Текст книги "Eye of the Zodiac"

Автор книги: E. C. Tubb

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"Wrong on both counts," he said curtly. "You have and you will. Can you fly a raft?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I've got one on the roof. Now listen, this is what I want you to do."

She frowned as he explained. "Now?"

"Now." Before the alarm could be given, the authorities begin to investigate. And before the cyber, sitting like a gaunt red spider in his web, could learn new facts with which to build a prediction to gain him high rewards, and the Cyclan could get what they wanted most of all.

The secret which had been stolen from one of their hidden laboratories. The correct sequence in which the fifteen molecular units needed to be joined, in order to create the affinity twin.

Kalin had passed it on to him, the girl with the flame-red hair Earl would never forget. Brasque had stolen it, destroying the records, dying in turn to keep it safe. Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to determine dominant or submissive characteristics.

An artificial symbiote which, when injected into the bloodstream, nestled at the base of the cortex and took control of the entire nervous and sensory systems. The brain containing the dominant half would take over the body of the host. Literally take over. Each move, every touch, all sound and sight and taste, all would be transmitted. In effect, it gave an old man the power to become young again in a new, virile body. A body he would keep until it was destroyed, or his own died.

It would give the Cyclan the galaxy to use as a plaything.

The mind of a cyber would reside in each and every ruler and person of consequence. They would be helpless marionettes moving to the dictates of their masters. Slaves of the designs of those who wore the scarlet robes.

They knew of the secret and would discover it in time. But too much time, the possible combinations ran into millions, was needed to test them all. Even at the rate of one every second, it would take four thousand years.

Dumarest could cut that time down to a handful of hours. Once they had him they could probe his brain, learn what they needed to know, advance their domination like a red stain spread on the stars.

"Earl?"

He blinked, conscious that he had fallen into a reverie, hovered on the brink of sleep. Standing, he looked at the woman. She wore a casual gown, a flower in her hair, too much paint on her face. The scent of her perfume was overpowering.

"Is this what you wanted, Earl?"

"Yes." He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Make no mistake, girl. My life is in your hands now. You know what to do?"

"I know."

"Good." He turned, picked up the bottle of brandy, spilled the contents over her hair, her shoulders, her gown. "Then let's go."

Chapter Six

It was late and Dach Lang was tired. For five hours he had stood guard at the gate. Now it was his turn to make a patrol around the inner perimeter of the fence. A long journey and a useless one. The summit was fitted with alarms. If anyone tried to climb the mesh, they would be shocked and caught. Yet the orders had been plain.

"Dach!" The figure approaching was muffled, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, his collar turned high. Haw Falla felt the chill. "A bad night," he grumbled. "And still hours to wait before dawn. This kind of thing makes a man wish for his bed."

"You're late."

"I had things to do." Falla shrugged aside the accusation. "A man has his needs."

Too many and too often as far as Falla was concerned, but that was his problem. Dach checked his watch, made a notation on his pad and tucked the book away. Three minutes late. With luck they could make it up, but in any case he was in the clear. Two-man patrols, the orders had said, and a two-man patrol it would be.

"Let's get on our way."

It was growing cold, the wind from the sea carrying a drift of rain, sparkles clinging to the mesh of the fence, glittering like minute gems beneath the glow of the floodlights. An artistic scene, but one which neither man appreciated. They kept their eyes down, searching for holes, for strangers.

Not that it was easy. The ships stood close, crewmen busy, making a straggling line from their vessels to the gate. Accustomed to the freedom of space they resented the new restrictions, the checks and questions at the gate. There had been a little trouble, a couple of fights, some broken heads.

Well, to hell with them. Dach had his own problems. He brooded on them as Falla led the way around the perimeter. Sulen was fully grown now and getting rebellious. Mari didn't help, what with her spendthrift ways. A woman should look after her daughter, take a closer interest in what she was getting in to. Instead, she spend hard-earned money on clothes and paint which made her look like a creature from a seraglio. A shame and a disgrace to any decent, hard-working man. And the chances were high that if he went home now, she would be out or not alone.

"Dach!" Falla halted, staring up at the sky. "What the hell-look, a raft!"

It swept down low, almost touching the summit of the fence, veering over the field as alarms sounded from the gate. From it came the sound of singing, high-pitched laughter, the trill of a woman's voice.

"The stupid bitch!" Falla began to run, waving his arms. "Hey, you up there! You crazy or something?"

