Ziantha had to use all her control to keep from
cowering flat on the landing stage with her suited body. Overhead
(if there could be “over” or “under” in
space) was a threatening mass. They had slept, for how long she
never knew, and then awakened, to transfer to another ship which
had brought them to the outer ring and through the concealing
barrier which protected Waystar.
Such a barrier as perhaps a writer of fantasy tri-dees might
have conceived—that was Waystar’s first defense. For it
was a mass of derelicts and parts of derelicts, as if a giant fleet
of some great stellar confederacy had been wrecked by deliberate
intent, brought here by traction beams, and welded and tied to form
a jagged cover about the station.
Beyond that mass of tortured metal was a stretch of free space,
which was reached by traversing a “tunnel” through the
wreckage. Centering that was a station which had plainly been the
result of intelligent planning and construction. At either end was
a landing stage and the rest was encased in a crystalline surface
pitted and mended many times. But to land on one of those stages
and see the massive roofing of twisted metal overhead was to
produce in one, Ziantha thought, the sensation of being under a
hammer about to descend. That it had not closed upon the
fragile-seeming station in all the generations it had been in
position did not somehow reassure her in the least.
Even once Yasa had drawn her into the entrance lock, the memory
of that weight around the station was daunting. To the girl’s
surprise there was a weak gravity within, though how that was
maintained she never discovered.
The center was hollow, completely surrounded by corridors and
balconies. A greenish light, giving the most unhealthy and
unpleasant cast to the faces of the inhabitants, diffused from the
walls. And those inhabitants were a mixed lot—X-Tee aliens
equaling humanoids in number. In the few moments it took them to
leave the lock and traverse a portion of one way, Ziantha saw even
more outré forms than she had ever viewed on Korwar, which
was famous for being the crossroads of many stellar lines.
The gravity was so weak that it was necessary to hold to bars
set into the walls, and there were curved rods with handholds to
rise and descend to the various levels. However, Yasa apparently
knew the way, traveling at a brisk speed toward one of the upper
levels.
Here were very faint tracings of patterns which might once have
been painted on the walls, perhaps by those who fashioned this
station long before the coming of Ziantha’s kind into space.
But these were so dimmed that one could make little sense of them;
a geometric angle, a curve here and there, was all that could be
traced.
They came to a door guarded by a human in space leather, one of
the forbidden lasers on his hip, its butt near his hand. But at the
sight of Yasa he stepped aside and let them enter. The room beyond
was such a crowded space that there was too much to sort out in the
first glance, or even the fifth.
The furnishings had apparently been gathered with no thought of
harmony; there were pieces which could have been ripped from half a
hundred plundered ships. Some were intended for the use of humans,
others for alien accommodation. What they had in common was a
display of ornate riches (or what had once been that, for they were
now battered and dingy).
Stretched at length in the midst of this storehouse of stolen
goods was the veep Yasa had chosen to consult about the artifact.
He snapped his fingers as they entered and a green-skinned Wyvern
male scuttled forward to push and pull out two hassocks for their
seating. But the veep did not rise in greeting, only lifted his
hand in Yasa’s direction in a slight salute.
The Salarika, who on Korwar was accorded the full deference for
not only her sex but her standing in the Guild, apparently here was
not worthy of formality. But if she were piqued by this reception,
she showed no sign of it.
This veep, like his quarters, was a mixture of both magnificence
and slovenly disorder. Unlike many beings they had passed outside,
he showed almost pure Terran descent in his person, though his
clothing was barbaric. Like the heads of mercenaries of some
centuries earlier, his skull was shaved save for an upstanding
roach of black hair, the stiffness of which was reinforced by a
band of green-gold metal. And from this circlet a fine koro stone
depended, to rest against his forehead.
His skin was the brown of a spaceman, and there were purposely
shaped scars running from the corner of each eye to his chin on
either side of his mouth, giving his features a cruel frame, as if
living flesh had been carved to produce a mask meant to
terrify.
Breech-leggings of a very soft and pliable fur—white with
a ripple pattern—covered him to the waist. Above that was the
full-dress tunic of a Patrol Admiral, black-silver, with all the
be-gemmed stars and decorations such an officer was entitled to
wear. The sleeves had been cut away. On his bare arms, just below
his elbows, were cuff bracelets of iridium, one thickly set with
Terran rubies, the other with rows of vivid blue-and-green
stones.
There was a tray resting across his thighs, but it held no
dishes. Instead there was something there so exquisitely beautiful
that it was totally out of place in this barbaric setting. It was a
miniature garden, with tiny trees, bushes, and a lake in which a
minute boat sailed for an island that was a single mountain of
rock. Ziantha’s attention followed it as the Wyvern carried
it to a table.
The veep spoke Basic in an educated voice that did not match his
pirate chieftain’s dress.
“My garden, gentle fem. This is the best one can do on
Waystar, where nothing will grow. But this is of spice wood, with
scented water for its lake. One can hold it, close the eyes, and
wander in one’s imagination—a substitute for the real,
but it must serve.”
