World of Promise

Chapter Six

Welph Bartain was tall and thickly built with a face schooled to mask emotion and eyes which held a cynical weariness. A man in late middle age, his hair grizzled, his skin creped with a mesh of lines engraved with experience, he was a captain in the proctor's department. He waved Dumarest to a chair after he had introduced himself, smiling as, without instruction, Dumarest set his head against the rest, his hands on the wide arms.

"I see you understand our procedures. Madam Blayne noted that you were cooperative." She had presided over Dumarest's second interrogation while a small, wasp-like man had conducted the first. Now, apparently, there was to be a third. Bartain smiled as if reading Dumarest's thoughts. "No. I am here merely to conclude the examination. I must apologize for the unusual delay but trust you have not been too uncomfortable. You have no complaints?"

"None." The guard had been accommodating; food and wine had been available at personal cost, books and tapes and means of passing the time on hand. For the rest the cell had been a place to wait, to sleep, to think. Dumarest said, "Why the delay?"

"The Ludemia." Bartain shrugged, his face dour. "It happens twice a year in summer and in winter and I don't know which is the worse. The cold makes students desperate but the heat affects minds in strange ways and always we are kept busy. Now, as regards yourself, the charge was made by three independent witnesses that you threw Myra Favre over the balcony of her apartment on the evening that the festival decorations were being tested outside her building. She was seen standing on the balcony. You were seen rushing toward her. She was heard to scream as she fell. Correct so far?"

"Correct."

"You protest your innocence?"

Dumarest said dryly, "I understood you to say that this was not to be a third interrogation. Surely you trust your machines?"

"A matter of routine. Please answer."

"I am innocent of the charge of murder." Dumarest added, "I am at a loss to know why I should be doubted. She slipped, I tried to save her but reached her too late. I have said that from the beginning."

"As I explained, this is a matter of routine." The officer picked up a sheaf of papers, apparently reading from them though, as Dumarest knew, his eyes never left the telltales set along the edge of his desk. "Dumarest," he mused. "You claimed to have a doctorate but-"

"I made no such claim. That was a pretense of Myra Favre's."

"A woman no longer young," continued the officer. "One vulnerable to attention and who would have been attracted to an intriguing stranger who claimed a mutual acquaintance. A person of responsibility who could help a man eager to make his way. Martial arts," he said. "An odd subject-did you honestly believe you would gain a large enough enrollment?"

"I've explained all that," said Dumarest. "But, since you put the question, yes. I believe that such a course would be attractive to those who come here for a quick and easy degree."

"And others who live in less gentle cultures." Bartain turned a page. "Why did you come to Ascelius?"

"For knowledge."

"And where better to obtain it." The officer's tone matched the cynicism of his eyes. "Or so those running our universities tell us. Well, to get on-did you provide the emerald and ruby wine?"

"No."

A question he had been asked before-one of thousands repeated in various ways, set in different contexts, aimed like bullets or thrown like feathers. Probes to determine the truth of his story. The chair in which he sat was a, complex lie-detector and the interrogations had been his trial. Were still his trial. The captain was obviously conducting a series of random checks. It was an hour before he dropped the papers and leaned back in his seat.

"You're innocent," he said. "But we had to make certain. Myra Favre was no ordinary woman-as a member of the Tripart faculty she was in a highly sensitive position. And there were certain unusual and disturbing factors-the wine, for example. You drank none?"

"A sip, maybe a little more."

"As your blood tests showed. If you hadn't been so cautious you could have followed her over the parapet. Drugs," he explained. "A mild hallucinogenic coupled with an euphoric and, oddly enough, a strong sedative. A peculiar combination-you would have sensed a mild distortion of reality together with a carefree abandon and a mounting lethargy culminating in sleep. The abrupt change together with the amount she had drunk must have induced a momentary vertigo. The tension she was under could also have been a contributory factor." Without change of tone the officer added, "Did you love her?"

"No."

"But you were willing to stay with her."

