The Coming Event

CHAPTER FOUR

Brandt had gone, leaving behind the acrid scent of her perfume, accentuated by the exudations of age, but she had been reasonable and had taken little prompting to recognize the danger. Lijert too had been swayed after some discussion but he, like the woman, had been old and already uneasily aware of the passage of time. Days and weeks edged into months, eating at their reserves, lopping years from their anticipated life-spans. Brandt and Lijert were two of the committee who would back him without argument and he felt Stanton could be another, for he was a man who resented the disturbance of old patterns despite his relative youth. He had found the burden of responsibility more irksome than he'd guessed, not even suspecting that the tiresome routine beneath which he chafed had been deliberately imposed.

Who else would help him to take over sole command?

Urick Volodya pondered this problem as he crossed the room to stand looking down at the men set in a neat array on the chessboard resting on a table fashioned of convoluted woods inlaid with metallic ornamentation.

Towitsch? Prideaux? The girl was a fanatic and her opposite number little better, but if a wedge could be driven between them it was possible one would vote from reasons of malice rather than from calculated decision. Did Towitsch love Dumarest? A possibility and one holding promise. If so she could let jealousy turn her against Hesford. But what of Prideaux?

Reaching down, Volodya moved the pieces in the opening moves of an established game. How easy it would be if people could be manipulated like the pieces on the board? And yet did he need to feel such concern? The old ways had gone and now was the time of opportunity. He had recognized it and made his move. It was but one further step to the consolidation of his power.

Why worry about pawns?

The men scattered beneath the sweep of his hand and he turned to pace the floor, tall, arrogant, his hooded eyes and beaked nose giving him the look of an imperious bird of prey, Dumarest noted when, ushered by guards, he stepped into the room.

It was large, a chamber chosen to reflect the personality of its occupant, and he looked at the soft coverings on the floor, the ornate furniture, the scattered chessmen lying in gold and silver disarray.

"Earl!" Volodya stepped forward, smiling, hands extended in the traditional gesture. "You will have wine? Some cakes? The formalities need to be observed. And a chair-there is no need for you to stand. All I want to do is talk. We have reason for a discussion, I think. You agree?"

"Haven't you been kept informed of progress?"

"I've had reports." Volodya lost his smile. "But from you hardly a word. I think it time we rectified the matter. Come! Have some wine!"

He poured and handed Dumarest a goblet of silver chased with gold. The wine itself was sweet with a rich body and an aftertaste of mint.

Dumarest sipped then said, "I see you've a liking for chess."

"Yes. Do you play?"

"I know the game. Some claim it to be a symbolic battle and say those who play good chess will make good commanders in time of war." He added dryly, "Those who think that have never experienced a field of conflict."

"We know little of war."

"And power?" Dumarest took another sip of his wine. "Certain things seem to be universal. The love of authority, for example. Couple it with a lack of responsibility and you have a lure few can resist. Of course, it has its dangers."

"Such as?"

"Rebellion. Assassination." Dumarest ate a cake. "The fruit of defiance, disobedience and distrust. Dangers a wise ruler avoids."

A warning? Dumarest was more subtle than he seemed and, Volodya guessed, far more devious than he appeared. To underestimate him could be the worst mistake he would ever make. The worst and, perhaps, the last.

"How is your nephew getting on?" Dumarest was casual. "Alva Kirek, the one in the Earth Corps."

"Well enough. He seems to be happy with the uniform."

"It gives them a sense of comradeship."

"As does the name?"

"It wasn't of my choosing," said Dumarest. "You know that."

As he knew other things. "The laboratory," he demanded. "Why did you want it?"

Dumarest remained silent.

"Then let us talk of Vera Jamil." Volodya poured them each a little more wine. "As yet, I understand, you have had no success."

"Corroboration? No."

"Of course. You must know where Earth lies-or how could you promise to lead us to it?" Volodya leaned forward in his chair. "You do know?"