Yasa was holding one of her scent bags to her nose, no longer
able to do without the reviving stimulation her species needed. The
veep smiled, the scars rendering that stretch of lips no more
attractive than the grimace of a night demon would have been.
“My apologies, gentle fem. Waystar is rich in many
things—including odors, but not of the kind your people
delight in. So let us return to business before you discover you
can no longer get any reviving sniffs from your supply of lily
petals. Your message was received. Perhaps I can serve you, perhaps
not—there are difficulties, and arrangements.” Again he
smiled.
Yasa’s smile matched his, with some of the same merciless
quality in it. “Of a truth, how could it be otherwise? I am
prepared, Sreng, to discuss it at length.”
For a moment there was silence as their eyes met. Ziantha knew
that any bargaining would be a fiercely fought action. But, since
they needed each other, terms would eventually be met. The Salarika
had not given her much information as to what they sought here at
Waystar, save to say that the riddle of where the artifact might
have come from would be best answered by those she could meet
there.
“We have used the computer to reckon the coordinates which
you sent us,” he said. Perhaps Yasa’s recognition of
the need for bargaining satisfied Sreng. “There is a possible
mapping. What do you do now?”
Yasa looked to Ziantha. “We shall search—”
Ziantha’s hands tightened on the box she held. She knew
what Yasa meant, but she mistrusted her own powers for this; she
was not trained to it. What if she could not deliver? Did this
Sreng have some sensitive of his own who would then take over? But
that would mean relinquishing the box’s contents to another,
and she believed that Yasa would consent to that only on direst
necessity.
The technique of such a search was age old, known to every
sensitive. But not all had the talent to use it effectively. And,
while she knew it had been applied to planet maps, could it be so
used on a star map? She hoped that Yasa did not expect too much,
and that they might lose advantage to this veep because she,
Ziantha, could not search.
“We need rest, a little,” Yasa said now with a
certain note of authority in her voice which argued that she
considered herself, even in Waystar, to be also a veep whose
well-being was to be reckoned on.
“Your desire is my wish—” He made a mockery of
that formal reply. “SSssfani will show you to quarters,
which, though most rough compared to your own holding, gentle fem,
are unfortunately the best we can offer. When you are ready, you
have only to send word and we shall to work.”
The Wyvern led them farther along the same corridor to a chamber
furnished with the same looted jumble. When he had departed Yasa
turned briskly to the girl.
“Rest you well, cubling. It now lies on you—”
As she spoke her hands moved under the edge of her shoulder scarf
in a complicated pattern. Ziantha read the signals.
Snooper rays! Of course in such a place as this those were to be
suspected. She probably dared not even try mind-touch—they
would be surrounded by more than one type of detect.
“I shall do my best, Lady.” She settled on an
eazi-rest, which adjusted to her comfort more smoothly than she
expected from its battered appearance. Yasa had gone to the food
server on the wall and was fingering the dial as she read its code.
She sniffed.
“Limited, but at least it will keep life in our
bodies—all synthetics. Not much better than E-rations.”
She seemed only too willing to give her opinion, especially if
their host was listening.
Ziantha made do with the tube of concentrate which was
Yasa’s selection. It was highly nourishing, she knew, even if
there was a flatness of taste. She lay back in the eazi-rest. One
part of her dreaded the coming test; another wanted it to happen as
soon as possible, to learn if it would be success or failure. But
here she must follow Yasa’s lead. She was supposed to be
resting, though her anticipation would not allow that.
There was something else. As she lay back and closed her eyes,
clearing her mind, building up her psychic energy, she was aware of
a—stirring. In no other way could she describe that odd,
disquieting feeling that nibbled at the edge of her inner
awareness.
A little alarmed, Ziantha concentrated on that area of faint
disturbance. The sensation came and went like the lightest of
nudges. Now she was sure that it was not born from some layer of
her own subconscious. She was being scanned! Though the touch was
so faint she could not hope to trace it.
But perhaps Sreng had a sensitive trying her. Only
this—Ziantha could not push away the thought that that touch
was not trying to gauge her strength of talent— It
was—
Confused, she raised her defenses. What had she sensed
in that moment or two? Mind-touch. However not with the force she
expected from a test. Rather as if some questing net had been
thrown over Waystar, or this portion of it, merely to see if there
was another sensitive within range.
Ziantha tried to be logical. Sreng would have known in advance
who and what she was. Yasa would have made no secret of it. This
could be some rival of the veep, intent on gaining
knowledge—it could be a Guild representative checking on
Yasa. Whoever it was, she believed it the enemy.
But she had so little to give Yasa in confirmation of what she
had felt. Best keep quiet until she was entirely sure that she had
been touched. Only, keep her own defenses up from now on.
The girl was still on the alert when they returned to
Sreng’s crowded room, where there was now a difference. Some
of the furniture had been ruthlessly cleared away to make room for
a table on which was spread a star map. To Ziantha it had little
meaning, since she was no astrogator. But that would argue in her
behalf if she received any message from the artifact. Concentrating
on the lump, even as she unboxed and held it between her hands, she
moved it out to hold over the map, beginning a slow progress from
left corner to right. So far there was nothing in return.