"Yes."

"And not for the sake of financial saving-you have no need of money." From a drawer in the desk Bartain took an envelope and shook out its contents. Among them the blade of the knife glittered like ice, the chain of juscar like blue-tinted mist. Stirring it with a finger he said, "Portable wealth carried around a throat or waist. A mercenary's trick-your trade?"

"I've worked as one."

"And as other things too, no doubt." The finger touched the knife. "Madam Blayne reports you as being a dangerous man and I agree with her. One who would let nothing stand in his way. A man willing to lie and cheat and even kill if such things were necessary to gain his ends. If I were a curious man I might be tempted to wonder just what those ends could be?"

"Nothing which would have led me to kill Myra Favre."

"Nothing which caused you to kill her," corrected Bartain. "What you might have done is no concern of this office. We're not interested in speculation." He pushed the scatter of items back into the envelope and threw it at Dumarest. As he caught it the officer added, "But someone provided that wine."

Outside, the streets had the soiled, bedraggled appearance of a party which has lasted too long. Night would restore some of the gaiety with the sound and fury of electronic discharges, blazing shafts of color, drifting balls of luminescence but now, in the leaden light of the early afternoon, the streamers hung like dirty washing, the garlands like limp and flapping rags.

The people reflected the atmosphere. Students huddled in their dun-colored robes, waited impatiently for the festival to end and normal routine to provide the warmth of classrooms, the comfort of dormitories and dining halls. Those who could not afford such luxuries resented the others who robbed them of space and opportunities. Visitors ached from nocturnal enjoyments. Others counted their gains or losses and adjusted their aims. Some merely waited.

Dumarest saw a pair of them as he left the precinct station and turned to his left to pause and turn again to retrace his steps. These were two men, students by their robes, a little too clumsy, a little too careless. Dumarest studied them both as he passed; a glance which took in their boots, their faces, their averted eyes. Men who could have been set as decoys to distract his attention from others who could even now be following him with greater skill.

Dumarest remembered the exotic wine Myra Favre had pressed him to drink. Something she had obtained to enhance the evening as she had obtained the gown, the services of a beautician-how had she been so certain he would return? And why should she have wanted him to sleep?

"Mister?" The inevitable beggar stood with a hand out-stretched, his voice the inevitable whine. "I'm starving, mister. I've no place to sleep. If you don't help me I'll die."

Dumarest felt in a pocket.

"Me too, mister!" A girl this time, face sunken, eyes feral. "Just the price of a meal!"

More joined in, others came running as Dumarest sent coins spinning high, to catch them, to send them up again in a bright, enticing stream.

"Me, mister! Don't forget me!"

"No, me!"

"Me!"

"Me! Me! Me!"

Voices rose to a scream, restraint forgotten as Dumarest flung a shower of money into the air. Small coins spun and bounced, tinkling, to be snatched up or kicked or buried beneath lunging bodies. Another handful completed the confused scramble and, as Dumarest moved on, the pair he'd noted were caught up in the surge and swept to one side.

Had they been agents of the Cyclan?

Men could have waited in hope of easy prey-even though civilized Ascelius wasn't proof against thieves, and Bartain had mentioned the desperation induced by the cold. Aside from a scrap of overheard gossip Dumarest had no proof that the Cyclan were on the planet or that Myra Favre had been in contact with a cyber. It was time to eliminate doubt.

"Earl!" Jussara smiled at him from the screen. "How nice of you to remember me!"

"How could I forget?"

"You flatter me."

"No-I simply tell the truth."

"Which could be flattery in itself." Her smile faded a little. "I was sorry to hear about Myra. A tragic loss and you must be desolate. Why didn't you call me before?"

"I was otherwise engaged," said Dumarest dryly. "As you can imagine."

"The proctors-I'd forgotten." Her smile was that of a vixen. "Am I going to see you?"

"It is my dearest wish." He smiled in return. "Just as soon as I clear up a few things. Tonight if I can manage it. Are you free?"

