“Ziantha!”
Not a spoken call to bring her so out of sleep. No, this was a
stir within her mind, though it awoke her so she lay in the cramped
berth looking into the dark—listening—
“Ziantha?”
She had not been dreaming then. Ogan? She sent out a mind-seek
before she thought of the danger that Iuban might be equipped with
some Guild device to pick up and register such activity.
“Harath!” Her recognition of the mental force
meeting hers was instantaneous and left her bewildered. But Harath
must be back on Korwar. Ogan surely had not brought the alien on
this foray. And there was no possible method by which mind-touch
could cross the stellar distance between this unknown planet and
Korwar.
“What—?” Questions crowded. But the beaming of
the other overrode all her own thoughts with the intensity of the
message he would deliver.
“Think—think of me! We must have a reference
point.”
Allies after all—this was what Yasa had warned
of—her following must be guided in. Obediently Ziantha
produced a mental picture of Harath, held that with all the
strength she could summon, pushing aside her curiosity in the need
for providing a beacon guide to those the Salarika expected.
As suddenly as a clap of hands a new message came. “It is
well.”
She was cut off by the rise of Harath’s mind shield.
Having what he needed, the alien had severed connections. And
Ziantha knew of old that communication could not be renewed without
his cooperation.
The girl turned her head. Through the dim night light she could
see Yasa curled up opposite her, hear the soft regularity of her
breathing. The Salarika was asleep. Should she wake her, tell her
Ogan was on the way?
But Harath—how had he come into this? No, she would wait
until she was sure. Twice before morning she mind-called. But if
the alien was still within beam, he would not answer, and she had
to accept that.
They were roused early, and Ziantha, fearful of some snooper,
decided to wait until they were away from the ship before she
relayed her news. Iuban had suited up too, plainly prepared to go
with them. And she must be most careful about awakening any
suspicion.
The Jack captain eyed her while she buckled on belt with ration
pouch and water carrier as if he would like to have added a leash
to keep her to his hand. And she noted at once that he wore a
stunner, but neither she nor Yasa had been offered such a
weapon.
They came out on the ramp, to stand for a moment just beyond the
lock, looking about them at the wild desolation of this broken
country. Her vision of a city—how could she have seen it
here?
This earth was scored by deep crevices, blasted into a land
which had repudiated life before they set foot on it.
Ziantha’s hands, without conscious willing, went to the bag
she had fashioned, the cord of which hung about her neck, so that
the lump rested against her breast. If she were to have any guide,
that would be it.
Yasa moved up beside her.
“Singakok,” the Salarika said softly. “Is
this your city?”
She had good reason to question. In all that mass of tortured
rock that lay about them there was no resemblance to anything
wrought by the work of intelligent beings—unless the
destruction itself could be taken for such evidence.
“I—I do not know!” Ziantha turned her head
from side to side. Where were the tower, the great
avenues—all the rest? Or had that vision been hallucination,
born from some quirk of her own imagination and fed into her mind
as a “seeing”?
“Which way do we cast?” Iuban, two of his men, armed
and ready, caught up with them. “I do not see any signs of a
city here. Are you playing games then?”
Yasa turned on him. “Know you nothing of the art of a
sensitive, sky rover? The talent cannot be forced. It comes and
goes, and sometimes not to any bidding. Let the girl alone; in her
own time and way she shall pick our path.”
There was little expression on his face, nor did his dead eyes
show life. But Ziantha was aware of his emotions none the less,
impatience and disbelief being well to the fore. And she did not
think he would take kindly to any evasion he could detect. Also she
was sure she was not clever enough to play the delaying role Yasa
wanted. If she found any hint of what they sought she must use it
to satisfy him.
It seemed that they were leaving the leadership of this
expedition to her. And, with no way of escape, she walked slowly
down the ramp, stepped out on the barren rock below. There she
fumbled with the bag, unwrapped the lump, held it in her hands.
Ziantha closed her eyes. The answer came with the force of a
blow which nearly beat her to the ground. There was the sensation
that she stood in a city street amid a press of people, with the
passing of strange machines. The force of life feelings, of random
thoughts she could not understand, was so great it made her
giddy.
“Ziantha!” A hand tightened on her arm. She opened
her eyes. Yasa half supported her, the Salarika’s eyes intent
upon her.
“This—is—was a city,” the girl
answered.
Iuban had come to face them. “Well enough, but one we
cannot search now—unless we can turn back time. Where do we
go to look for anything that remains? Can you tell us that,
dreamer?” He made a scoffing challenge of his demand.
There had been no selectivity to that impression of the city.
Ziantha’s hold on the artifact tightened. Suppose she were to
open the crude outer casing, release the jewel inside, would that
lead them to what they sought? But she shrank from that act. Let
her try as long as she could to use it as it was.
