The Houses of Iszm

VIII

The bodies were photographed and removed to cold storage; the cabin was sealed. The ship buzzed with rumor and Farr found the Anderviews a difficult topic to avoid.

Earth grew closer. Farr felt no great apprehension, but the uncertainty, the underlying mystery remained: why had the Anderviews waylaid him in the first place? Would he run into further danger on Earth? Farr became angry. These intrigues were no concern of his; he wanted no part of them. But an uncomfortable conviction kept pushing up from his subconscious: he was involved, however bitterly he rejected the idea. He had other things to do—his job, his thesis, the compilation of a stereo which he hoped to sell to one of the broadcast networks.

And there was something else, a curious urgency, a pressure, something to be done. It came at odd moments to trouble Farr—a dissatisfaction, like an unresolved chord in some deep chamber of his mind. It had no direct connection with the Anderviews and their murderer, no link with anything. It was something to be done, something he had forgotten… or never known…

Omon Bozhd spoke to him only once, approaching him in the lounge. He said in an offhand voice, “You are now aware of the threat you face. On Earth I may be unable to help you.”

Farr’s resentment had not diminished. He said, “On Earth you’ll probably be executed for murder.”

“No, Aile Farr Sainh, it will not be proved against me.”

Farr examined the pale narrow face. Iszic and Earther—evolved from different stock to the same humanoid approximation: simian, amphibian. But there would never be a rapport or sympathy between the races. Farr asked curiously, “You didn’t kill them?”

“Certainly it is unnecessary to iterate the obvious to a man of Aile Farr’s intelligence.”

“Go ahead, iterate it. Reiterate it. I’m stupid. Did you kill them?”

“It is unkind of you to require an answer to this question.”

“Very well, don’t answer. But why did you try to pin it on me? You know I didn’t do it. What have you got against me?”

Omon Bozhd smiled thinly. “Nothing whatever. The crime, if crime it was, could never be proved against you. The investigation would delay you two or three days, and allow other matters to mature.”

“Why did you retract your accusation?”

“I saw I had made a mistake. I am hominid—far from infallible.”

Sudden anger threatened to choke Farr. “Why don’t you stop talking in hints and implications? If you’ve got something to say—say it.”

“Farr Sainh is himself pressing the matter. I have nothing to say. The message I had for him I delivered; he would not expect me to lay bare my soul.”

Farr nodded and grinned. “One thing you can be sure of—if I see a chance to spike the game you’re playing—I’ll take it.”

Every hour the star that was Home Sun brightened; every hour Earth was closer. Farr found himself unable to sleep. A sour lump formed in his stomach. Resentment, perplexity, impatience compounded into a malaise whose effects were physical. In addition, his scalp had never healed properly; it itched and smarted. He suspected that he had contracted an Iszic infection. The prospect alarmed him. He pictured the infection spreading, his hair falling out, his scalp bleaching to the watered-milk color of the Iszic skin. Nor did the mysterious inner urgency diminish. He sought through his mind. He reviewed the days and months, he made notes and outlines, synthesized and checked without satisfaction. He bundled the whole problem, all the notes and papers, into an angry ball and cast it aside.

And at last, after the longest, most exasperating voyage Farr had ever made the SS Andrei Simic drifted into the Solar System.