She had covered nearly three quarters of the map when there was
a change. It was as if the lump warmed to life. From it came a
sharp mental picture, so very clear that she felt as if what she
saw existed, that she could reach out and touch a rock, a
wind-blown bush!
“Rocks—” she spoke without knowing she did so
until she heard her own voice. “There are trees, a
road—yes, a road—it leads to— No!” She
might have hurled the lump from her at that moment, but it was as
if her own flesh were fastened to its surface and she could not
free herself from that touch any more than she could free herself
from the cloud of terror that entrapped her, until that was all the
world and there was nothing else. She thought she
screamed—cried for help!
The cloak of fear fell away, leaving her sobbing, so shaken she
was weak and would have fallen had Yasa not supported her.
“Death—death! Death in the dark. In the tomb with
Turan—death!”
Who was Turan? Now she could not remember. She must not! Sreng
leaned over the table to make quick marks on the map. The lump was
free now in her hold. She thrust it away from her so that it slid
along the map, would have fallen to the floor had not Sreng caught
it, keeping his hand upon it as he looked at them.
“A tomb as you guessed, gentle fem,” he spoke to
Yasa. “Dare we hope unlooted? At least this system is unknown
according to our records. Which is a good sign. What else have you
learned, girl? This piece has been in your keeping; surely you have
picked up more.”
Dumbly Ziantha shook her head. She was still shaking from the
aftermath of that panic.
“It is death—death waiting—” she said
dully.
“Death waits in every tomb,” commented Yasa.
“But whatever was there to frighten has long since gone. This
is true Forerunner.”
“Which in no way certifies that all danger has been
eradicated by time,” was Sreng’s answer. “Though
the rewards may be beyond price, the danger can be great. Sometimes
there are traps. One may find a Scroll of Shlan or be crushed by an
ingenious deadfall.”
Yasa smiled. “Does not one each day play a game of chance?
I did not come here to listen to warn-offs, nor are you one to sit
and give them, Sreng—unless time has softened you. You speak
of Shlan—that emperor who was buried with the greatest art
treasure of his time encasing his body as a shroud. And that is
only one of the finds that has been made. What of Var, and Llanfer,
and the Gardens of Arzor, the whole planet of Limbo? Do I need to
list the others? This is a chance to hunt in a section where no one
else has yet searched.”
Sreng looked at the chart. “At least not yet,” he
said. “If Jucundus—”
Yasa interrupted him. “He has made no move, we know that.
But it may be a matter of time. He needs only to have a
psychometric reading. However”—she smiled
again—“if he has not, he cannot now.”
“You”—the veep turned to
Ziantha—“this Turan you babbled of, who was
he?”
She did not hold that memory. “It is a name, no
more.”
His stare did not change, but she believed he thought she was
lying. What would happen now? Would he put her under a scanner? She
was so afraid, she could not control the tremor in her hands,
waiting for that fate to come. But he said nothing, instead looked
again at the lump, rubbing one finger across its back.
Ziantha stiffened. Had he detected the seam? Would he now open
it? Instead, he gave the artifact a push in her direction.
“Keep it with you, girl. I am told the power of these
things increases if they continue in a sensitive’s hold. We
shall need your direction again. It is well”—he spoke
now to Yasa—“this is worth the use of a ship. Iuban is
in orbit. He had only an abortive raid on Fenris and is under
obligation to me for supplies. A class D Free Trader convert. Rough
travel, gentle fems—”
“Deep sleep will answer that,” Yasa returned.
“We have no wish to be cabin passengers on such a ship. You
will time-lock our sleep boxes.”
“How wise of you, gentle fem,” his menace-smile
showed two teeth almost as fanglike as Yasa’s own.
“Deep sleep and time locks—set so myself. Iuban is
my man, however.” Those last words were a warning
which Yasa accepted with a surface good humor. To Ziantha the
Salarika veep seemed uncommonly trusting. But perhaps here she
could do no more than accept Sreng’s arrangements.
Where was Ogan? Since their transfer to the shuttle which had
brought them to Waystar after their first awakening, they had seen
nothing of him. But that he was to be ruled out of this venture,
Ziantha did not believe.
The rest of their stay on Waystar was short, and they kept to
the chamber Sreng had assigned them. Twice more Ziantha was aware
of that elusive scan. It had first alarmed her, but later she
sought it, her curiosity aroused. It was not mechanically induced,
of that she was certain. The touch was that of a living
entity—Ogan? But the wave length seemed different. And she
thought it was not seeking her so much as pursuing some purpose of
its own.
They joined Iuban’s ship and were again boxed for the
voyage. From what Ziantha had seen of the ship and its crew, to be
so sealed from them was an excellent choice. Once more she prepared
to sleep away time with the lump beside her. If she had dreamed any
dreams induced by its proximity before, she had not remembered
them, and this second time she did not fear the long sleep.