“Let me try—” she said in a low voice,
twisting loose from Yasa’s hold. There was a ledge of rock
nearby, and she reached that, to sit down, hunched over the lump.
Wetting her lips, she forced herself to touch it to her
forehead.
It was like being whirled through a vast flow of faces, voices.
They shouted, they whispered, they grew large, dwindled, they spoke
in tongues she had never heard, they laughed, wept, howled,
screamed— She made herself try to steady upon one among the
many, concentrate on learning what she could.
Singakok—Turan! The second name she held to, using it as
an anchor that she might not be carried away in the sea of faces,
deafened by the voices, the clamor of the long-vanished city.
“Turan!” she used the name to demand an answer.
The faces withdrew, formed two lines melting into one another,
their cries stilled. Between the lines moved a shadow procession.
That was Turan, and behind him was her place, her own place. She
must follow—for there was no escape—
“What is she doing?” Very faint, that question.
“Be still! She seeks—” came in answer.
But that exchange had nothing to do with Turan. She must follow
him. The shadows grew no denser, but they remained, a little ahead.
No longer were there faces on either side—only Turan and her
tie to him.
Now and then that scene shimmered, tore, as if it were fashioned
of the thinnest gauze, shredded by a breeze. Then she saw only
distorted rocks and a barren land that was not Singakok. When that
happened she had to stop, call upon Turan, rebuild the vision.
Very dimly she heard chanting, sweet and high, like the caroling
of birds released from captivity, or the thud of drums which were
of the earth, the earth reluctant to lose Turan. Turan—
The shadows were gone, whipped away. Ziantha could not again
summon them. She stood with the artifact before a great rise of
bare red rock, a wall of cliff. But she knew that what she had
sought lay behind it, that the artifact had led her to a place from
which it had once come.
The girl looked back over her shoulder. Yasa, Iuban, his men,
all were watching her.
“What you seek—” she said, the energy fast
draining from her as it always did when she had made such an
effort, “lies there.” She pointed ahead at the rock,
staggering then to an outcrop where she might sit, for she feared
her trembling legs would no longer support her.
Yasa came to her quickly. “You are sure,
cubling?”
“I am sure.” Ziantha’s voice was close to a
whisper. She was so spent in her struggle to hold the vision that
she longed only for rest and quiet, for no more urging to push her
talent.
The Salarika held out two revive capsules, and Ziantha took them
with a shaking hand, put them in her mouth to dissolve slowly.
Iuban had gone to the face of the cliff, was examining it intently,
and at a signal his men split to search left and right.
“I can see nothing—” he was beginning when the
crewman to his right gave a hail. The Jack captain hurried toward
him.
Yasa bent over Ziantha. “I told you—be slow—do
not reveal anything before Ogan comes—”
“He is here, or near.” Ziantha felt the aid of the
revive. “In the early morning I had a
message—”
“Ahhhh—” A purr of satisfaction. “It
goes well, very well, then. And you play no game with Iuban; this
is the place?”
Ziantha regarded the wall. “Turan lies there,” she
said flatly.
But who was Turan—or what? Why should this artifact bind
her to him? She looked at the cliff, and now her fatigue was tinged
with fear. Behind that—behind that lay— She wanted to
scream, to run. But there was no escape, never any escape from
Turan; she might have known that.
Only who was Turan? There seemed to be two identities within her
now. One she knew; it was the Ziantha she had always been. But
another was struggling for life—the one—the
thing that knew Turan—Singakok—the one to whom
she must never yield!
Iuban had been conferring with his crewmen, and one now headed
back toward the ship while the Jack captain came to them.
“There are marks of a sealed way there. We shall have to
laser our way in.”
“With care,” Yasa warned swiftly. “Or do you
have a depth detect for such purposes?”
“With care, and a detect,” he replied. Now he
glanced past the Salarika to Ziantha. “What more can she tell
us? Is this a tomb?”
“Turan lies there,” the girl answered.
“And who is Turan?” he prodded her. “A king,
an emperor, a stellar lord? Is this a Forerunner of a star empire,
or only an ancient of some earthbound planet? What can you tell
us?”
Yasa swept in between them fiercely. “She is
tired—such reading weakens a sensitive. Get that storehouse
open and let her psychometrize some artifact from within and she
can tell you. But she must rest now.”
“At least she brought us here,” he conceded. And
with that he tramped back to the walled-in door. But Yasa sat down
beside Ziantha, putting her arm about the girl’s shoulders,
drawing her close, as she asked in a very low voice:
“Have you contact now with Ogan? It is now he must
come.”