Insane or drunk, the only reasonable explanation. No one flew over a field, the risk was too great. With ships leaving and landing at any time, the air-displacement would wreck any smaller craft. A fact Dumarest had known, a risk he had taken.

He lay flat in the body of the raft, invisible from below, tensing as the vehicle jerked beneath Ayantel's inexperienced hands. She was acting well, a little too well. Only by a tremendous effort did she avoid being thrown over the edge.

"Careful!"

"I can manage," she whispered. Then, loudly, "Hey, down there! You wanna drink? You wanna join the party? Hows about us all getting together?"

"Mad," said Dach. "Stinking drunk and crazy. Watch out!"

He ducked as the raft swept over his head, dropped to vanish behind a ship, lifted again immediately to swing towards them, to smack against the ground.

"Whew!" Ayantel fanned herself, then reached for a bottle. "That was rough. Here, friends, help yourself!"

A spoiled bitch, the product of decadent luxury, half-naked, stinking of liquor, out on a crazy spree. Yet she had to be rich, or have wealthy friends. Rafts were expensive on Tradum, especially the small, personal-carrier kind.

Dach slowed as Falla gripped his arm.

"Take it easy, now. Handle her gently."

"She should be canned!"

"Sure, but what'll it get you?" Gifted with the survival cunning of an animal Falla moved closer to the raft, the woman it contained. "Now, madam," he said soothingly, "you shouldn't be here. I'll have to take care of you. If you'll just step out of that raft-"

"Go to hell!"

"It's for you own protection. I'll call your friends and have them take you home. You don't want to risk your pretty neck in a place like this."

"Here!" Falla dodged as a bottle swept towards his head. As it landed with a shatter of breaking glass, the raft lifted. "So long, boys-buy yourselves a drink!"

Money fluttered down, a shower of notes, landing as the raft lifted over the fence. Too high to be stopped, and to shoot it down was to invite later trouble.

"Falla, she's-"

"Get the money, man!" Falla was practical. "We can't stop her now."

No one could stop her. Within minutes she would land, change, vanish into the night. The harlot had appeared unrecognizable as the woman who sold meats at a stall.

Dumarest rose from where he had jumped, keeping the bulk of a ship between himself and the guards. The loading port was open, a handler staring interestedly at the couple chasing the scattered wealth.

"When you leaving?"

"What?" He turned, looking at Dumarest. "Not until noon."

"Anything due earlier?"

"The Hamanara, she's loaded and set. And there's the Golquin over to your right. Say, did you see that dame in the raft?"

"A looker."

"You can say that again." The handler sighed, enviously. "Rich too. See how she scattered that loot? Hell, some men have all the luck. You looking for a passage?"

"That or a berth."

"Try the Golquin. Their steward had an argument at the gate and got his head broken. You could be lucky."

* * * * *

It was a vessel which had seen better days. The plates were stained, scarred, patches breaking the smooth lines of the original design. The ramp was worn, the lights dim beyond the open port, the air filled with a musty taint due to ancient filters and bad circulation. The captain matched his ship.

He stood glowering in the passage leading into the heart of the vessel, a squat man with suspicious eyes, heavy brows which joined to form a russet bar, a short beard which hid a trap of a mouth.

"A berth?"

"If you have one, Captain, yes." Dumarest added, casually, "I heard that your steward ran into some trouble."

"He was drunk and a fool. You've handled the job before?"

"Yes."

"If you're lying you'll regret it." Captain Shwarb rocked back on his heels, thinking. "The gate," he said. "Did you have trouble coming through?"

"None-what's it all about anyway?"

"Damned if I know or care. Can you operate a table?" Shwarb grunted at Dumarest's nod. "Good. Well, this is the deal. No pay, hard work and a half of what you win is mine. Take it or leave it."

A hard bargain, but Dumarest was in no position to argue. "I'll take it, Captain. When do we leave?"

"In thirty minutes. You bunk with Arishall. We're bound for Mailarette." He added, grimly, "A warning. You look straight, but you could be kinked. If I catch you using analogues you go outside. Understand?"

Arishall was the engineer, one of fading skill and advancing years. A quiet man with mottled skin and pale blue eyes. He rose from his bunk as Dumarest entered the cabin and introduced himself.

"The new steward, eh?" Arishall waved to a cabinet. "That's yours. Urian's about your size so his gear should fit. Want some advice?"