When they were aroused, Iuban’s ship was already in orbit
around a planet, and he summoned Yasa and Ziantha to the control
cabin to watch through the visa-screen the changing view of the
world below.
“Where do we set down, gentle fem?” he asked
harshly.
He was young, or young seeming, for his command, and not
unhandsome—until one saw the dead chill of his eyes, which
made him the semblance of a man without warmth or emotion. Perhaps
he was of mutation or crossbreed, for his hands were six-fingered
and his ears mere holes. By the way his space tunic fitted Ziantha
guessed that he had other body peculiarities.
It was plain that he had tight command of his motley crew. And
it was also apparent that he united in his person the ruthlessness
of a top-rated Jack captain with an intelligence that might differ
in part from the Terran but in its own way was of a high level.
Yasa put her hand on Ziantha’s arm. “Where?”
she asked the girl. “Have you any guide?”
As Ziantha hesitated, unable to answer, Iuban uttered an
impatient sound. Then he added:
“We have neither time, manpower, nor supplies, gentle fem,
to search the whole planet. Besides”—he touched a
button and the scene on the visa-screen
sharpened—“that’s no territory to search. By the
looks, it’s been near to a burn-off down there.”
Ziantha had seen in the video-history tapes the records of
planets burned off, not only in war, but in some ancient disaster.
Some were cinder balls; on others, mutant and ofttimes radioactive
vegetation straggled, attempting to keep a few forms of life in the
pockets between churned and twisted swaths of soil and recooled
molten rock.
From the picture now flitting before her as the ship swung in
orbit, she could see that some disaster, either manmade or a vast
convulsion of nature, had struck this unknown world. There were
great, deep-riven chasms, their rims knife-sharp; stretches of what
could be only deserts, with, at great intervals, some touch of
color suggesting vegetation. They were over a sea now, one
manifestly shrunken to half its former size.
But she had no guide—
Fool! There was Singakok. It was as if a ripple had crossed the
screen. She saw a city, rich land around it. Why, she could easily
distinguish the Tower of Vut, long avenues, the—
“There!”
But even as she cried that aloud, Singakok was gone. There was
only rock and more rock. Ziantha shook her head.
Singakok—Vut—the avenues—from whence had come
those names? How had she seen a city, known it as if she had walked
its pavements all her life? They had asked her and she had seen it,
as if it were real! Yet it could not have been.
Iuban no longer gave her any attention. He spoke to the
astro-navigator. “Got it?”
“Within measurable error, yes.”
She must tell them, not let them land because of that weird
double flash of sight. Then prudence argued that she leave well
enough alone. It might be that the artifact had given her vision of
something which had once existed on that site, and, since they had
picked up nothing else of any promise that was as good a place as
any to begin looking. Yet she was uneasy at Iuban’s quick
acceptance, and of what might happen should her suggestion prove to
be wrong.
They strapped down for a landing that had to be carefully
plotted in that rough country. Nor did they stir from their places
until the readings on atmosphere and the like came through. For all
its destroyed surface, it registered Arth-type One, and they would
be able to explore without helmets and breathing equipment.
But they had landed close to evening and Yasa and Iuban agreed
not to explore until morning. He turned his own cabin over to the
women, staying in the control section above. When they were alone
Ziantha dared to make plain her fear.
“This may not be what you wish—” she said in a
half-whisper, not knowing if some listening device could be now
turned on them.
“What made you select it then?” Yasa wanted to
know.
Ziantha tried to describe those moments when the picture of
Singakok had flowed across the screen, a city which seemingly no
longer existed.
“Singakok, Vut,” Yasa repeated the names.
“That is the closest I can say them,” the girl said.
“They are from another language—not Basic.”
“Describe this city, try to fix it in your mind,”
Yasa ordered.
Detail by detail Ziantha strove to remember that fleeting
picture. And she found that the harder she tried to remember, the
more points came clearer in her mind. As if even now she could
“see” what she strove to describe.
“I think you have had a true seeing,” Yasa
commented. “When Ogan arrives, we can—if we have not by
then located any trace—entrance you for a far-seeking
reading.”
“Then Ogan comes?”
“Cubling, did you think that I throw away any advantage
blindly? We needed Sreng’s computer records. In their way
they are more complete than even those of Survey, since they deal
with sections of the starways even the Survey Scouts have not fully
pioneered. But to then meekly make a pact with Waystar—no,
that is not what any but a fool would do! Ogan will have traced us.
He brings with him those sworn to me alone. Whatever treachery
Sreng contemplates through Iuban and such trash will not avail. Now
listen well—if we find traces of your city tomorrow, well and
good. We must keep Iuban tail down here until Ogan arrives. But
play your guiding well; delay all you can—try not to bring us
to this tomb of Turan until we do have reinforcements of our
own.”
Tomb of Turan—the words rang in Ziantha’s mind.
There was a stir deep down—not of memory (how could it be
memory?) but of intense fear. She was instantly awake.