Ogan? Summoning up what strength she had Ziantha formed a mind
picture of the parapsychologist, sent forth mind-search. Harath had
cut communication so summarily earlier she did not try him. The
alien could be capricious on occasion, better aim directly for
Ogan. Only she had no—
Answer? A flash of contact, as instantly gone. Ogan? It was not
Harath, because even so light a touch would have revealed the
alien. This had been wholly human. Ogan, then—but for some
reason unwilling to accept a message. She said as much.
“Do not seek then. There may be a detect he has reason to
fear. But as he did make contact, he will know where we are and the
urgency of the matter. You have done well in this matter, cubling.
Be sure I shall not forget what I owe you.”
The crewman returned, another with him. Between them they
carried a box and a portable laser—of the type used for
asteroid mining. But it was the detect which Iuban first put into
action.
Yasa and Ziantha joined him as he crouched over the box,
studying the small visa-tape on its top.
“An open space, three cycles within,” he reported.
“The tomb chamber perhaps. Low frequency setting to bore us a
door without any side flare.”
He set the laser with care, aiming it twice at nearby rocks to
mark the results before he tried it on the wall. Then he moved the
finger of the beam up and down within the faint lines of the
ancient opening, cutting out a space no wider than a man. The
brilliant beam of a belt torch thrust into the space beyond.
“Let us go to Turan!” Iuban laughed.
Ziantha raised one hand to her throat, the other still cradled
the artifact against her breast. She was choking, she could not
breathe. For a second or two the sensation was so severe she felt
that death itself was a single flicker of an eyelid away. Then the
sensation faded, and she could not fight as Yasa pushed her along
hard on Iuban’s heels through the break in the wall.
The Jack captain’s lamp flooded the space into which they
had come. But it showed dire destruction. This had been a tomb
once, yes, and a richly furnished one. But other grave robbers had
preceded them. There was a wreckage of plundered chests, now
crumbling into dust, objects which had lost their meaning and value
when they had been mishandled by those in search of precious and
portable loot.
“An abort!” Iuban swung the torch back and forth.
“A thrice-damned abort!”
“Be careful!” Yasa cried and caught his arm as he
would have moved forward. “We will not know that until after
a careful, and I mean a very careful, search is made of what is
still here. Tomb robbers often leave what seems of little value to
them, but is worth much to others. So do not disturb
anything—but widen the passage in that we may shift and
hunt—”
“You think anything of value still lies in this
muck?” But he did retreat a step or two. “Well, I think
it is an abort. But if you can make something out of
it—”
Ziantha leaned back against the wall. How could she fight this
terrible fear that came upon her in waves, left her weak and sick?
Did not the others feel it? They must! It penetrated all through
this foul chamber, born not of the wreckage which filled
three-quarters of it, but of something else—something
beyond—
She turned and pushed through the crack of door, feeling as if
that fear were reaching forth great black claws to drag her back.
There was a shout behind, words she could not hear, for the beat of
her own pounding heart seemed to deafen her. Then there were hands
on her, holding her prisoner though she still struggled feebly to
flee that place of black horror.
“Tried to run for it—” Iuban’s voice
over her head. But Yasa touched her, even as the iron grip of the
captain held her.
“What is it?” demanded the Salarika. There was a
note in her hissing voice which Ziantha had to obey.
“Death—beyond the far wall—death!” And
then she screamed for the horror had her in its hold as if that
formless evil rather than the captain kept her from flight,
screamed and screamed again.
A slap across her face, hard enough to shock her. She whimpered
in pain, at the fact that they would not understand, that they held
her captive so close to—to— She would close her mind!
She must close her mind!
And with the last bit of strength she could summon, Ziantha
hurled the artifact from her desperately, as if in that act alone
could she find any safety of body or mind.
“Ziantha!” Yasa’s voice was a summons to
attention, a demand.
The girl whimpered again, wanting to fall on the ground, to dig
into the earth and stone as a cover, to hide—from what? She
did not know now, only that it was terror incarnate, and it had
almost swallowed her up.
“Ziantha—beyond the wall is what?”
“No—and no—and no!” She cried that into
Yasa’s face. They could not use her to destroy herself; she
would not let them.
Perhaps Yasa could read her resolution, for she spoke now to
Iuban. “Loose her! She is at the breaking point; any more
will snap either her talent or her mind. Loose her to
me!”
“What trick is she trying?” Iuban demanded.
“No trick, Captain. But there is something in
there—we had better move with caution.”
“Captain—look here!” One of the crewmen had
knelt beside a rock to the right. He had picked up a shard in which
was nested a glitter of spun silver. The artifact had broken open,
the focus-gem must now be revealed. Iuban took that half of the
figurine, pulled apart the protecting fiber. The gem blazed forth
as if there were a fire lighted in it at this exposure to the open
air. Ziantha heard the crewman give a low whistle. As Iuban was
about to pick out the gem, Yasa spoke:
“Care with that. If it is what I think it may be, then
much is now clear—”
“What it may be—” he echoed. “And what
is that? An emperor’s toy, perhaps?”