Regretfully she shook her head. "Not tonight, darling."

"Tomorrow?" Without giving her time to answer he added, "I'm too impatient and you must forgive me for being impetuous. Blame your own attraction. I forget I have things to do and could use some help if it's available. At the party you mentioned a name-someone you thought had helped Myra. Okos-if he's good I could use him."

"A cyber doesn't come cheap, darling. Why not try the university computer system? They are adapted to give analogues on stated problems. I assume you're concerned about your future now that poor Myra is dead. Did you actually see her fall?"

"Yes."

"And you tried to save her?"

"Of course, but that isn't why I'm calling. About my future, I mean."

"Of course not." Her smile turned cynical. "You must tell me all about it. Not tomorrow, but the day after? Can you make it then, Earl?"

"The day?" His tone left no doubt as to his meaning. "I was hoping to share dinner with you."

"That would be nice. Call me in the afternoon and we'll fix the time and place."

A smile and she was gone, the screen turning a nacreous white as the connection was broken. A doubt resolved but it brought little comfort. Myra had known the cyber. If she had seen him Okos would know of his presence, had anticipated it, perhaps, the prediction later verified. Was that why she had invited him to be her guest? Bribed to hold him in a silken snare? Did it account for the wine-lying in a drugged sleep he would have been easy prey. And why had Bartain held him so long?

He had phoned from a hotel and outside the streets were waking to a sluggish activity as shadows clustered at the foot of buildings and darkened the mouths of alleys. Dumarest plunged down one, took another, traced a wide-flung path of apparently aimless movement, finally plunging into an area of small shops and winding paths. In a store he bought a student's robe, picking one too large, worn, not torn but far from new. When next he hit the streets his face was shielded by a cowl, his bulk swollen by the voluminous garment, his height lessened by a stoop. His camouflage was less efficient than it seemed-putting a man into uniform does not make him invisible to his fellow soldiers. And aping a student meant he had to act like one.

"Not here!" A young man, hard, brash, his robe clean, bright with badges, held up a blocking arm. "This tavern's reserved for Schrier." He saw the badges on Dumarest's robe. "You don't even belong to the Tripart-this area's not for you."

Dumarest looked at him, at the pair who had come to join him. Relatively rich, spoiled, enjoying their moment of power. The owner of the place would tolerate them for the guaranteed custom they brought. To argue was to invite attention and worse.

He said, "I'm new. Just landed. Looking for somewhere to spend the night."

"Enrolled?"

"Yes."

"At Brunheld," said the youth. "At Nisen and Kings if those badges are to be believed. You'll find a place over to the west. Angeer's-they take anyone."

Dumarest moved down the street, masking his gait, eyes watchful from beneath the shadow of the cowl. Soon there would be a reawakening of gaiety with crowds thronging the main avenues in dancing processions, with women shrieking their mirth or outrage, men drunk and poised on the edge of violence. Thieves would be busy and assassins unseen. At such a time a wise man sought refuge.

Dumarest moved on toward the field, swinging away from it as the ships came into sight, heading north in the thickening shadows. The festival was ending-tonight was its finish. When the ships left tomorrow he wanted to be with them. But first he had to pass the night.

The woman said harshly, "You want more soup?"

Dumarest shook his head.

"Then out!" She jerked her thumb at the shelves lining the far end of the room behind the counter, the hourglasses on them. "You've had your time."

To stay he would need to buy more soup; a small bowl of tasteless swill, but if that was the cost he would pay it. He scowled as, delivering it, she demanded the money.

"A quarter? It was-"

"The price doubles after dark." Impatiently she snapped her fingers. "Give! The heat's got to be paid for, the lights, the shelter from the wind. The bench you're sitting on, the table, the bowl, the whole damned setup. If you don't like it the door's over there."

Outside, the street was now scummed with ice, wind carried the burning touch of iced razors. A bleak area lacking the warmth of crowds, the shelter of massive buildings.