"Such as?"

"Stay off kicks. The captain-"

"I know. He told me."

"Don't think he doesn't mean it. He lost his wife to a guy who thought he was a gorilla. Since then he can't stand anyone who uses analogs. I can't say that I blame him. A man's a man, why the hell he should want to adopt the characteristics of a beast I can't imagine. You drink?"

"At times."

"With me it's medicine." Arishall produced a bottle and drank from its neck. "This is between us, right?"

Dumarest nodded, opening the cabinet and taking out the uniform it contained. It was clean, the colors bright, and stripping he donned it. A box held a hypogun and a container of drugs, quicktime and the neutralizer. Checking the instrument, Dumarest loaded it with ampules from the container.

"How many crew?"

"Me, Shwarb, Dinok the navigator."

"No handler?"

"I double up and you help me if I need it." The engineer drank from the bottle again. "The Golquin's a free trader-or didn't you know?"

The condition of the vessel had told him that, the minimum crew made it obvious. Operating on a low budget, making a profit where and how it could, the crew paid by shares after all expenses had been covered. Some free traders were better than others-the Golquin was one of the worst.

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I knew."

"And you don't care?"

"Working a passage is better than paying."

"And you've worked on free traders before, right?" Arishall pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded. "Good. It helps. Do a good job and maybe Shwarb will offer you a regular berth. He's hard, but fair." He took a final drink. "Well, I'd better get with it. See you, Earl."

The alarm sounded twenty minutes later. Dumarest made the seal-check and reported to the control room. Two minutes later he felt the vibration of the drive, the lift of the vessel as the Erhaft field was established, carrying the ship up and out towards the stars. A manmade missile moving at a velocity against which that of light was a crawl.

Taking the hypogun, he went into the salon. Five passengers were riding High; a grizzled mining engineer, a suave entrepreneur, a trader and two women, neither of them young, both of them retiring from the stress of an ancient profession before they bit the bottom. One smiled as he approached.

"This is a bonus. A steward who looks like a man. Can you give a girl relaxation if she can't sleep, mister?"

"Cut it out, Hilma," said her companion tiredly. "If you hope to pick up a husband on Mailarette you'd better learn to watch your tongue."

"Old habits, Chi." The woman shrugged. "But I guess you're right. Well, friend, where do you want to put it?"

"In the neck."

Dumarest lifted the hypogun as the woman tilted her head, firing the charge of drug into her bloodstream. The reaction was immediate. She seemed to freeze, to become a statue as her metabolism slowed. Each act, the blink of an eye, a breath, the lift of a finger took forty times longer than normal.

Within seconds the other passengers had been treated. As Dumarest turned from the last, he saw a man standing and watching from the door of the salon.

"So you're Dumarest," he said. "I'm Dinok, the navigator."

His uniform was impeccable, the material carrying the sheen of newness, braid and insignia gleaming with polish. A small man, fastidious in his appearance, Dinok wore his hair short, his face hairless aside from a thin mustache. His hands were smooth, the nails polished, neatly filed.

"Neat," he approved, glancing at the passengers. "You hit them where it counted. I like to see a man who knows his work."

"Did Shwarb send you to check?"

"Would you care if he did?" Dinok shrugged, not waiting for an answer. "Now you clean the cabins, prepare the basic, fill the hoppers and then get to work at the table." He glanced at where cards and dice stood on an expanse of green baize. "If it's your style to cheat, don't get caught."

Dumarest lifted the hypogun. "When do you want it?"

"The captain and me take care of ourselves. Give Arishall a shot after you've done the chores-but I guess you know the system." Dinok pursed his lips as he stared at the women, the men. "Scum," he said. "But the best we can hope for. If you get tips you'll be lucky."

Dumarest caught the note of disdain in the man's voice and could guess the reason. Dinok had been used to better things. An officer, perhaps, on a luxury vessel where a part of his duty would have been to entertain. A good job for a man with the inclination to do it– one he would have hated to lose.

He said, casually, "When did they book?"

"We got them from the agent, some could have been waiting for weeks. But you? What made you join the Golquin?"

"I needed the job."

"Don't we all?" Dinok scowled, a man caught in a trap of his own making. Drink or drugs, or an alliance with the wrong woman at the wrong time. Something had sent him on the downward path which, as yet, hadn't ended. That would come when he grew careless about his appearance, casual as to his duties. Then, he would be kicked out to rot on some lonely world. "Well, Earl, I'll leave you to it. Watch out for the entrepreneur-I don't trust his type."