“A focus-stone,” she replied. And Ziantha wondered
at how Yasa had so quickly guessed.
“A stone,” The Salarika continued, “used
continually by some sensitive as a focus for power. Such things
build up vast psychic energy over the years. If this is such a one
and Ziantha can use it—why, no secret on this world
pertaining to the race of the one who used it can be hidden from
her. We may have found the key to more riches than a single
plundered tomb!”
“And we may have listened to a likely tale,” he
countered. “I would see this proved.”
“You shall. But not now; she is too spent. Let her rest
while we make certain of what lies within here. And if this does
prove an abort, we can try elsewhere with the stone.”
Yasa would help her, Yasa must help her! Once they were
alone she could explain, let the Salarika know that deadly peril
waited any further dealings with Turan—or this world—or
the focus-stone! If Ogan came, he would know the danger. She could
make him understand best of all that there were doors one must not
open, for behind those lay— Ziantha would not let herself
think of that! She must not!
The girl concentrated on holding that barrier within her so much
that she was no longer entirely aware of what went on about her.
Somehow she had got back to the ship, was lying on a bunk,
shivering with reaction while Yasa gave her reassurance.
“Ogan—” Ziantha whispered. “Ogan must
know—it is very dangerous.”
Yasa nodded. “That I can believe. A stone of
power—able to work through such a disguise. Perhaps only a
linkage dares use it. Now rest, cubling, rest well. I shall keep
these Jacks busy until Ogan comes and we are able to do as we would
about the whole matter.”
That Yasa had given her a sedating drug she knew and was
thankful for. That would push her so deeply into sleep that dreams
would not trouble her. And she carried with her that last
reassurance. A linkage, yes—she, Ogan and Harath working
together might be able to use the focus-stone. But not alone, she
must not do it alone!
She was cold—so cold— She was lost in the dark. This
was a dream—
“—another shot, Captain?”
“Try it. She’s no use to us this way. And when that
she-cat comes out of the one we used on her she’ll be after
us. Give it to this one now.”
Pain and cold. Ziantha opened her eyes. There was a bright light
showing broken things covered with dust, a wall beyond. She was
held upright facing that wall in a grip she could not resist.
Iuban reached out, caught at her hair in a painful hold, for it
was so short his nails scraped her scalp as his fingers tightened.
So he held her to face him.
“Wake up, you witch!” He shook her head viciously.
“Wake up!”
A dream—it must be a dream. This was Turan’s place;
they had no right here. The guards would come and then what would
happen to them would be very painful, prolonged, while they cried
aloud for the death which was not allowed them. To disturb the rest
of Turan was to bring full vengeance.
“She’s awake,” Iuban, still holding her hair
with that painful pull, looked straight into her eyes. “You
will do this,” he spoke slowly, spacing his words as if he
feared she might not understand. “You will take this thing,
and you will look into it and tell us what is hidden here. Do you
understand?”
Ziantha could not find the words to answer him. This was a
dream, it must be. If it was not— No, she could not! She
could not use the stone where Turan lay! There was the gate to
something—
“Ogan,” cried her mind in rising terror.
“Ogan, Harath!”
She met—Harath—and through him, with him, not
Ogan—a new mind, one which greeted her search with a surge of
power. Hold for us, it ordered.
“She has to handle the thing, I think,” someone
behind her said.
“Take it then!” Iuban set the weight of his will
against hers.
She would not! But those behind her, those who held her upright
here were forcing her arm up though she fought. Her strength was
nothing compared to theirs.
“Harath—I cannot—they are making me use the
stone! Harath—they make me—”
Iuban had caught one of her hands, was crushing her fingers,
straightening them from the fist she tried to keep clenched. In his
other hand she could see the blaze of the gem, afire with a life
she knew was evil, though she tried to keep from looking at it.
“Harath!” desperately she pleaded.
“Hold—” came the answer. Harath’s,
together with that other’s—the stranger’s.
“We are almost—”
Iuban ground the gem into the hollow of her palm. With his grip
on her hair he pulled her head forward.
“Look!” he ordered.
His compulsion was such that she was forced to his will. The
glowing stone was warm against her shrinking flesh. Its color
deepened. It had life, power, reaching out, pulling her, drawing
her through—
She screamed and heard shouting far off, the crackle of weapon
fire. But it was too late. She was falling forward into the heart
of the stone, which was now a lake of blazing energy ready to
engulf her utterly.