Ziantha had to use all her control to keep from
cowering flat on the landing stage with her suited body. Overhead
(if there could be “over” or “under” in
space) was a threatening mass. They had slept, for how long she
never knew, and then awakened, to transfer to another ship which
had brought them to the outer ring and through the concealing
barrier which protected Waystar.
Such a barrier as perhaps a writer of fantasy tri-dees might
have conceived—that was Waystar’s first defense. For it
was a mass of derelicts and parts of derelicts, as if a giant fleet
of some great stellar confederacy had been wrecked by deliberate
intent, brought here by traction beams, and welded and tied to form
a jagged cover about the station.
Beyond that mass of tortured metal was a stretch of free space,
which was reached by traversing a “tunnel” through the
wreckage. Centering that was a station which had plainly been the
result of intelligent planning and construction. At either end was
a landing stage and the rest was encased in a crystalline surface
pitted and mended many times. But to land on one of those stages
and see the massive roofing of twisted metal overhead was to
produce in one, Ziantha thought, the sensation of being under a
hammer about to descend. That it had not closed upon the
fragile-seeming station in all the generations it had been in
position did not somehow reassure her in the least.
Even once Yasa had drawn her into the entrance lock, the memory
of that weight around the station was daunting. To the girl’s
surprise there was a weak gravity within, though how that was
maintained she never discovered.
The center was hollow, completely surrounded by corridors and
balconies. A greenish light, giving the most unhealthy and
unpleasant cast to the faces of the inhabitants, diffused from the
walls. And those inhabitants were a mixed lot—X-Tee aliens
equaling humanoids in number. In the few moments it took them to
leave the lock and traverse a portion of one way, Ziantha saw even
more outré forms than she had ever viewed on Korwar, which
was famous for being the crossroads of many stellar lines.
The gravity was so weak that it was necessary to hold to bars
set into the walls, and there were curved rods with handholds to
rise and descend to the various levels. However, Yasa apparently
knew the way, traveling at a brisk speed toward one of the upper
levels.
Here were very faint tracings of patterns which might once have
been painted on the walls, perhaps by those who fashioned this
station long before the coming of Ziantha’s kind into space.
But these were so dimmed that one could make little sense of them;
a geometric angle, a curve here and there, was all that could be
traced.
They came to a door guarded by a human in space leather, one of
the forbidden lasers on his hip, its butt near his hand. But at the
sight of Yasa he stepped aside and let them enter. The room beyond
was such a crowded space that there was too much to sort out in the
first glance, or even the fifth.
The furnishings had apparently been gathered with no thought of
harmony; there were pieces which could have been ripped from half a
hundred plundered ships. Some were intended for the use of humans,
others for alien accommodation. What they had in common was a
display of ornate riches (or what had once been that, for they were
now battered and dingy).
Stretched at length in the midst of this storehouse of stolen
goods was the veep Yasa had chosen to consult about the artifact.
He snapped his fingers as they entered and a green-skinned Wyvern
male scuttled forward to push and pull out two hassocks for their
seating. But the veep did not rise in greeting, only lifted his
hand in Yasa’s direction in a slight salute.
The Salarika, who on Korwar was accorded the full deference for
not only her sex but her standing in the Guild, apparently here was
not worthy of formality. But if she were piqued by this reception,
she showed no sign of it.
This veep, like his quarters, was a mixture of both magnificence
and slovenly disorder. Unlike many beings they had passed outside,
he showed almost pure Terran descent in his person, though his
clothing was barbaric. Like the heads of mercenaries of some
centuries earlier, his skull was shaved save for an upstanding
roach of black hair, the stiffness of which was reinforced by a
band of green-gold metal. And from this circlet a fine koro stone
depended, to rest against his forehead.
His skin was the brown of a spaceman, and there were purposely
shaped scars running from the corner of each eye to his chin on
either side of his mouth, giving his features a cruel frame, as if
living flesh had been carved to produce a mask meant to
terrify.
Breech-leggings of a very soft and pliable fur—white with
a ripple pattern—covered him to the waist. Above that was the
full-dress tunic of a Patrol Admiral, black-silver, with all the
be-gemmed stars and decorations such an officer was entitled to
wear. The sleeves had been cut away. On his bare arms, just below
his elbows, were cuff bracelets of iridium, one thickly set with
Terran rubies, the other with rows of vivid blue-and-green
stones.
There was a tray resting across his thighs, but it held no
dishes. Instead there was something there so exquisitely beautiful
that it was totally out of place in this barbaric setting. It was a
miniature garden, with tiny trees, bushes, and a lake in which a
minute boat sailed for an island that was a single mountain of
rock. Ziantha’s attention followed it as the Wyvern carried
it to a table.
The veep spoke Basic in an educated voice that did not match his
pirate chieftain’s dress.
“My garden, gentle fem. This is the best one can do on
Waystar, where nothing will grow. But this is of spice wood, with
scented water for its lake. One can hold it, close the eyes, and
wander in one’s imagination—a substitute for the real,
but it must serve.”