"I never said that."

"No. You were born on Earth and stowed away on a strange ship when young and later were abandoned to make your own way on planets which knew nothing of your home world. But you want to return, which is what brought you to Zabul." Volodya tasted his wine and sat holding the goblet. Beneath the arch of his brows his eyes were brightly direct. "You think we have the answer?"

"Have you?"

"No." Volodya set down his goblet and seemed, abruptly, to relax. "Or if we have it is a mystery yet to be solved. The Archives are, as you have learned, basically a mass of useless trivia. What else can you expect? So little happens here that all small details gain in importance so we have lists of births and deaths and petty quarrels. Details of stores and minutes of meetings and deliberations of the Councils with comment on decisions made."

"Then why maintain the Archives?"

"Habit," said Volodya. "Tradition and something more. The Terridae spend their lives mostly in dreams and have little time for learning. The Archives form a repository of knowledge-how else would our technical staff learn their skills? And each culture should have a history. Roots which hold them firm in the path they have chosen to follow. Signs to give the direction to take. With us it is the Event. The hope of finding Earth and the wonders it has to give. And yet, if we did-what then?"

A question which held familiar echoes. Althea had posed it-how many others?

Dumarest said, "You are telling me you believe it better to travel than to arrive."

"For some, yes. For the Terridae, certainly."

A confession and Dumarest wondered why Volodya had made it. The room gave the answer as did the scattered chessmen lying on the floor.

He said, "From the beginning you have been playing a part. Using me for your own purposes."

"Of course. Does that annoy you?" Volodya shrugged, "How else to break the impasse I faced? The Council was old and determined to cling to power. I had no support and no reason for any direct action. You provided them both. It was expedient to pretend to believe you while altering the balance of power. To back you and so gain the adherence of those to whom you were a hero. Once the Council was deposed it was still politic to give you open support. I wanted to avoid all danger of being accused of betrayal. Failure, when it came, had to originate with you."

"You were certain I would fail?"

"It was only a matter of giving you enough time."

"And now?"

"You have had enough time."

"I see." Dumarest rose and crossed the room to where the scattered chessmen lay bright against the carpet. He picked them up, set them in place on the board and, without looking at Volodya, said, "You had it all worked out from the beginning, didn't you? Move after move just like a game of chess. Forcing others to move as you wanted. But you forget something." He turned to face the other man, his face as cold and as hard as the pieces on the board. "Others can play the same game."

"You?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "Me."

The wine was forgotten, the cakes, the small pretenses which had masked savage determinations. Volodya and Dumarest faced each other like opponents in a ring. Fighters armed with weapons more complex than knives.

"The Corps," said Volodya. "That gang of thugs you've taught to fight. Do you think them a match for my guards?"

"They don't have to be."

"Then-"

"A mistake," said Dumarest. "One of your first. You permitted the formation of the Corps, but you had no real choice. To deny the young a chance to prepare themselves for the Event would be to admit you didn't think it would happen. But you instructed your nephew to join so as to keep you informed. Another mistake; he grew to like his new companions."

"The badge," said Volodya bitterly. "The uniform. The rank. The drill."

"Bait," said Dumarest. "Empires have been founded with less."

"As you would know. What other errors did I make?"

"You underestimated the power of a dream. You still underestimate it. Probably because your own was small. You wanted to become the ruler of Zabul and you've achieved that ambition. The committee is a farce and we both know it. It may amuse you to manipulate the members but they are a facade to maintain a pretense of democratic function. If you hadn't realized that then you are less shrewd than I thought. But others have more ambition than to lord it over a tiny, artificial world. They want what the galaxy can give them. They want Earth!"

As he wanted it; the need blazed from his face, his eyes. Volodya had never seen that yearning before and, for a moment, he was awed by its sheer intensity-the need and the determination to achieve it.

"I've promised them the Event," said Dumarest. "Do you want me to tell them you deny it? Can you imagine what they will do?"

