Ziantha could hear a dull pounding overhead as
she lay there in the freezing dark. They were making very sure that
the spirit door was sealed, that Turan would not return again.
Turan— She used mind-search—meeting nothing!
He was gone. Dead? She was alone in this place of horror, and if
she escaped it would only be through her own efforts.
Ziantha spat the gems out in her hands, pressed them against her
forehead as D’Eyree had done to achieve the greatest
power.
She was not Vintra left to die in the dark—she was
Ziantha! Ziantha! Fiercely she poured all her force of will into
that identification. Ziantha!
A whirling, a sense of being utterly alone, lost. With it a fear
of this nothingness, of being forever caught and held in a place
where there was no life at all. Ziantha—she was
Ziantha! She had identity, this was so! Ziantha! Her name cried out, offering an anchorage.
In this place which was nothingness she tried to use it as a
guide. Ziantha!
She opened her eyes. Her weakness was such that she would have
fallen had she not been held on her feet. Iuban.
“She is coming out of it,” he spoke over her
shoulder to someone the girl could not see. But the relief of
knowing that she had made the last transfer successfully was so
great she wilted into unconsciousness.
Noise—shouting, a cry broken off by a scream of agony.
Unwillingly she was being drawn back to awareness once again. She
was lying in the dust, as if Iuban had dropped or thrown her from
him. There was no light except that which came with the crackle of
laser beams well over her head. Dazed, she pressed against the wall
wishing she could burrow into its substance, free herself from this
scene of battle. Ziantha? Mind call—from Turan? No. Turan was
dead, this was— Her mind was slow, so exhausted that it
fumbled, this was Ogan! She had a flash of reassurance at being
able to fit a name to that seeking.
The firing had stopped and now a bright beam of light dazzled
her eyes as it swept to illumine the looted tomb. She saw a huddled
body, recognized one of the crewmen who had brought her here.
Someone bent over her. She saw Ogan, put out a hand weakly.
“Come!” he swept her up, carried her out of that
black and haunted place into the open where the freshness of the
air she drew in was a promise of safety ahead. But she was so
tired, so drained. Her head lay heavy on Ogan’s shoulder as
the darkness closed about her once more.
How long did she sleep? It had been night, now it was day. For
she did not wake in the ship but out in the open, with a sunlit sky
arching above her. And, for the first moments of that awakening,
Ziantha was content to know she was free, safely returned to her
own time. But that other—he had not returned!
The sense of loss that accompanied that realization was suddenly
a burden to darken the sky, turning all her triumph into defeat.
She sat up in a bedroll, though that movement brought dizziness to
follow.
No ship—then— But where—and how? There were
peaks of rock like shattered walls, and, in a cup among those,
bedrolls. Ogan sat cross-legged on one such within touching
distance, watching her in a contemplative way. Before him on the
ground was a piece of clothing and resting on that—the
Eyes!
Ziantha shuddered. Those she never wanted to see again.
“But you must!” Ogan’s thought ordered.
“Why?” She asked aloud.
“There are reasons. We shall discuss them later.” He
picked up one end of that cloth, dropped it to cover the gems.
“But first—” He arose and went to fetch her an
E-ration tube.
There were two other men in the camp, and they were, she noted,
plainly, on sentry duty, facing outward on opposite sides of the
cup, weapons in hand. Ogan expected attack. But where was Yasa? The
Salarika had expected Ogan to join forces with her. Had Iuban made
Yasa a prisoner?
“Where is Yasa?” Ziantha finished the ration, felt
its renewing energy spread through her.
Ogan reseated himself on the bedroll. In this rugged setting he
looked out of place, overshadowed by the grim rocks—almost
helpless. But Ziantha did not make the mistake of believing
that.
He did not answer her at once, and he had a mind-shield up.
Was—was Yasa dead? So much had changed in her life that
Ziantha could even believe the formidable veep might have been
removed from it. Iuban had tried to use her powers to his own
advantage. She struggled now to remember what she had heard before
he had forced her to look into the focus-stone. It was plain he had
been moving against Yasa, even as the Salarika had earlier schemed
to take over the expedition herself.
“Yasa”—Ogan broke through her jumbled
thought—“is on the Jack ship. I believe that they
intend to use her as a hostage—or bargaining
point.”
“With you—for them?” Ziantha gestured to the
covered stones.