“Ziantha!”
Not a spoken call to bring her so out of sleep. No, this was a
stir within her mind, though it awoke her so she lay in the cramped
berth looking into the dark—listening—
“Ziantha?”
She had not been dreaming then. Ogan? She sent out a mind-seek
before she thought of the danger that Iuban might be equipped with
some Guild device to pick up and register such activity.
“Harath!” Her recognition of the mental force
meeting hers was instantaneous and left her bewildered. But Harath
must be back on Korwar. Ogan surely had not brought the alien on
this foray. And there was no possible method by which mind-touch
could cross the stellar distance between this unknown planet and
Korwar.
“What—?” Questions crowded. But the beaming of
the other overrode all her own thoughts with the intensity of the
message he would deliver.
“Think—think of me! We must have a reference
point.”
Allies after all—this was what Yasa had warned
of—her following must be guided in. Obediently Ziantha
produced a mental picture of Harath, held that with all the
strength she could summon, pushing aside her curiosity in the need
for providing a beacon guide to those the Salarika expected.
As suddenly as a clap of hands a new message came. “It is
well.”
She was cut off by the rise of Harath’s mind shield.
Having what he needed, the alien had severed connections. And
Ziantha knew of old that communication could not be renewed without
his cooperation.
The girl turned her head. Through the dim night light she could
see Yasa curled up opposite her, hear the soft regularity of her
breathing. The Salarika was asleep. Should she wake her, tell her
Ogan was on the way?
But Harath—how had he come into this? No, she would wait
until she was sure. Twice before morning she mind-called. But if
the alien was still within beam, he would not answer, and she had
to accept that.
They were roused early, and Ziantha, fearful of some snooper,
decided to wait until they were away from the ship before she
relayed her news. Iuban had suited up too, plainly prepared to go
with them. And she must be most careful about awakening any
suspicion.
The Jack captain eyed her while she buckled on belt with ration
pouch and water carrier as if he would like to have added a leash
to keep her to his hand. And she noted at once that he wore a
stunner, but neither she nor Yasa had been offered such a
weapon.
They came out on the ramp, to stand for a moment just beyond the
lock, looking about them at the wild desolation of this broken
country. Her vision of a city—how could she have seen it
here?
This earth was scored by deep crevices, blasted into a land
which had repudiated life before they set foot on it.
Ziantha’s hands, without conscious willing, went to the bag
she had fashioned, the cord of which hung about her neck, so that
the lump rested against her breast. If she were to have any guide,
that would be it.
Yasa moved up beside her.
“Singakok,” the Salarika said softly. “Is
this your city?”
She had good reason to question. In all that mass of tortured
rock that lay about them there was no resemblance to anything
wrought by the work of intelligent beings—unless the
destruction itself could be taken for such evidence.
“I—I do not know!” Ziantha turned her head
from side to side. Where were the tower, the great
avenues—all the rest? Or had that vision been hallucination,
born from some quirk of her own imagination and fed into her mind
as a “seeing”?
“Which way do we cast?” Iuban, two of his men, armed
and ready, caught up with them. “I do not see any signs of a
city here. Are you playing games then?”
Yasa turned on him. “Know you nothing of the art of a
sensitive, sky rover? The talent cannot be forced. It comes and
goes, and sometimes not to any bidding. Let the girl alone; in her
own time and way she shall pick our path.”
There was little expression on his face, nor did his dead eyes
show life. But Ziantha was aware of his emotions none the less,
impatience and disbelief being well to the fore. And she did not
think he would take kindly to any evasion he could detect. Also she
was sure she was not clever enough to play the delaying role Yasa
wanted. If she found any hint of what they sought she must use it
to satisfy him.
It seemed that they were leaving the leadership of this
expedition to her. And, with no way of escape, she walked slowly
down the ramp, stepped out on the barren rock below. There she
fumbled with the bag, unwrapped the lump, held it in her hands.
Ziantha closed her eyes. The answer came with the force of a
blow which nearly beat her to the ground. There was the sensation
that she stood in a city street amid a press of people, with the
passing of strange machines. The force of life feelings, of random
thoughts she could not understand, was so great it made her
giddy.
“Ziantha!” A hand tightened on her arm. She opened
her eyes. Yasa half supported her, the Salarika’s eyes intent
upon her.
“This—is—was a city,” the girl
answered.
Iuban had come to face them. “Well enough, but one we
cannot search now—unless we can turn back time. Where do we
go to look for anything that remains? Can you tell us that,
dreamer?” He made a scoffing challenge of his demand.
There had been no selectivity to that impression of the city.
Ziantha’s hold on the artifact tightened. Suppose she were to
open the crude outer casing, release the jewel inside, would that
lead them to what they sought? But she shrank from that act. Let
her try as long as she could to use it as it was.