"I can handle any insurrection."

"How? By stationing a guard at each terminal? On every junction and staging point? In every installation? How many would you need? And how can you force people to tend the hydroponic farms and maintain air and power?"

"That threat was used before," said Volodya coldly. "It suited me to persuade the Council to yield to it, but now things are not the same. While I rule in Zabul there will be no defiance. To give in to force is to surrender to the mob. Do you advocate anarchy?"

"Not here."

"I'm glad to hear it. At least we agree on that. And don't imagine the situation you postulate would be allowed to continue. The old outnumber the young and are aware of the need of discipline if the environment is to be maintained. As were the original builders."

They had incorporated pipes to convey paralyzing gas to each essential installation, a precaution, as were the airtight doors, the monitoring alarms, the scanners set throughout the complex of passages and rooms. These details Dumarest had learned from his study of the plans. He said, "Wires can be cut, pipes blocked, doors jammed." Volodya brushed this aside. "None of the Terridae would do such a thing. It is a measure of your desperation that you even mention it."

"Yes," said Dumarest. "A good word. But a desperate man can be dangerous. Tell me, if a ship of the Cyclan were to appear and demand I be handed over to them what would you do?"

"That depends."

"On whether or not they threatened harm to Zabul? Supposing they did. Supposing any ship came with the same threat and the same demand. Would you defy them?"

"Would you expect me to?"

"No. That is why I had to make sure it wouldn't happen. Why you wouldn't have the choice." A phone rested on a small table against a wall. Dumarest crossed to it, picked up the handset and looked at Volodya. "A demonstration," he said. "Just to show you how wrong a man can be." To the instrument he snapped, "Captain Medwin! Immediately." A pause, then, "Operation Five. Commence!"

The phone made a small click as he replaced it in its cradle. Nothing had changed and yet Volodya felt the tension. A knotting of the stomach and an impression as if he stood on the edge of a chasm. Bluff, it had to be a bluff, what could Dumarest do?

But why bluff if it was to be so quickly proven an empty threat?

"What do you want?"

"Wait," said Dumarest.

The man was sweating despite his outward calm. The threat of sabotage, despite his swift rejection, had made an effect. Volodya was a product of his environment. To him as to all the Terridae the safety of Zabul was paramount. The weakness which made them vulnerable to any demand.

"Soon," said Dumarest. "Now!"

It was nothing, the barest flicker of the lights, but it was enough to send Volodya racing to slam his hand against a button.

"Guards! To me! Guards!"

The flicker quickened as men burst through the door. Young, strong, wearing pants and shirts of dull olive, each bearing a club, each armed with a gun capable of spouting a cloud of stunning gas. These were short-range weapons but effective enough in limited areas and without the danger of missile-guns or lasers. Two of them ran to flank Dumarest where he stood, another staying at the door, the fourth halting before Volodya.

"Sir?"

"Hold him." Volodya gestured toward Dumarest. "Stun him if he attempts to move. Send to the generators and see what is going on. Halt all movement and-"

"Why waste time?" Dumarest glanced at the lights, now flickering faster than before. "And why create a panic? An interrupter mechanism has been placed in the wiring and will continue to function for another few minutes. It was activated by my order as you heard. Unless I rescind it the interrupter will fuse at the end of its cycle and burn out half a mile of conduit. Nothing serious-but other devices could be. What do you want to do?"

A bluff, Volodya was sure of it, but the risk was too great to take a chance. The flickering was bad enough-anything interrupting the smooth flow of life in Zabul was cause for alarm. And if irritation should pile on irritation he could guess what would happen.

"I yield," he snapped. Then, to the guards, "Leave us!" At least it had been his men who had answered his summons. To Dumarest he said, "Am I to beg?"

"No." Dumarest reached the phone, spoke, put it down. As the flickering halted he said, "All I want from you is one thing. I want to talk to a previous custodian of the Archives. The oldest one you have."