“With me—for you and them,” he assented.
“Unfortunately for them I have all the necessities, and I do
not need Yasa. In fact I much prefer not having to deal with
her.”
“But Yasa—she expected you to come, to
help—”
“Oh, I had every intention of coming, and, as you see, I
did. To your service I did. Yasa may be all powerful on Korwar, but
here she has stretched her authority far too thin. I am afraid it
has just snapped in her face.”
“But—” Ogan had always been Yasa’s man,
a part of her establishment. Ziantha had believed him so thoroughly
loyal to the veep that his attachment could not be questioned.
“You find it difficult to believe that I have plunged into
a foray on my own? But this is a matter which touches my
talents. Such a discovery is not to be left to those who do not
understand the power of what has been uncovered. They cannot use it
properly; therefore, why should they have it to play with in their
bungling fashion? I know what it is, they only suspect as
yet.”
He knew what it was, Ziantha digested that. And he knew she had
used it. He would take her in turn, use her, wring her dry of all
she had learned. Make her— A small spark of rebellion flared
deep in Ziantha. She was not going to serve Ogan’s purposes
so easily.
And with that determined, she began to think more clearly. That
other sensitive—it had not been Ogan who had entered Turan
and shared her adventures. But the sensitive had worked with Harath
and— Was he someone Ogan had brought in? If so, why had the
parapsychologist not mentioned him?
Ziantha realized that there was more than a little mystery left
and the sooner she learned all she could, the better. At that
moment she felt Ogan’s testing probe and snapped down a
mind-barrier.
Trace of a frown on his face. The probe grew stronger. She
stared back at him level-eyed. Then, for the first time in her
relationship with him, she made resistance plain.
“Ask your questions if you wish—aloud.”
His probe was withdrawn. “You are a foolish child. Do you
think because you have managed to use the stones, after some
undisciplined fashion, you are now my equal? That is pure nonsense;
your own intelligence should tell you so.”
“I do not claim to be anything more than I am.” From
somewhere came the words and even as she uttered them Ziantha knew
wonder at her defiance. Had she indeed changed? She knew well all
that Ogan could do to her mentally and physically to gain his own
will. Still there was that in her now which defied him to try
it—a new confidence. Though until she was more certain of
what she had gained she must be wary.
“That is well.” He seemed satisfied, though her
statement might be considered an ambiguous one. He must be judging
her by what she had been and not what she now was.
“Where is Harath?” she asked abruptly, wishing to
clear up the mystery of who had been with her, yet not wanting to
ask openly.
“Harath?” He looked at her sharply.
She held tight to her barrier. Had she made an error in asking
that?
But Harath had been here; she had known his touch, that she
could not have mistaken. Why then should Ogan be surprised that she
asked for him? Harath was Ogan’s tool; it was natural that
they be together, just as it had been natural for the unknown
sensitive to use the alien to contact her.
“Harath is on Korwar.”
Ziantha was startled by so flat a lie. Why did Ogan think she
would believe it? He knew that Harath had been used to contact her;
there was no reason to conceal it. And if he denied Harath so, then
what of the other sensitive? Was this loss of one who had been a
tool such that Ogan must cover with lies? But lies which he knew
she would not accept? She felt for an instant or two as if she were
plunged back into that whirling place which had no sane anchorage.
Ogan was not acting in character, unless he had devised some kind
of a test she did not understand.
Another thrust of mind-probe, one forceful enough to have
penetrated her defenses in other days. But she held against it.
Until she knew more she must hold her barrier.
“Why do you expect to find Harath here?” If his
defeat at reading her thoughts baffled him, his chagrin was not
betrayed by his tone.
“Why should I not?” Ziantha countered. “Have
we not always used him for relaying and intensifying the power?
Here do we not need him most?”
To Ziantha, her logic sounded good. But would Ogan accept it?
And where was Harath? Why had Ogan made such a mystery of his
presence?
Ogan arose. “Harath is too unique to risk,” he said.
His head turned from her; he stood as if listening. Then, in some
haste, he crossed the depression to join one of the sentries.
Ziantha watched him. It was plain he expected trouble. It might
be that Iuban had grown impatient, or even that Yasa had once more
made common cause with the Jack captain when she discovered Ogan a
traitor. The Salarika was no fool. Though she had made an
independent bid for what the focus-stone might deliver, she would
never have shut off all roads of retreat.
