Eloise

"Of course. I have ridden too long with the minstrel. His romancing has affected me; at times I even find myself using his words. Once, on Zendhal I-but never mind. A man should not dwell in the past. Yet it is true that Arbush seems to have a wealth of odd scraps of information."

"Of Earth, perhaps?"

Shalout shrugged. "That you must ask him."

* * * * *

He sat where Dumarest had last seen him, crouched over the table in the salon, busy with his gilyre. Frowning he tuned the strings, listened, tuned them again, plucked a rill of chords and impatiently pushed the instrument away.

"Useless," he said as Dumarest joined him. "The notes are too shrill, too high. Quick-time has its blessing, but the enjoyment of music is not one of them. You wish to play?"

"Later."

"Your fortune, then."

"It has been told before."

"But not by me." Arbush reached out and took Dumarest's right hand, turning it so as to study the palm. For a long moment he concentrated, the fingertip of his free hand tracing the lines, their conjunctions. "Were you a woman I would use flattery and the older you were, the more I would use. Promises of loves to come and riches to be gained. Good health and stirring adventures of the heart. Instead I-"

He broke off, leaning closer, a subtle change coming over him so that the mask of banter turned into a thing more serious.

"You have killed, Earl, often; that I can see. There is much blood on your hands. Blood and sadness and great loss. An unhappy childhood, a lonely time; and there are long journeys made under the shadow of extinction."

Traveling Low, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead, lying in caskets meant for the transportation of beasts; risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap transportation.

The converse of High, in which the use of quick-time eased the tedium of the longest journey.

Dumarest said, dryly, "Now tell me something I do not already know."

"The future?" Arbush glanced up, his eyes intent. "There is danger, that is plain. Relentless enemies and- other things."

"Such as?"

"Death. With you it is very close. A familiar companion. And luck, more than your share. I think it would be wise to reconsider my invitation to play."

"Then let us talk." Dumarest pulled his hand free from the other's grip. "Tell me what you know of the Original People."

A veil fell across Arbush's eyes. "I do not understand."

"You mentioned them. The men of old who left the planet of their birth. You want the pure source?" Dumarest's voice deepened to hold the rolling echoes 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."

"An intriguing concept, Earl, but obviously a barren one. How could all the peoples of the galaxy ever have lived on one world? Think of the numbers, the differences, it doesn't make sense."

"A world can be populated by a handful of settlers," reminded Dumarest. "And mutations could have caused the changes."

"True, but-"

"Terra," said Dumarest softly. "Another name for Earth. Tell me about Earth."

"A legendary world."

"So Shalout told me. I think you know better. How did you learn of the name? Why make a point of mentioning it?"

"For effect." Arbush leaned back, his eyes clear, calm in his composure. "The fabric of a song, no more. A device to titillate the sense of adventure. I picked up the name- somewhere, I forget just where. The fragment of legend also. Perhaps at a lecture I attended when young. Something overheard from a private conversation. Sit in any tavern and your ears will be assailed with rumors." He reached for a deck of cards. "Shall we play?"

"Later."

"I have disappointed you, but that cannot be helped. Ask what I know and the answers are yours. How Beint hurt his arm, for example. You have seen the engineer's hand. He was careless one night and was attacked in a dark alley by someone who carried a poisoned blade. The nerves are gone."

"The damage could be repaired."

"True, a regrowth, obtained on any decent world--with money, Earl. Beint does not have the money." Arbush turned over a card, the jester. Quietly he added, "He would do a lot to get it."

"And Shalout?"

"Beyond hope by now. The fungoid is eating itself into his brain. But he could spend what remains of his life in luxury-if he had the money."

"And you!"

Arbush turned over another card, the lady. He followed it with the lord. "Men, women and fools," he murmured. "And which one is you? Not the woman and not, I think, the fool." Riffling the deck he said, blandly, "Shall we play?"

* * * * *

The cabin had a door which didn't fit; a lock which now, for some reason, failed to work. The ventilator carried sounds of metallic impact, an off-center fan or one with a broken blade; sound enough to disguise the whisper of voices. Dumarest listened, then jumped down from the bunk to the floor. On the cot lay the hypogun he had already used; his system normal, the effects of quick-time neutralised.

When they made their move, he would be ready for them.