* * * * *

Ren Dhal was smooth, skilled, deft with the dice and clever with the cards. A man who had established a small business on Tradum, selling out when the opposition grew too strong. Moving on now to seek fresh opportunities.

"They're everywhere," he said as he sat at the table. "But it takes a smart brain to recognize them. On Heiglet, for example, I noticed that three taverns were competing. I arranged a merger, raised the prices and took a nice profit. All it required was some fast talking."

Dumarest dealt the cards, playing without real interest, merely doing a part of his job. As always on any journey, life had settled into a routine. Play and talk passed the time. Work a little more when, the quicktime in his blood neutralized, he attended to what had to be done.

The cabins searched, baggage checked, looking for any signs that the passengers were not exactly what they claimed to be. He had found nothing suspicious.

"Time to eat," he announced, and went to draw the rations of basic. Elementary food, a liquid thick with protein, sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins and essential elements. A cup would provide enough energy for a day.

The trader grunted as he accepted his ration. A dour man who spent long hours studying lists of figures, computing his margins of profit. He rarely spoke and seemed to hold a grievance against the grizzled engineer who had formed an attachment with one of the women, careless as to her past.

"Food." Chi pulled a face. "Is that what you call it? Hilma, we could be making a mistake. On Tradum, at least we had something decent to eat."

"And will again." Hilma glanced at the engineer. He was old, but he had money and was as good as she could hope to get. Smiling she said, "To the future, Gramon, may it be pleasant."

"I'll drink to that." He sipped, beaming. "It'll be good to settle down. I've had enough of traveling and I've breathed in all the rock dust my lungs will take. Say, Chi, I've a friend who might be interested in you. A farmer-you got objections to living on a farm?"

The nearest thing to hell she could imagine, but a man could be changed and, if he owned land, he was worth looking at.

"His own farm?"

"Of course. Warsh and me grew up together. His wife died a decade ago and I figure it's time he got another. Tell you what, I'll fix it up as soon as we land. Have dinner together and talk things over. Agreed?"

They were talking too much, ignoring the table, and Dumarest riffled the cards.

"What'll it be, friends? Starsmash, olkay, nine-nap, spectrum?" They weren't interested, not that it mattered. Dumarest could take Shwarb's disappointment. And, soon now, the journey would be over.

They landed at dawn, when the terminator was bisecting the field, early mist blurring outlines, a thin fog which had not yet burned away. Dumarest stood at the head of the ramp as was expected. Dinok had been right, there were no tips.

"With a bunch like that you're lucky to get a smile," scowled Arishall. "How did you make out at the table?"

"Poor."

"Bad news for the captain." Arishall shrugged. "Well, he can't grumble. In this game you have to take it as it comes. Earl, I need your help."

Dumarest glanced at the field, the mist. It was a good time to leave.

"It won't take long," said the engineer. "A dump-job down in the hold. Some poor devil didn't make it."

He looked very small as he lay in the casket designed for the transportation of beasts, but in which men could ride, doped, frozen and ninety-percent dead. Riding Low, risking the fifteen-percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. A gamble which he had taken once too often.

"A kid," said Arishall. "I didn't want to take him, but Shwarb insisted."

Dumarest made no comment, looking at the ceiling where someone with a touch of imagination had painted a smiling face. A woman's face with liquid eyes and a softly inviting mouth, hair which was wreathed in a mass of golden curls over a smooth brow. Her throat accentuated the slope of the shoulders, the upper curves of barely portrayed breasts which vanished into a depicted cloud, a mass of vapor which framed the portrait with a milky fleece. The last thing Leon Harvey had seen.

"A kid," said Arishall again. "I guessed he wouldn't make it. He was too thin, too puny. He should have waited, fattened himself up-well, to hell with it. It's all a part of the job."

"Something wrong?" Dinok entered the hold and frowned as he looked at the dead boy. "Hell, I know him."

"From where?" Dumarest was sharp. "Nerth?"

"Nerth? No, Shajok. It was his first trip."

"Are you sure about that?"

Dinok shrugged. "I'd gamble on it, Earl. You know how it is with first-timers. No matter how they try to cover it up, it shows. The kid was green. He didn't know enough to argue about the price when Shwarb cheated him. He was in a sweat, eager to get away. Knowing Shajok, I can't blame him."