The Eyes—Ziantha’s attention shifted to the stones
under their cloth covering. That they were a prize beyond any one
tomb, no matter how rich, she now realized. Ogan suspected that,
and perhaps Yasa also. But they did not have her proof. There was
also this: were the Eyes unique in answering to one sensitive
alone, or could any, including Ogan, bring them into action?
She had worn them twice in those other worlds, as Vintra, who
had not known the power of the stone that was forced upon her by
her enemies, and as D’Eyree, who had known it very well and
had put it to use. She had not been an onlooker, but had entered
into Vintra, D’Eyree. Therefore the stones had answered her
will. Were they “conditioned” then to her? And if so,
did she now have a bargaining point with Ogan?
But that other kept intruding into her half-plans and hopes. Who
was the sensitive who had been sacrificed to help her out of the
past—and where was Harath, that source of energy? Ziantha
tried not to think of Turan, except as a problem she must solve for
her own safety in future relations with Ogan. She tried to hold off
the dark shadow that came at the very name of Turan. Turan was a
dead man—and he who had accompanied her through that wild
adventure had been a stranger, some tool of Ogan’s, to whom
she owed nothing now. But she did! The fact that Ogan had used him
made him no less. Ogan had used her, too, in the past, over and
over again, molded and trained her to do just what he—or
Yasa—wanted. So why could she feel that this other was any
less than she had been? Ogan had used him and he had died. Ogan
would try again to use her, and, if the circumstances answered, he
would discard her as easily at any moment.
Ziantha snatched up the stones, put them in the front of her
planet suit, resealing it. If Ogan thought to treat her so, he
might have a surprise. She knew what D’Eyree had been able to
do with the Eyes. It might be that she could put them to far more
potent use than Ogan guessed. And that she would try it before the
end of this venture, Ziantha was now certain.
There remained Harath. If the alien were still on-planet she
would reach him. The bond between them was one which Ogan had first
brought into being, that was true. However she wanted to hold that
much of the past. Of all who were now on the surface of this
half-destroyed world, Harath was the only one whom she could
trust.
Ogan came back to her. “We are moving on.”
“To your ship?” She hoped not, not yet. Oddly enough
while she was in the open she at least had the illusion of
freedom.
“Not yet.” But he did not amplify that, as he knelt
to fasten her bedroll.
With those slung as packs, and the men each carrying in addition
a sling of supplies, they edged between the fanglike rocks and
climbed down into a very deep valley. In the depths of this a
thread of water trickled along, and there were some stunted bushes.
Here and there a coarse tuft of grass gave more signs of life than
she had seen elsewhere.
What had happened to the world of Turan to reduce Singakok and
the land around it to this state? Only a disastrous conflict or
some unheard-of natural catastrophe would have wrought this. And
how many planet centuries ago had it all happened?
The footing was very rough and, though Ogan apparently wanted to
set a fast pace, they did not keep to what was any better than
perhaps a slow walk on smoother surface. Also the scrambling up and
down was most wearying, and Ogan himself began to breathe heavily,
rest more often.
As they traveled, the valley opened out, the vegetation grew in
greater luxuriance, though all of it was stunted, rising at the
highest no farther than one’s shoulder. Yet as it thickened
it slowed their advance even more. So far Ziantha had seen no other
life except that rooted in the soil. And she wondered if all else
had been slaughtered in the doom which came to Singakok.
Then one of the men gave a furious exclamation and flashed a
laser beam into the bushes. As he called a warning Ziantha saw on
his out-thrust boot the scoring of teeth spattered with yellow
foam.
“Lizard thing—watch out for it.” He set his
foot on a rock and leaned over to examine the boot.
“Didn’t go through.” Then he dabbled his foot in
the stream, letting the current wash away that foam. Meanwhile his
partner methodically lasered the ground ahead, cleaning it down to
the bare rock, until Ogan caught at his arm.
“Do not use all your charge on this—”
The man jerked away. “I am not going to get a poison
bite,” he returned sullenly. But he did not continue with the
laser.
Their progress slowed again beyond that clearer section because
they had to watch the ground carefully. Ziantha’s legs ached.
She was not used to such vigorous and continued exercise, and she
liked this ground less with every moment they fought their way
across it.