Yasa was holding one of her scent bags to her nose, no longer
able to do without the reviving stimulation her species needed. The
veep smiled, the scars rendering that stretch of lips no more
attractive than the grimace of a night demon would have been.
“My apologies, gentle fem. Waystar is rich in many
things—including odors, but not of the kind your people
delight in. So let us return to business before you discover you
can no longer get any reviving sniffs from your supply of lily
petals. Your message was received. Perhaps I can serve you, perhaps
not—there are difficulties, and arrangements.” Again he
smiled.
Yasa’s smile matched his, with some of the same merciless
quality in it. “Of a truth, how could it be otherwise? I am
prepared, Sreng, to discuss it at length.”
For a moment there was silence as their eyes met. Ziantha knew
that any bargaining would be a fiercely fought action. But, since
they needed each other, terms would eventually be met. The Salarika
had not given her much information as to what they sought here at
Waystar, save to say that the riddle of where the artifact might
have come from would be best answered by those she could meet
there.
“We have used the computer to reckon the coordinates which
you sent us,” he said. Perhaps Yasa’s recognition of
the need for bargaining satisfied Sreng. “There is a possible
mapping. What do you do now?”
Yasa looked to Ziantha. “We shall search—”
Ziantha’s hands tightened on the box she held. She knew
what Yasa meant, but she mistrusted her own powers for this; she
was not trained to it. What if she could not deliver? Did this
Sreng have some sensitive of his own who would then take over? But
that would mean relinquishing the box’s contents to another,
and she believed that Yasa would consent to that only on direst
necessity.
The technique of such a search was age old, known to every
sensitive. But not all had the talent to use it effectively. And,
while she knew it had been applied to planet maps, could it be so
used on a star map? She hoped that Yasa did not expect too much,
and that they might lose advantage to this veep because she,
Ziantha, could not search.
“We need rest, a little,” Yasa said now with a
certain note of authority in her voice which argued that she
considered herself, even in Waystar, to be also a veep whose
well-being was to be reckoned on.
“Your desire is my wish—” He made a mockery of
that formal reply. “SSssfani will show you to quarters,
which, though most rough compared to your own holding, gentle fem,
are unfortunately the best we can offer. When you are ready, you
have only to send word and we shall to work.”
The Wyvern led them farther along the same corridor to a chamber
furnished with the same looted jumble. When he had departed Yasa
turned briskly to the girl.
“Rest you well, cubling. It now lies on you—”
As she spoke her hands moved under the edge of her shoulder scarf
in a complicated pattern. Ziantha read the signals.
Snooper rays! Of course in such a place as this those were to be
suspected. She probably dared not even try mind-touch—they
would be surrounded by more than one type of detect.
“I shall do my best, Lady.” She settled on an
eazi-rest, which adjusted to her comfort more smoothly than she
expected from its battered appearance. Yasa had gone to the food
server on the wall and was fingering the dial as she read its code.
She sniffed.
“Limited, but at least it will keep life in our
bodies—all synthetics. Not much better than E-rations.”
She seemed only too willing to give her opinion, especially if
their host was listening.
Ziantha made do with the tube of concentrate which was
Yasa’s selection. It was highly nourishing, she knew, even if
there was a flatness of taste. She lay back in the eazi-rest. One
part of her dreaded the coming test; another wanted it to happen as
soon as possible, to learn if it would be success or failure. But
here she must follow Yasa’s lead. She was supposed to be
resting, though her anticipation would not allow that.
There was something else. As she lay back and closed her eyes,
clearing her mind, building up her psychic energy, she was aware of
a—stirring. In no other way could she describe that odd,
disquieting feeling that nibbled at the edge of her inner
awareness.
A little alarmed, Ziantha concentrated on that area of faint
disturbance. The sensation came and went like the lightest of
nudges. Now she was sure that it was not born from some layer of
her own subconscious. She was being scanned! Though the touch was
so faint she could not hope to trace it.
But perhaps Sreng had a sensitive trying her. Only
this—Ziantha could not push away the thought that that touch
was not trying to gauge her strength of talent— It
was—
Confused, she raised her defenses. What had she sensed
in that moment or two? Mind-touch. However not with the force she
expected from a test. Rather as if some questing net had been
thrown over Waystar, or this portion of it, merely to see if there
was another sensitive within range.
Ziantha tried to be logical. Sreng would have known in advance
who and what she was. Yasa would have made no secret of it. This
could be some rival of the veep, intent on gaining
knowledge—it could be a Guild representative checking on
Yasa. Whoever it was, she believed it the enemy.
But she had so little to give Yasa in confirmation of what she
had felt. Best keep quiet until she was entirely sure that she had
been touched. Only, keep her own defenses up from now on.
The girl was still on the alert when they returned to
Sreng’s crowded room, where there was now a difference. Some
of the furniture had been ruthlessly cleared away to make room for
a table on which was spread a star map. To Ziantha it had little
meaning, since she was no astrogator. But that would argue in her
behalf if she received any message from the artifact. Concentrating
on the lump, even as she unboxed and held it between her hands, she
moved it out to hold over the map, beginning a slow progress from
left corner to right. So far there was nothing in return.