But, as a student, he was expected to complain.

"It's robbery. I'll report you to the university council and the student body. I'll have you-"

"Blasted and blacklisted and bedeviled-I've heard it all before. Now that's off your chest you staying or not?" Her fingers snapped again. "A quarter and no more argument."

He paid and lifted the bowl as she slouched back to the counter there to turn the hourglass. A woman with lank, dirty hair, a long, skinny body covered with a dingy gown, she matched the place she ran, the stained benches, the scarred tables, the uneven floor. The roof was low, the lights dim, other customers bulks of shapeless anonymity. Voices stirred the air like the rustle of dead and drifting leaves; arguments, discussions, the balancing of relative values as applied to certain teachers, the rare chuckle of amusement, the more common rising of an insistent tone.

"Pell has something, I swear it. The experiment was startling in its implications. He got his sensitives-you know that bunch of freaks he uses in his paraphysical studies at Higham — and directed them to apply their combined intelligence on the selected victim."

"A student in his class?"

"Yes, of course, but one chosen at random and the whole point is that the subject didn't know he'd been chosen. Well, after a while we all began to notice signs of abnormal behavior. He grew irritable, seemed unable to relax, made stupid mistakes. Then he grew terrified and swore that people were after him. A classic case of paranoia. And all caused by the product of directed thinking."

"Maybe." His companions wasn't impressed. "There are other explanations. I've heard of Pell and he isn't too reliable. He isn't above managing things so as to get a positive result of an experiment if he has to."

"You accuse him of fraud?" The speaker snorted his impatience. "That's the easy way out-blame the man conducting the experiment and just ignore his findings. They were genuine, I tell you."

"But hardly as startling as you seem to think. It's well-known that one subject can influence another-any mental health worker will tell you that. One of the occupational hazards of dealing with the insane is the danger of distorted reality. So just what has Pell proved?"

"Induced paranoia by directed mental concentration. It must be obvious that the implications…"

The voice died to a whisper as if the speaker had suddenly become aware of the others in the room. In a corner a man woke to the woman's prod, to gasp and fumble for a coin for the soup she served him. Stuff he didn't want and he slumped to snore again over the cooling bowl. When his time was up she would throw it back into the pot to be sold again.

A shrewd operator, thought Dumarest, watching her. The price fixed at just the right level. A quarter veil an hour-but in the winter the nights were twelve hours long. Three veil a night for the sake of watered mush and a score rested on the benches. Most would stay-for two veil they could buy space in a community dorm and get eight hours use of the floor, but they would get no food. And in a dorm there was no light by which to study.

He slumped, pretending to doze, thinking of Myra and the way she had died, seeing her face as she had fallen, hair and gown fluttering in the wind, the oval of her face a screaming blob as she had dropped to smash into a bloody pulp on the ground below. A woman misjudged, perhaps, she could have been nothing more than she had seemed, the wine a foolish prank or the result of ignorance. Yet for him to trust another was to place his life in their hands. And she had died too soon-there had been questions he'd wanted to ask, details he needed to know. She and Boulaye had spent time together on Alba as she had admitted, but she had returned alone and long before the man had resumed his duties at the university. Where had he gone during that time? What had he found?

Things now he might never know and Dumarest tasted the bitterness of regret. If he had asked while he had the chance, forced the pace, demanded her full attention-but to press too hard would have been to lose all. A woman sensitive, easily alienated, once she turned stubborn what could he have done?

Now it was too late and what had he gained?

A name, Erce, another, Circe, or perhaps the two were one, the first a distortion of the second or the other way around. This discovery was denied by the man who had later claimed to his wife to have made it-a claim Dumarest believed. The possibility that Boulaye had visited more than one world but no proof as to which. The attention of the Cyclan could lead to his death.

When would they strike?