"Arishall?"

"I remember Shajok, but not the boy," said the engineer. "Urian handled it. I was busy getting a replacement part for the engine. They had him sealed by the time I got back."

"And when he left?"

"Arishall wouldn't remember that, Earl," said the navigator dryly. "He'd taken a little too much of his medicine. We first dropped the boy on Aestellia and he must have moved on to Tradum. I guess he recognized the Golquin and felt at home. Now he's dead. A pity, but that's the way it goes." He stooped, felt under the casket, rose holding the cheap fabric bag Leon had carried in his hand. "Let's see if he left anything worth having."

His clothes, a cheap ring with a chipped stone, a folding knife with a worn blade, a rasp, a thin book, something wrapped in a cloth, a few coins.

Dinok set them aside as he unwrapped the bundle. It contained a slab of gray material six inches long, four wide, three thick; a block of artificial stone which had been roughly carved into the shape of an idol.

"Rubbish." Dinok wasn't disappointed, those who traveled Low carried little else. "A hobby, I guess. It looks as if he'd worked on it. Want it, Arishall?"

"No, nor this junk either." The engineer tossed aside the book. "It's all yours if you want it, Earl. You take the gear and we'll split the coins. A deal?"

"I can use the bag." Dumarest lifted it, filled it with the idol, the book and other items. "I'll dump the rest."

"Talking about dumping, we'd better get on with the job. You'd better lift him, Earl, while I-"

"I've quit," said Dumarest. "Dinok can give you a hand."

* * * * *

The mist was slow in clearing. While it held, traffic would be scanty. A cafe beyond the gate sold a variety of cheap food and drink. Dumarest bought a mug of coffee and sat nursing it, looking at the few others the establishment contained. It was early yet. Later it would fill with workers, transients, crews assembling and killing a little time, agents on the lookout for cheap labor. All potential sources of information. Now there was time for thought.

Leon was dead and his knowledge had died with him. He must have awoken back at the hotel, finding himself alone, rejected, searching town and field for the man he had believed to be a friend, finding the familiar vessel and booking the only passage he could afford.

A boy who had lied as to the planet of his origin. Shajok, not Nerth, and yet under the primitive truth drug he had stuck to that name.

The name-so tantalizingly similar. And the creed of the Original People, that strange cult which believed in a common world of origin for all the diverse races of mankind. A hidden, secret group who sought no converts but who could, perhaps, hold information of value.

Two scraps of succulent bait for anyone setting a trap-and Dumarest had sensed a trap. But the boy was dead and, by his death, he had proved his innocence.

Dumarest sipped at his coffee and then examined the items he had taken. The clothing was exactly what it appeared to be, cheap materials, the seams welded, unbroken. He ran fingers over every inch, finding nothing hidden there. The ring was a tawdry adornment, probably bought to use as a primitive knuckleduster. Dumarest held it up to the light, turning it as he examined the stone, the interior of the band. Holding the metal he struck the stone forcefully against the surface of the table, checking it as it vibrated from the impact. Nothing.

The worn knife, the rasp and bag were what they appeared to be. The block of artificial stone from which the idol was carved was dense, the surface yielding reluctantly to the touch of the rasp. Dumarest examined it, found the surface uncracked, the mass obviously solid. Setting it down, he picked up the book.

It was a thin publication with plastic covers, the pages crammed with a mass of condensed information. A variety of facts and figures, mathematical formulae, chemical compounds, astronomical data, the coordinates of a thousand worlds, a list of survival techniques to be followed in hostile environments. A book which would be the pride of any adventurous youngster. A thing which a new traveler might think of as essential.

Dumarest flexed the covers, narrowed his eyes as he felt an inconsistency. He lifted the knife from his boot and carefully slid the razor-sharp edge along the interior binding. The point slipped into a narrow opening, lifted it to reveal what had been tucked into the pocket thus made.

A photograph. One showing a smiling woman with a strongly boned face, deep-set eyes of a peculiar amber, pale blonde hair drawn back from her face and held with a metal fillet. Her garb was masculine, pants and tunic of dull green. An elder sister, perhaps, or a relative of some kind. But it wasn't the woman who held Dumarest's interest.

She had been shown standing before a wall topped with a peaked roof, a house or repository of some kind. On it, visible against the dull stone, rested a peculiar design.