Down in the deepest levels the air was chill, echoes muffled by absorbent padding, the light a dull, bluish glow. Resting in low-roofed compartments separated by thick walls the caskets of the Terridae stood like massive sarcophagi. The boxes were carved and ornamented with a host of figures and mystic symbols-abstract designs which held esoteric meaning, among them the signs of the zodiac.

This was the clue which had brought him to Zabul and now Dumarest waited as a technician worked at one of the caskets.

"We must give him time," said Althea Hesford, as if guessing at his impatience. "Shiro Gourvich is a very old man."

Gourvich even now was lost in a world of entrancing dreams as he lay in the snug confines of his casket, experiencing illusions created by mental stimulation as his drugged body lay in the surrogate womb. For him time had been extended, his metabolism slowed, bodily functions served by sophisticated machinery. The box itself formed a miniature world, airtight, strong, containing its own power source and essential supplies. A fortress against the ravages of time.

"How much longer?" Dumarest looked at the technician. The box could only be opened from within either by intent or by time-lapse mechanisms unless special techniques were applied.

"He's old," said the man, echoing Althea. "And frail. If you want him alive you've got to give him time. I've triggered the operation and I guess he's coming out of it about now. A few more minutes and-" He grunted as the lid of the casket began to rise. "I was wrong. He's awake now. You want me around?"

He left as Dumarest shook his head. The lid of the casket, now opened, revealed a padded interior and the frame and face of an old man within.

An old man.

Old!

The sparse white hair was like gossamer, the face a canvas for endless lines, the mouth a bloodless slit, the eyes twin balls of flawed glass set deep within sunken sockets. The body itself, beneath a simple robe, was a thing of twigs and sticks and stringy muscle. The voice was like the rustle of leaves in early winter.

"Has it happened? The Event. Has it come?"

"Not yet." Althea was gentle. "How do you feel? Can you sit upright?"

"Of course." Gourvich reared to clutch at the lowered side of the casket with bird-claw hands. "I'm a little vague, that's all. I was young, you see, and Lynne was with me. There was a rolling meadow over which we ran and a lake and then beds of flowers in which we made endless love. Why did you wake me? I have the right to rest undisturbed until the coming of the Event. But you say it has not arrived."

Dumarest said, "I need your help."

"Help? What help can I give you, young man? The strength of my arm?" The chuckle was as dry as the voice. "A fly could break it. My skills? They are forgotten. My influence with the Council? It ended when they deemed me too old to face the routine wakenings. What can you want from me?"

"Your memories."

"Of what? Lynne? Hilda? Others I have known?"

"Your memory and your skill," said Dumarest patiently. He knew the shock of resurrection-the old man was bearing it well. "Zabul needs your help."

"Zabul? Are we in danger?"

"No," said Althea quickly. "It is a problem which needs to be solved and you are the best fitted to do it. Can you rise? Do you need a stimulant?"

"A little help." The old man sagged in her supporting arms. "It has been a long time, I think. Who now heads the Council?"

"Urich Volodya."

"Volodya? Do I remember him?" The brow moved to change the pattern of creases, the eyes narrowing with the frown. "Sergi?"

"Urich. Sergi was his father."

"I knew him when he was a boy. And you, my dear?"

Gourvich looked at Althea. "No. No, I don't remember you at all."

She had probably been born after he had entered the casket as had Urich Volodya and how many others. Dumarest looked at the old man as he stood sipping the cordial Althea had brought with her, a heavy syrup containing strength-giving drugs to sharpen the mind and speed the slowed processes of the body. The chemicals would rob Gourvich of extended years but enable him to stiffen a little, to look more alert, to shake off some of the vagueness which had clothed him in the shredded webs of time.

Years, decades, centuries, millennia-how old could he be?

The young were needed to maintain Zabul and denied use of the caskets until they had reached thirty. Then they were permitted only intermittent use, woken at frequent intervals to maintain physical prowess and contact with reality. These periods lessened as they grew older, ceasing when, like Gourvich, they had nothing to offer the community.