He shifted on the bench as the night dragged on, easing his weight to avoid cramps, acting the part of a man sleeping and uneasy in his rest. There were shiftings as students left, their places taken by new arrivals who sat shivering despite the thermal protection of their robes. The bad turn of the weather would hasten the end of the festival. Near to dawn a crowd thrust into the room, cowled figures with snow thick on their robes. Two came to sit beside Dumarest, pressing close on either side, bringing the touch of blizzard cold.

"Soup!" one yelled then added, "It's bad out there. You could fall and freeze and never be noticed."

This was an unasked-for comment and Dumarest wondered why he had made it. Wondered too why the men sat so close. As the woman left after serving the soup he moved, trying to rise, to find himself trapped by the bodies which pressed against him. The bodies retched and doubled beneath the stabbing thrust of his elbows.

Outside wind and snow had turned the streets into a blurred and freezing confusion.

Dumarest ran, stumbled over a curb, fell to roll and rise wearing a white camouflage. From behind him he heard shouts, saw a glow of light quickly extinguished by the closing of the door, tensed as the sharp blast of a whistle cut through the wind. The men were acting in concert and he could guess why.

He moved on, head bent to avoid the driven flakes, boots padding on a cushion of snow. The wind was from the north and he headed away from it, letting it urge him south toward the field. An obvious path to take but it was a time for simplicity and those hunting him could think him too devious to do something so natural. At a junction wind, caught by the buildings, rose in a twisting vortex which funneled snow up and outward to create a node of clarity. In the pale light of imminent dawn Dumarest saw the waiting bulk of a man, another to one side, figures which advanced as he watched, hands lifting to point as if holding weapons.

"You there! Halt! We are proctors!"

Dumarest didn't wait to test this claim as he darted down a side street, plunged again into snow to turn at the mouth of an opening and again head south. The freak storm which had brought the blizzard ceased as rapidly as it had come and, when he reached the field, only vagrant gusts sent clouds of snow streaming like mist over the dirt and the ships standing on it.

Vessels touched now with masking whiteness, rearing like the towers of fantasy, some blotched with light from open ports, others dark, a few with men busy at their bases. Other figures, apparent loungers, but who would stand around in such weather and what was there to see?

Dumarest studied the ships. The nearest was locked and dark, that beyond had an open port with a couple of men inside, the one after had men busy loading bales from a snow-covered pile-work which meant the vessel was in a hurry to leave. Beyond it was a ship with an open port, the next had gaping hatches, the one after was dark.

To gain passage on any would take time but details could be settled once he was aboard. The one loading-an extra man among the rest could easily be missed. The one with two men? Added numbers could increase the chance of argument. One with an empty port could be the best choice-if he were given a choice at all.

Dumarest tensed as the whistle shrilled from behind. It sounded close, riding high against the wind. Gusts suddenly combined to create a brief resumption of the storm, sending clouds of snow over the field in a blinding swirl of whiteness-hiding the ships, the men, the figure of Dumarest as he raced from his position toward the field, the vessels he had noted.

Luck didn't last. Even as he reached them the wind died, distant shouts sounding thin, others, closer, loud with menace. A figure loomed before him, a hand lifted the club it held swinging toward his head. Dumarest dodged to one side, struck at the arm and felt bone snap beneath the edge of his stiffened palm. The man cried out and fell back to be replaced by others; shapes which became blurred with snow, seeming to vanish, to multiply, to be all around.

Dumarest spun, striking out, feeling the jar of flesh against his hands, the shock as something smashed against his temple. A club fell as he drove his fist into an open cowl, feeling the yield of cartilage, the warmth of blood from the pulped nose.

"Earl! This way, Earl!"

The voice rose above the wind, guiding him toward a blob of light, an open hatch, the figure standing limned in the glow.

"Hurry, Earl! Hurry!"

He felt a hand on his arm and tore free to race forward and dive head-first through the opening. He heard the port slam shut as he rolled on the deck, the rasp of locking bars as he rose to stare at the woman before him.

Charisse Chetame said, "It seems, Earl, that once again you owe me your life."