“Let me try—” she said in a low voice,
twisting loose from Yasa’s hold. There was a ledge of rock
nearby, and she reached that, to sit down, hunched over the lump.
Wetting her lips, she forced herself to touch it to her
forehead.
It was like being whirled through a vast flow of faces, voices.
They shouted, they whispered, they grew large, dwindled, they spoke
in tongues she had never heard, they laughed, wept, howled,
screamed— She made herself try to steady upon one among the
many, concentrate on learning what she could.
Singakok—Turan! The second name she held to, using it as
an anchor that she might not be carried away in the sea of faces,
deafened by the voices, the clamor of the long-vanished city.
“Turan!” she used the name to demand an answer.
The faces withdrew, formed two lines melting into one another,
their cries stilled. Between the lines moved a shadow procession.
That was Turan, and behind him was her place, her own place. She
must follow—for there was no escape—
“What is she doing?” Very faint, that question.
“Be still! She seeks—” came in answer.
But that exchange had nothing to do with Turan. She must follow
him. The shadows grew no denser, but they remained, a little ahead.
No longer were there faces on either side—only Turan and her
tie to him.
Now and then that scene shimmered, tore, as if it were fashioned
of the thinnest gauze, shredded by a breeze. Then she saw only
distorted rocks and a barren land that was not Singakok. When that
happened she had to stop, call upon Turan, rebuild the vision.
Very dimly she heard chanting, sweet and high, like the caroling
of birds released from captivity, or the thud of drums which were
of the earth, the earth reluctant to lose Turan. Turan—
The shadows were gone, whipped away. Ziantha could not again
summon them. She stood with the artifact before a great rise of
bare red rock, a wall of cliff. But she knew that what she had
sought lay behind it, that the artifact had led her to a place from
which it had once come.
The girl looked back over her shoulder. Yasa, Iuban, his men,
all were watching her.
“What you seek—” she said, the energy fast
draining from her as it always did when she had made such an
effort, “lies there.” She pointed ahead at the rock,
staggering then to an outcrop where she might sit, for she feared
her trembling legs would no longer support her.
Yasa came to her quickly. “You are sure,
cubling?”
“I am sure.” Ziantha’s voice was close to a
whisper. She was so spent in her struggle to hold the vision that
she longed only for rest and quiet, for no more urging to push her
talent.
The Salarika held out two revive capsules, and Ziantha took them
with a shaking hand, put them in her mouth to dissolve slowly.
Iuban had gone to the face of the cliff, was examining it intently,
and at a signal his men split to search left and right.
“I can see nothing—” he was beginning when the
crewman to his right gave a hail. The Jack captain hurried toward
him.
Yasa bent over Ziantha. “I told you—be slow—do
not reveal anything before Ogan comes—”
“He is here, or near.” Ziantha felt the aid of the
revive. “In the early morning I had a
message—”
“Ahhhh—” A purr of satisfaction. “It
goes well, very well, then. And you play no game with Iuban; this
is the place?”
Ziantha regarded the wall. “Turan lies there,” she
said flatly.
But who was Turan—or what? Why should this artifact bind
her to him? She looked at the cliff, and now her fatigue was tinged
with fear. Behind that—behind that lay— She wanted to
scream, to run. But there was no escape, never any escape from
Turan; she might have known that.
Only who was Turan? There seemed to be two identities within her
now. One she knew; it was the Ziantha she had always been. But
another was struggling for life—the one—the
thing that knew Turan—Singakok—the one to whom
she must never yield!
Iuban had been conferring with his crewmen, and one now headed
back toward the ship while the Jack captain came to them.
“There are marks of a sealed way there. We shall have to
laser our way in.”
“With care,” Yasa warned swiftly. “Or do you
have a depth detect for such purposes?”
“With care, and a detect,” he replied. Now he
glanced past the Salarika to Ziantha. “What more can she tell
us? Is this a tomb?”
“Turan lies there,” the girl answered.
“And who is Turan?” he prodded her. “A king,
an emperor, a stellar lord? Is this a Forerunner of a star empire,
or only an ancient of some earthbound planet? What can you tell
us?”
Yasa swept in between them fiercely. “She is
tired—such reading weakens a sensitive. Get that storehouse
open and let her psychometrize some artifact from within and she
can tell you. But she must rest now.”
“At least she brought us here,” he conceded. And
with that he tramped back to the walled-in door. But Yasa sat down
beside Ziantha, putting her arm about the girl’s shoulders,
drawing her close, as she asked in a very low voice:
“Have you contact now with Ogan? It is now he must
come.”