Dumarest stared at it, narrowing his eyes, following the lines which joined nodules of brightness, as if fragments of broken glass had been joined and incorporated into a symbolic representation.

A fish. Bright points glinting by reflected light, so that the design gained an added impact.

The fish with shining scales!

Dumarest lowered the photograph, leaning back, barely conscious of the increased activity within the cafe. A coincidence, it had to be, one more to set beside the rest-and yet coincidences happened. Leon could have belonged to the Original People-that strange, hidden, quasi-religious cult. They could know of the exact whereabouts of Earth. The design could be a visual part of a mnemonic which had once been told to him on a distant world.

The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, and next the Crab, the Lion, the Virgin, and the Scales. The

Scorpion, the Archer, the Goat, the Water Bearer, and the Fish with shining scales.

The signs of the zodiac. Twelve symbols, each representing a portion of the sky running in a complete circle. Once he found a world surrounded by those signs, he would have found Earth.

A stellar analogue could do it, patterns set up by a computer, constellations arranged as seen from any viewpoint. Once he could feed in the patterns of stars comprising the zodiac the thing would be done, the long search over.

But first he needed to know just what those stars were, their numbers and disposition. Leon's people could provide the answer. And Leon had come from Shajok.

Chapter Seven

It was going to be a good day. Bhol Kinabalu felt it the moment he woke, the feeling reenforced as he drew back the curtains and looked through the window. The wind was brisk from the plains, the pennons set on poles above each house standing steady as they pointed towards the mountains. Opening the window he sniffed at the air, crisp, clean, carrying the scent of ulumen. The harvest promised to be exceptional this year; with only a modicum of luck he would treble his investment.

"My lord." His cheerfulness was contagious. The girl in the bed smiled as she stretched, then sat upright, the covers falling from her naked torso. "Did I find pleasure in your eyes?"

A slight thing, young, yet with a feral determination to survive. Kinabalu could appreciate that as he could appreciate other things; his house, his fortune, the enterprises in which he was involved. He turned from the window, a thick-set, stocky man, his ebon skin glowing with good health. A Hausi, caste marks livid on his cheeks.

"You slept well?"

"Deeply, my lord." Her arms lifted in invitation, falling as, smiling, he shook his head. "No?"

"No." He saw the sudden fear in her eyes and quickly eased her fears. "You please me, girl, but the sun has risen and there is much to do. Hurry now and prepare breakfast. Vinia will tell you what to do."

Vinia who would undoubtedly be jealous, but who was mature enough to recognize that a man needed novelty in his sensuous pursuits. She would train the girl, teach her that there was a time for indulgence, others for food and rest. Demarkations of the day which left the greater proportion of it to the affairs of business.

Business-the very stuff of life to all who belonged to the Hausi.

The meal was simple, tisane, bread toasted and drenched in butter, a portion of sweet compote, a handful of dried fruits. Kinabalu ate slowly, enjoying the tastes and consistency, sipping at the pungent tisane. A good time in which to recall the pleasures of the night, the things needed to be done during the day.

The harvest-it would do no harm to send a man to examine the crop. The farmers were basically honest, yet there always was the temptation to cheat. A little theft was to be expected, but a man sent to check and investigate would keep it to a minimum. Kinabalu made a note and turned to the next item.

The shipment of tools from Elg would arrive today on the Zandel. As agent, he must arrange for their transportation to the Shagrib Peninsular. Mayna Chow would arrange it, but there would be haggling over the cost. Mar Zelm at the warehouse was a little too generous in his pricing of the things brought in for trade. Delia Ogez was late in her payment. True, trade had been poor, but such delay must not be encouraged. The tavern at the end of Quendel Street-Kinabalu sighed as a knock heralded the entry of Vinia.

"What is it?"

"An urgent call from Jalch Moore, my lord. He insists that you speak with him."

"You should have told him that I was out."

"I apologize, my lord, but-"

"Never mind."

Kinabalu rose from the table, conscious of a flaw in the day. Vinia had done it deliberately, of course, a minor revenge for his having brought another woman into the house. A mistake, perhaps, but one now made and to be lived with. As Jalch Moore had to be lived with-but why was the man so persistent?

He glared from the screen, a thin face with deep-set eyes, hair the color of sun-bleached straw, a thin mouth, a chin which sported a tuft of beard.

"Kinabalu!" His voice was an angry rasp. "I've been trying to contact you. Where have you been?"