She had covered nearly three quarters of the map when there was
a change. It was as if the lump warmed to life. From it came a
sharp mental picture, so very clear that she felt as if what she
saw existed, that she could reach out and touch a rock, a
wind-blown bush!
“Rocks—” she spoke without knowing she did so
until she heard her own voice. “There are trees, a
road—yes, a road—it leads to— No!” She
might have hurled the lump from her at that moment, but it was as
if her own flesh were fastened to its surface and she could not
free herself from that touch any more than she could free herself
from the cloud of terror that entrapped her, until that was all the
world and there was nothing else. She thought she
screamed—cried for help!
The cloak of fear fell away, leaving her sobbing, so shaken she
was weak and would have fallen had Yasa not supported her.
“Death—death! Death in the dark. In the tomb with
Turan—death!”
Who was Turan? Now she could not remember. She must not! Sreng
leaned over the table to make quick marks on the map. The lump was
free now in her hold. She thrust it away from her so that it slid
along the map, would have fallen to the floor had not Sreng caught
it, keeping his hand upon it as he looked at them.
“A tomb as you guessed, gentle fem,” he spoke to
Yasa. “Dare we hope unlooted? At least this system is unknown
according to our records. Which is a good sign. What else have you
learned, girl? This piece has been in your keeping; surely you have
picked up more.”
Dumbly Ziantha shook her head. She was still shaking from the
aftermath of that panic.
“It is death—death waiting—” she said
dully.
“Death waits in every tomb,” commented Yasa.
“But whatever was there to frighten has long since gone. This
is true Forerunner.”
“Which in no way certifies that all danger has been
eradicated by time,” was Sreng’s answer. “Though
the rewards may be beyond price, the danger can be great. Sometimes
there are traps. One may find a Scroll of Shlan or be crushed by an
ingenious deadfall.”
Yasa smiled. “Does not one each day play a game of chance?
I did not come here to listen to warn-offs, nor are you one to sit
and give them, Sreng—unless time has softened you. You speak
of Shlan—that emperor who was buried with the greatest art
treasure of his time encasing his body as a shroud. And that is
only one of the finds that has been made. What of Var, and Llanfer,
and the Gardens of Arzor, the whole planet of Limbo? Do I need to
list the others? This is a chance to hunt in a section where no one
else has yet searched.”
Sreng looked at the chart. “At least not yet,” he
said. “If Jucundus—”
Yasa interrupted him. “He has made no move, we know that.
But it may be a matter of time. He needs only to have a
psychometric reading. However”—she smiled
again—“if he has not, he cannot now.”
“You”—the veep turned to
Ziantha—“this Turan you babbled of, who was
he?”
She did not hold that memory. “It is a name, no
more.”
His stare did not change, but she believed he thought she was
lying. What would happen now? Would he put her under a scanner? She
was so afraid, she could not control the tremor in her hands,
waiting for that fate to come. But he said nothing, instead looked
again at the lump, rubbing one finger across its back.
Ziantha stiffened. Had he detected the seam? Would he now open
it? Instead, he gave the artifact a push in her direction.
“Keep it with you, girl. I am told the power of these
things increases if they continue in a sensitive’s hold. We
shall need your direction again. It is well”—he spoke
now to Yasa—“this is worth the use of a ship. Iuban is
in orbit. He had only an abortive raid on Fenris and is under
obligation to me for supplies. A class D Free Trader convert. Rough
travel, gentle fems—”
“Deep sleep will answer that,” Yasa returned.
“We have no wish to be cabin passengers on such a ship. You
will time-lock our sleep boxes.”
“How wise of you, gentle fem,” his menace-smile
showed two teeth almost as fanglike as Yasa’s own.
“Deep sleep and time locks—set so myself. Iuban is
my man, however.” Those last words were a warning
which Yasa accepted with a surface good humor. To Ziantha the
Salarika veep seemed uncommonly trusting. But perhaps here she
could do no more than accept Sreng’s arrangements.
Where was Ogan? Since their transfer to the shuttle which had
brought them to Waystar after their first awakening, they had seen
nothing of him. But that he was to be ruled out of this venture,
Ziantha did not believe.
The rest of their stay on Waystar was short, and they kept to
the chamber Sreng had assigned them. Twice more Ziantha was aware
of that elusive scan. It had first alarmed her, but later she
sought it, her curiosity aroused. It was not mechanically induced,
of that she was certain. The touch was that of a living
entity—Ogan? But the wave length seemed different. And she
thought it was not seeking her so much as pursuing some purpose of
its own.
They joined Iuban’s ship and were again boxed for the
voyage. From what Ziantha had seen of the ship and its crew, to be
so sealed from them was an excellent choice. Once more she prepared
to sleep away time with the lump beside her. If she had dreamed any
dreams induced by its proximity before, she had not remembered
them, and this second time she did not fear the long sleep.