Ogan? Summoning up what strength she had Ziantha formed a mind
picture of the parapsychologist, sent forth mind-search. Harath had
cut communication so summarily earlier she did not try him. The
alien could be capricious on occasion, better aim directly for
Ogan. Only she had no—
Answer? A flash of contact, as instantly gone. Ogan? It was not
Harath, because even so light a touch would have revealed the
alien. This had been wholly human. Ogan, then—but for some
reason unwilling to accept a message. She said as much.
“Do not seek then. There may be a detect he has reason to
fear. But as he did make contact, he will know where we are and the
urgency of the matter. You have done well in this matter, cubling.
Be sure I shall not forget what I owe you.”
The crewman returned, another with him. Between them they
carried a box and a portable laser—of the type used for
asteroid mining. But it was the detect which Iuban first put into
action.
Yasa and Ziantha joined him as he crouched over the box,
studying the small visa-tape on its top.
“An open space, three cycles within,” he reported.
“The tomb chamber perhaps. Low frequency setting to bore us a
door without any side flare.”
He set the laser with care, aiming it twice at nearby rocks to
mark the results before he tried it on the wall. Then he moved the
finger of the beam up and down within the faint lines of the
ancient opening, cutting out a space no wider than a man. The
brilliant beam of a belt torch thrust into the space beyond.
“Let us go to Turan!” Iuban laughed.
Ziantha raised one hand to her throat, the other still cradled
the artifact against her breast. She was choking, she could not
breathe. For a second or two the sensation was so severe she felt
that death itself was a single flicker of an eyelid away. Then the
sensation faded, and she could not fight as Yasa pushed her along
hard on Iuban’s heels through the break in the wall.
The Jack captain’s lamp flooded the space into which they
had come. But it showed dire destruction. This had been a tomb
once, yes, and a richly furnished one. But other grave robbers had
preceded them. There was a wreckage of plundered chests, now
crumbling into dust, objects which had lost their meaning and value
when they had been mishandled by those in search of precious and
portable loot.
“An abort!” Iuban swung the torch back and forth.
“A thrice-damned abort!”
“Be careful!” Yasa cried and caught his arm as he
would have moved forward. “We will not know that until after
a careful, and I mean a very careful, search is made of what is
still here. Tomb robbers often leave what seems of little value to
them, but is worth much to others. So do not disturb
anything—but widen the passage in that we may shift and
hunt—”
“You think anything of value still lies in this
muck?” But he did retreat a step or two. “Well, I think
it is an abort. But if you can make something out of
it—”
Ziantha leaned back against the wall. How could she fight this
terrible fear that came upon her in waves, left her weak and sick?
Did not the others feel it? They must! It penetrated all through
this foul chamber, born not of the wreckage which filled
three-quarters of it, but of something else—something
beyond—
She turned and pushed through the crack of door, feeling as if
that fear were reaching forth great black claws to drag her back.
There was a shout behind, words she could not hear, for the beat of
her own pounding heart seemed to deafen her. Then there were hands
on her, holding her prisoner though she still struggled feebly to
flee that place of black horror.
“Tried to run for it—” Iuban’s voice
over her head. But Yasa touched her, even as the iron grip of the
captain held her.
“What is it?” demanded the Salarika. There was a
note in her hissing voice which Ziantha had to obey.
“Death—beyond the far wall—death!” And
then she screamed for the horror had her in its hold as if that
formless evil rather than the captain kept her from flight,
screamed and screamed again.
A slap across her face, hard enough to shock her. She whimpered
in pain, at the fact that they would not understand, that they held
her captive so close to—to— She would close her mind!
She must close her mind!
And with the last bit of strength she could summon, Ziantha
hurled the artifact from her desperately, as if in that act alone
could she find any safety of body or mind.
“Ziantha!” Yasa’s voice was a summons to
attention, a demand.
The girl whimpered again, wanting to fall on the ground, to dig
into the earth and stone as a cover, to hide—from what? She
did not know now, only that it was terror incarnate, and it had
almost swallowed her up.
“Ziantha—beyond the wall is what?”
“No—and no—and no!” She cried that into
Yasa’s face. They could not use her to destroy herself; she
would not let them.
Perhaps Yasa could read her resolution, for she spoke now to
Iuban. “Loose her! She is at the breaking point; any more
will snap either her talent or her mind. Loose her to
me!”
“What trick is she trying?” Iuban demanded.
“No trick, Captain. But there is something in
there—we had better move with caution.”
“Captain—look here!” One of the crewmen had
knelt beside a rock to the right. He had picked up a shard in which
was nested a glitter of spun silver. The artifact had broken open,
the focus-gem must now be revealed. Iuban took that half of the
figurine, pulled apart the protecting fiber. The gem blazed forth
as if there were a fire lighted in it at this exposure to the open
air. Ziantha heard the crewman give a low whistle. As Iuban was
about to pick out the gem, Yasa spoke:
“Care with that. If it is what I think it may be, then
much is now clear—”
“What it may be—” he echoed. “And what
is that? An emperor’s toy, perhaps?”