A thousand years?

More?

It was possible-quick time reduced hours to seconds and the drugs used were more sophisticated, compounds which voyaging. Even allowing for a reduced efficiency and frequent wakings, Gourvich could be well over a thousand years old. Time enough for tissues to shrink and unused muscle to avoided the inherent dangers of those used during normal wither. Time, too, for memories to fade.

Dumarest considered this as he followed Althea and her charge to the elevator and up to the Archives where Vera Jamil was waiting. He caught her expression and recognized her resentment and jealousy and smiled as he guided the old man into a chair.

"We need your help, Vera, and I'm sure you won't refuse it. This is Shiro Gourvich. An early custodian. Shiro, this is Vera Jamil, your successor. If you ask her nicely she will make you some of her special tisane."

"With althenus?"

"I prefer fredich," she said. "It has more flavor, but I'll make it with althenus if you want."

"He wants," said Dumarest. "And I'd like to taste it too." He saw her warm beneath his smile, as, turning to Althea, he said, "You've done well. Perhaps you'd like to tell Urich of our progress? He's probably waiting for your report."

He wanted her out of the way and she knew why. Knew too that if she objected he would insist and so add to the other woman's pleasure. But why did he have to pander to her? To order, surely, was enough.

An error Dumarest did not make. He had noted the extra perfume Vera was wearing, her eyes when she had seen him with Althea. Did she resent the rival or imagine herself to be slighted? It would take so little to negate his search for what he needed.

Now he said to Gourvich, "Vera has performed a miracle in condensing the appropriate data in the Archives but something is missing and we need your help to find it. But first the tisane." He waited until it had been served and tasted. "Good?"

"Very good." Gourvich inhaled the vapor rising from the cup and took another sip. "Lynne used to make it like this. Did I tell you about Lynne? She and I burned in a mutual passion and-well, you know what it is to be young."

And were learning what it was to be old and approaching senility. Life could be extended but even with the mental stimulus provided the glands grew out of synchronization with the rest of the body, thoughts jumped wider gaps, made new neuron paths in the cortex. The line between fact and fantasy grew blurred and time became impacted so the memory of childhood became stronger than that of yesterday.

Gourvich seemed to be aware of this. He said quietly, "I am not what I was. If this were the Event I should bathe in magic pools and become young again, but you woke me too early. I do not thank you for that. The price of this tisane could be my immortality."

"We didn't mean-"

"No!" Dumarest cut the woman short. "No apologies. We offer you the Event and soon. The next time you wake could be on Earth."

The old man savored that promise as if it were air, sucking it deep into his lungs, holding it, releasing it with a regretful sigh.

"Could," he murmured. "You express a doubt."

"One you can resolve." Dumarest waited as Gourvich sipped more tisane. "When you were young Earth must have been very close. The Event was to happen soon. Am I right?"

"There were difficulties," said Gourvich. "Expenses. Things had to be settled before the search could begin. It was decided to wait a little."

The delay had stretched on the grounds of expediency and compromise. The urgency forgotten in a mass of petty detail. Slowed by those in authority who had been reluctant to disturb the status quo.

Dumarest explained this as if to a child, Gourvich nodding his agreement.

"You could be right," he said. "I cannot remember now. There were arguments and passions and insults and, once, a killing. It is all in the Archives." He looked at the woman. "In data bank 153/239. Or is it 235/879? Or did the Council decide to expunge the record?" He looked at his cup. "This is very good tisane."

"Would you like some more?"

"Lynne makes good tisane. You must meet her and try it sometime. Bring your friend." He blinked at Dumarest. "Do I know you?"

"We're old friends," said Dumarest. "And you're going to help me. Now think of the time when you were custodian. I'll bet you knew everything in the Archives. All the data on Earth-you would have to know. When they asked your advice you could give them a calculated report. Details as to the distance to be traveled and the direction. Things like that." He paused to let Gourvich grasp what he was saying. "Earth, Shiro. Think of Earth."