When they were aroused, Iuban’s ship was already in orbit
around a planet, and he summoned Yasa and Ziantha to the control
cabin to watch through the visa-screen the changing view of the
world below.
“Where do we set down, gentle fem?” he asked
harshly.
He was young, or young seeming, for his command, and not
unhandsome—until one saw the dead chill of his eyes, which
made him the semblance of a man without warmth or emotion. Perhaps
he was of mutation or crossbreed, for his hands were six-fingered
and his ears mere holes. By the way his space tunic fitted Ziantha
guessed that he had other body peculiarities.
It was plain that he had tight command of his motley crew. And
it was also apparent that he united in his person the ruthlessness
of a top-rated Jack captain with an intelligence that might differ
in part from the Terran but in its own way was of a high level.
Yasa put her hand on Ziantha’s arm. “Where?”
she asked the girl. “Have you any guide?”
As Ziantha hesitated, unable to answer, Iuban uttered an
impatient sound. Then he added:
“We have neither time, manpower, nor supplies, gentle fem,
to search the whole planet. Besides”—he touched a
button and the scene on the visa-screen
sharpened—“that’s no territory to search. By the
looks, it’s been near to a burn-off down there.”
Ziantha had seen in the video-history tapes the records of
planets burned off, not only in war, but in some ancient disaster.
Some were cinder balls; on others, mutant and ofttimes radioactive
vegetation straggled, attempting to keep a few forms of life in the
pockets between churned and twisted swaths of soil and recooled
molten rock.
From the picture now flitting before her as the ship swung in
orbit, she could see that some disaster, either manmade or a vast
convulsion of nature, had struck this unknown world. There were
great, deep-riven chasms, their rims knife-sharp; stretches of what
could be only deserts, with, at great intervals, some touch of
color suggesting vegetation. They were over a sea now, one
manifestly shrunken to half its former size.
But she had no guide—
Fool! There was Singakok. It was as if a ripple had crossed the
screen. She saw a city, rich land around it. Why, she could easily
distinguish the Tower of Vut, long avenues, the—
“There!”
But even as she cried that aloud, Singakok was gone. There was
only rock and more rock. Ziantha shook her head.
Singakok—Vut—the avenues—from whence had come
those names? How had she seen a city, known it as if she had walked
its pavements all her life? They had asked her and she had seen it,
as if it were real! Yet it could not have been.
Iuban no longer gave her any attention. He spoke to the
astro-navigator. “Got it?”
“Within measurable error, yes.”
She must tell them, not let them land because of that weird
double flash of sight. Then prudence argued that she leave well
enough alone. It might be that the artifact had given her vision of
something which had once existed on that site, and, since they had
picked up nothing else of any promise that was as good a place as
any to begin looking. Yet she was uneasy at Iuban’s quick
acceptance, and of what might happen should her suggestion prove to
be wrong.
They strapped down for a landing that had to be carefully
plotted in that rough country. Nor did they stir from their places
until the readings on atmosphere and the like came through. For all
its destroyed surface, it registered Arth-type One, and they would
be able to explore without helmets and breathing equipment.
But they had landed close to evening and Yasa and Iuban agreed
not to explore until morning. He turned his own cabin over to the
women, staying in the control section above. When they were alone
Ziantha dared to make plain her fear.
“This may not be what you wish—” she said in a
half-whisper, not knowing if some listening device could be now
turned on them.
“What made you select it then?” Yasa wanted to
know.
Ziantha tried to describe those moments when the picture of
Singakok had flowed across the screen, a city which seemingly no
longer existed.
“Singakok, Vut,” Yasa repeated the names.
“That is the closest I can say them,” the girl said.
“They are from another language—not Basic.”
“Describe this city, try to fix it in your mind,”
Yasa ordered.
Detail by detail Ziantha strove to remember that fleeting
picture. And she found that the harder she tried to remember, the
more points came clearer in her mind. As if even now she could
“see” what she strove to describe.
“I think you have had a true seeing,” Yasa
commented. “When Ogan arrives, we can—if we have not by
then located any trace—entrance you for a far-seeking
reading.”
“Then Ogan comes?”
“Cubling, did you think that I throw away any advantage
blindly? We needed Sreng’s computer records. In their way
they are more complete than even those of Survey, since they deal
with sections of the starways even the Survey Scouts have not fully
pioneered. But to then meekly make a pact with Waystar—no,
that is not what any but a fool would do! Ogan will have traced us.
He brings with him those sworn to me alone. Whatever treachery
Sreng contemplates through Iuban and such trash will not avail. Now
listen well—if we find traces of your city tomorrow, well and
good. We must keep Iuban tail down here until Ogan arrives. But
play your guiding well; delay all you can—try not to bring us
to this tomb of Turan until we do have reinforcements of our
own.”
Tomb of Turan—the words rang in Ziantha’s mind.
There was a stir deep down—not of memory (how could it be
memory?) but of intense fear. She was instantly awake.