“A focus-stone,” she replied. And Ziantha wondered
at how Yasa had so quickly guessed.
“A stone,” The Salarika continued, “used
continually by some sensitive as a focus for power. Such things
build up vast psychic energy over the years. If this is such a one
and Ziantha can use it—why, no secret on this world
pertaining to the race of the one who used it can be hidden from
her. We may have found the key to more riches than a single
plundered tomb!”
“And we may have listened to a likely tale,” he
countered. “I would see this proved.”
“You shall. But not now; she is too spent. Let her rest
while we make certain of what lies within here. And if this does
prove an abort, we can try elsewhere with the stone.”
Yasa would help her, Yasa must help her! Once they were
alone she could explain, let the Salarika know that deadly peril
waited any further dealings with Turan—or this world—or
the focus-stone! If Ogan came, he would know the danger. She could
make him understand best of all that there were doors one must not
open, for behind those lay— Ziantha would not let herself
think of that! She must not!
The girl concentrated on holding that barrier within her so much
that she was no longer entirely aware of what went on about her.
Somehow she had got back to the ship, was lying on a bunk,
shivering with reaction while Yasa gave her reassurance.
“Ogan—” Ziantha whispered. “Ogan must
know—it is very dangerous.”
Yasa nodded. “That I can believe. A stone of
power—able to work through such a disguise. Perhaps only a
linkage dares use it. Now rest, cubling, rest well. I shall keep
these Jacks busy until Ogan comes and we are able to do as we would
about the whole matter.”
That Yasa had given her a sedating drug she knew and was
thankful for. That would push her so deeply into sleep that dreams
would not trouble her. And she carried with her that last
reassurance. A linkage, yes—she, Ogan and Harath working
together might be able to use the focus-stone. But not alone, she
must not do it alone!
She was cold—so cold— She was lost in the dark. This
was a dream—
“—another shot, Captain?”
“Try it. She’s no use to us this way. And when that
she-cat comes out of the one we used on her she’ll be after
us. Give it to this one now.”
Pain and cold. Ziantha opened her eyes. There was a bright light
showing broken things covered with dust, a wall beyond. She was
held upright facing that wall in a grip she could not resist.
Iuban reached out, caught at her hair in a painful hold, for it
was so short his nails scraped her scalp as his fingers tightened.
So he held her to face him.
“Wake up, you witch!” He shook her head viciously.
“Wake up!”
A dream—it must be a dream. This was Turan’s place;
they had no right here. The guards would come and then what would
happen to them would be very painful, prolonged, while they cried
aloud for the death which was not allowed them. To disturb the rest
of Turan was to bring full vengeance.
“She’s awake,” Iuban, still holding her hair
with that painful pull, looked straight into her eyes. “You
will do this,” he spoke slowly, spacing his words as if he
feared she might not understand. “You will take this thing,
and you will look into it and tell us what is hidden here. Do you
understand?”
Ziantha could not find the words to answer him. This was a
dream, it must be. If it was not— No, she could not! She
could not use the stone where Turan lay! There was the gate to
something—
“Ogan,” cried her mind in rising terror.
“Ogan, Harath!”
She met—Harath—and through him, with him, not
Ogan—a new mind, one which greeted her search with a surge of
power. Hold for us, it ordered.
“She has to handle the thing, I think,” someone
behind her said.
“Take it then!” Iuban set the weight of his will
against hers.
She would not! But those behind her, those who held her upright
here were forcing her arm up though she fought. Her strength was
nothing compared to theirs.
“Harath—I cannot—they are making me use the
stone! Harath—they make me—”
Iuban had caught one of her hands, was crushing her fingers,
straightening them from the fist she tried to keep clenched. In his
other hand she could see the blaze of the gem, afire with a life
she knew was evil, though she tried to keep from looking at it.
“Harath!” desperately she pleaded.
“Hold—” came the answer. Harath’s,
together with that other’s—the stranger’s.
“We are almost—”
Iuban ground the gem into the hollow of her palm. With his grip
on her hair he pulled her head forward.
“Look!” he ordered.
His compulsion was such that she was forced to his will. The
glowing stone was warm against her shrinking flesh. Its color
deepened. It had life, power, reaching out, pulling her, drawing
her through—
She screamed and heard shouting far off, the crackle of weapon
fire. But it was too late. She was falling forward into the heart
of the stone, which was now a lake of blazing energy ready to
engulf her utterly.