to live it better than anyone she knew. To fight and kill in order to survive-how many others in Zabul could do the same? Even Volodya was strong only in relation to those around him. How to hold such a man? To keep him close so as to shelter beneath his protection?

She felt the urgings of her body and was shaken by the sudden realization of the power of nature's dominance. Was this how a primitive woman had chosen her mate? Giving herself to the strongest so as to gain his favor? Bearing his children? Continuing his line?

She said, "There's been talk, Earl. Discussion leading to argument about how you intend leading us all to the Event. Some think you plan to shift Zabul but we know that isn't possible."

"So?"

"They want to know, Earl. The committee and others. They have the right."

"When the time comes they will."

"Some think the time is now."

"And others?" He provided the answer. "How many are beginning to think it would be better not to go at all?"

"A few," she admitted. "And their numbers are growing. You can't blame them, Earl. They are old and afraid and see no reason to change. And others are willing to wait a little longer."

"You?"

"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "Up until now it was easy to long for the Event. It was so remote it didn't matter. But now you've made it immediate and people are beginning to have second thoughts. Some people," she added. "And, yes, you could include me among them."

"Life," he said. "You're afraid of life."

"Afraid of what it could bring," she corrected. "After we reach Earth-what then?"

Change and that was fearsome enough to those born and bred in a static society. The need to make constant decisions. The fear that, perhaps, the fabled world wasn't as claimed. Doubt and the terror of insecurity. The need to grow from child into an adult.

"Earl? Don't you understand? I'm afraid of losing you."

He turned away from her, aware of her nearness, the radiated femininity of her body. Rising, he headed toward the shower, there to let ice-cold water drum on his head and over his body. Stung with chill he dried himself and returned to the bedroom to see the woman still hunched as he had left her. Even as he watched the light changed to simulate a dawn.

It grew from the walls, the ceiling, a warm suffusion of red and gold, amber and orange, pink and russet. A birth which turned the room into a miniature world and the woman into a thing of flame. Hair, skin, mouth, nails, the membrane within her nostrils and beyond her parted lips-all warm and redolent of summer heat.

"Earl!" She leaned back lifting her arms toward him. "Earl, my darling! Earl!"

Then her arms were around him, the heat of her passion filling his world.

The uniform was grey, fashioned after his own clothing; the blouse long-sleeved, close at the wrists and the collar high around the neck, the pants thrust into knee-high boots. The armband bore the device of a quartered circle.

"The symbol of Earth," explained Erik Medwin. "What do you think, Commander?"

Dumarest said, "I've been promoted?"

"You're the boss as far as we're concerned. The man we intend to follow. What do you think of the uniform?"

Medwin stood still as Dumarest examined it. The material was fabric coated with flexible plastic, giving some protection but nothing like the metal mesh buried within his own. The cut could be improved and red chafe-marks showed at the young man's neck.

"Who made it up?"

"Giselda Mapron and her friends. This is a sample and it'll be altered if needed. I just wanted to show you and get your approval. Will it do, Commander?"

"With adjustments, yes. Remember a uniform is something you may have to fight in so it must be comfortable as well as tough. That collar's too tight; when you fight your neck will swell and you don't want to choke yourself. Make it looser here and here." Dumarest touched the neck and chest. "Stiffen the material over the shoulders and include protective plates if you can. They'll prevent a broken clavicle if anyone comes at you with a club and strikes the shoulder. Stiffen the boots too-a kick in the shin can cripple a man if he isn't protected. The same for the groin. And you'll need a hat of some kind, but make it strong enough to withstand a blow. One with a face-visor would be best."

"To protect the eyes," said Medwin. "I hadn't thought of that. Volodya's guards don't wear them."

"They aren't going where we are."

"True," mused Medwin. "And how can you salute without a hat? How about insignia of rank?"

"Learn about that from where you learned about saluting," said Dumarest. "And remember to thank Vera Jamil for her trouble."

"You know?"

"Where else would you get the information?" Dumarest smiled to soften his comment. "How are you getting on?"

"The first class are now instructing and we've tripled the intake. A mixed batch, the girls insisted on joining in on equal terms."

"Training?"

"Basic. Synchronized movement with practice using knives and staves. Unarmed combat too." He added, "We've had some injuries but the medics have taken care of them."

"And you've been to see them?"

Medwin hesitated. "Well, what with one thing and another, I guess I've been too busy."