"One day," said Gourvich. "One day we'll find it and when we do we'll find all we could ever hope for. I'll be with Lynne again and Graham and Claude and Hilda. We'll reform the group. Maybe you could join. You and your lady-she makes good tisane."

"It happens," whispered Vera. "Earl, it happens!" Dumarest looked down at his hand, clenched now into a fist, the knuckles white with strain. He forced himself to ease the fingers, flexing them, conscious of the sweat on his face, the perspiration stinging his eyes. To be so close! So close! "Degeneration?"

She nodded then explained, "It happens when a person gets too old or has lived too long in dreams. For a while he seems to be rational, then physical stress causes a mental relapse. For him, now, this is just another fantasy. He doesn't know where he is or what you are saying. He might even believe that he's answered your question-if he ever had the answer at all. If it exists here in Zabul."

An entire culture dedicated to the finding of Earth-it was against all logic they had met with nothing but failure. But if they hadn't the entire answer then they must have clues. He could piece together fragments with his own, hard-won information, and that data could give him the coordinates.

"Think!" he said to the old man. "Think, damn you think! Talk to me of Earth. Earth, man! Earth!"

"Earl!"

"Be quiet, woman!" he heard the sharp intake of her breath and realized she thought he might strike the old man with something more solid than words. The fear was groundless but he expressed it as Gourvich stared blankly into his cup. "I won't hurt him. I'm just trying to guide the direction of his thoughts. To do that I must claim his attention. Have you more tisane? Good. Fill his cup. Touch him as you do it. Caress his hair, his cheek, his hand. Anything to make him aware of your presence." As she obeyed, steam rising from the cup, her fingers trailing over the bird-claw of his hand, Dumarest said, "Drink your tisane, Shiro. Lynne made it for you."

"Lynne?"

"She's here. Didn't you feel her touch you? She's waiting for you to tell us about Earth. The floating cities and towers of sparkling crystal. The pools of eternal youth and the mountains clothed in singing rainbows. The plains and seas and the Shining Ones. Far out, you said. Somewhere close to the Rim."

"Did I?"

"That's what you said. A place where the stars are few and the nights dark."

Gourvich shook his head. "Not when there's a moon."

"Of course. The moon. Silver, isn't it? Big. A fit companion for Earth. And you're going to take us there. Show us the way. It's a secret but you can tell Lynne. You love each other." Dumarest's voice became a pulsing susurration holding the hammering impact of a drum. "Tell, Lynne, Shiro. Tell her about Earth. Tell her. Tell her how to find Earth. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her, Shiro. Tell her."

On and on as Gourvich stared blankly into his cup. Dumarest falling silent as, abruptly, the old man lifted his head.

In a thin, cracked voice, his mouth twisted into a vacuous grin he chanted, "Thirty-two, forty, sixty-seven-that's the way to get to heaven. Seventy-nine, sixty, forty-three-are you following me? Forty-six, seventy, ninety-five-up good people, live and thrive!"

Madness?

The babblings of a deranged mind?

Dumarest reached forward and touched the old man's throat. The skin was flaccid, clammy beneath his touch, the pulse slow, turgid in its barely discoverable beat. The eyes were closed and spittle ran from the corner of the mouth tracing a glistening smear over the chin. Pushed too hard he had withdrawn into a catatonic safety.

"Is he dead, Earl?"

"No. In shock. I made him think of something he preferred to forget." Rising, Dumarest looked at the woman. "That chant-have you heard it before? Does it mean anything to you?"

"No." Vera frowned, thinking. "It sounded like a childish numbers game of some kind. I haven't heard it myself. Maybe if-"

She broke off as her face turned red. Her hair, her clothes, the entire interior of the Archives were dyed with a flood of scarlet light as the alarms tore the air with their demanding clangor.