"A leader must take care of his men," said Dumarest. "If he wants authority without responsibility then he isn't worthy of his command. Remember that. The people you train now could save your life later on. If you treat them like dirt they may not be too eager to do that. Those injured people got hurt because they tried to please you. Let's go and see how they're getting on."

A medic met them as they entered the ward, lifting his eyebrows at the sight of Medwin in his new uniform, turning to Dumarest as if knowing he was the leader of the pair. He frowned as he heard the request.

"See them? All eleven?"

"If you can arrange it. Are they badly hurt?"

"Broken bones, a lost eye, two with punctured lungs, one with a smashed kneecap, another with a ruptured spleen." He added dryly, "Your new ideals seem to encourage the young to be violent."

They lay in a small room, bandaged, some in traction. All were conscious, even the one who had lost an eye. He waved as Dumarest entered followed by Medwin.

"You've come to see us? Well, what about that! Did you hear what happened to me?"

"You lost an eye," said Dumarest. "In combat that makes you a liability. Are they giving you a new one?"

"Sure. It's growing now. In a few days I'll be as good as new."

As would they all. Zabul didn't lack for trained doctors and expensive drugs; slow time alone would promote quick healing, the metabolism accelerated to turn seconds into hours. Sedated, fed by intravenous injection, the most badly injured would wake healed if hungry.

Dumarest led the way down the line, speaking to each in turn, waiting as Medwin did the same. Back at the door he turned and lifted an arm in a farewell salute.

"You've done well," he said. "All of you. You've shown courage and you've accepted your misfortune. But I hope you've learned from it. Like I said earlier, an injury makes a combat soldier a liability. In actual conflict some of you would have had to be abandoned. Just remember that the next time you want to take a chance-sometimes the odds aren't worth it."

As they neared the exit Dumarest said, "You go ahead, Erik. Get those uniforms adapted as I suggested. And we want no more injuries, understand?"

"Yes, Commander!"

"Off you go then."

Dumarest returned the vague salute and went in search of the infirmary's biological technician. The man was in his laboratory, his face intent, as he examined the projected image of a slide.

"From one of the young fools who tried to get themselves killed," he explained. "An unsuspected infection which must be dealt with."

"A mutation?"

Sneh Thome nodded. He was a round man with a face normally placid but now creased in lines of concentration.

"It could well be that. I'm trying a wide range of antibiotics so as to effect a cure without recourse to surgery but if the infection becomes too widespread we'll have to remove the affected area and grow a replacement from uncontaminated tissue." He snapped off the projection and straightened, easing his back. "What we really need, of course, is a general-purpose antibiotic which will destroy all objects foreign to the basic DNA cellular imprint."

"Coupled with a regenerative agent to replace all damaged and missing tissue to the same plan?"

"It would save all doctors a hell of a lot of work," admitted Thorne. "In fact it could almost put us out of business. A man gets hurt and he crawls into a corner somewhere to eat and sleep while his body repairs itself. No scar tissue, no maladjusted bone structure. No areas of fibroid encystment. An eye, an arm, a leg or an internal organ all regenerating to match the basic pattern. If the liver can do it why not other organs? And what, for example, has a lobster got that we haven't? A creature like that can regrow a claw but we can't even regenerate a finger."

"We aren't lobsters," reminded Dumarest,

"No, sometimes I think we're a damned sight worse. What other creature would deliberately set out to injure itself? Those fools in the ward have given us more work than we've known for the past century. And that isn't counting the scrapes and bruises and minor lacerations. The strains and minor hemorrhages and psychic damage. You're a menace, Earl. As much a danger to our society as that damned bacteria!"

"Which by its presence is triggering the body to manufacture a defense."

"True." Thorne ran a hand over his rumpled hair. "I guess I'm just tired. Life goes on and on and nothing ever seemed to happen and then, suddenly, I'm faced with challenges."

Dumarest said, "That's what makes life exciting. Did you manage to do as I asked?"

"Another challenge."

"Did you?"

"It's in the small laboratory," said Thorne reluctantly. "Everything you asked for, but God knows what you intend doing with it." Pausing, he added, "Are you certain you can manage alone?"

"I'll make out."

"If you need assistance I'll be willing to help." Thome looked hopefully at Dumarest then sighed as he recognized the other's determination. "No? Well, as you want. I guess it's your business. I'll show you the way."

The place was small but well-equipped. Alone, Dumarest examined the gleaming apparatus, the vials and containers, the microscopes and manipulative devices. Things which hypno-tuition had taught him to use. Materials and knowledge which could save his life.