Twice Ogan had fallen back a pace or so behind; then they made
one of their frequent halts, his attitude still that of one who
listened. Ziantha decided he must be using mind-send to check on
some possible pursuer. But she did not release her own probe to
follow his. It might be a trick of Ogan’s to force her
barrier down to his own advantage. She must be on constant guard
with him, as she well knew.
They came to a barrier formed by the land. The stream spilled
here in a long ribbon of falling water over the edge of a drop. And
they must now strike east, climbing up one of the valley walls,
since the descent before them was too steep to attempt.
This left them in the open on fairly level ground, and the
attitude of both Ogan and his men was that of those exposed to
possible attack. So they hurried on, Ogan even taking her by the
arm and pulling her forward, coming thus to another upstand of
rocks into which they crawled.
Here they broke out rations and ate. Ziantha rubbed her aching
legs. She was not sure if she could keep going, though she was very
certain Ogan would see to it that she did if they had to drag her.
It was plain he wanted to avoid some pursuers. Iuban was perhaps
not waiting for negotiations over Yasa but again striking out on
his own as he had when he took her to the tomb.
“Is it Iuban?” She rolled the empty E-Tube into a
tight ball.
Ogan merely grunted. She recognized the signs of
ultraconcentration. He was trying mind-search, striving to learn
what he could. But there was no confidence in his tension; rather
the strain of his effort grew more apparent. And she was troubled
by that. In the ordinary way any crewman such as Iuban led would be
well open to reading by a master as competent as Ogan. That the
mysterious pursuers were not, as his concern suggested, meant they
were equipped with shields. But why, if he had discovered that
fact, as he would have at once, did he still struggle to touch?
And why had he not ordered her to back him in a thrust? It was,
Ziantha decided, as if he had a reason to keep her from learning
the nature of what he sought to penetrate. Or was she only
imagining things? She leaned her back against an upstanding rock
and closed her eyes.
If Ogan was not present she could try herself. Not to cast to
what might be trailing them, but for Harath. Somehow it was
important that she find out where the alien had gone and why Ogan
denied he was here.
And for Harath—again her thoughts slid on to the one whose
power Harath had guided to her: Ogan’s
tool—Turan—but he was not Turan. She tried to recall
now all those she had seen from time to time visiting Ogan’s
lab at the villa. He could have been any one of those, for Ogan had
kept her aloof from the others he used in his experiments. The one
thing that puzzled her now was that Turan (he must remain Turan for
she knew no other name to call him) was indeed a trained sensitive
of such power that she could not easily see him subordinated to
Ogan.
He was not one to be used as a tool, but rather one who used
tools himself. The physical envelope he had worn as Turan continued
to mislead her. Now she strove to build up a personality with no
association with the dead Lord Commander. It was like fitting
together shards of some artifact of whose real shape she was
unaware.
But that depression which she had held in abeyance settled down
on her full force. In all her life, in the Dipple and after Yasa
had taken her from that place of despair, she had had no one of her
own. The Salarika veep had given her shelter, education, a
livelihood. But Ziantha had always known that this was not because
she was herself, but because she represented an investment that was
expected to repay Yasa for her attentions many times over.
Ogan had been a figure of awe at first, then one to be feared
and resented. She admitted his mastery, and she hated
him—yes, she recognized her depth of emotion now—for
it. Sooner or later now she would have to face Ogan and fight for
her freedom. She had not been a real person when he had taught her,
only a thing he could shape. Now she was herself, and she intended
to remain so.
Yasa and Ogan—they had been the main factors in her
existence. To neither was she bound by any ties of softer emotion.
Harath—the closest she had ever come to having what one might
deem a “friend”—was a strange alien creature.
She trusted Harath.
Then—Turan. It had not been master and pupil between them,
or benefactor and servant, but rather what she imagined was the
comradeship between two crewmen, or two of the Patrol who faced a
common danger and depended upon one another in times of crisis.
As he had depended upon her at the last!
Ziantha felt moisture gather under her closed eyelids. She had
never wept except for physical reasons when a child—cold,
hunger. These tears now were for a sense of loss transcending all
those, a wound so deep within her that she was just beginning to
know what damage it had wrought. And Ogan had done this
thing—sent the other after her—and had left him to
die.
Therefore her reckoning with Ogan, overdue as it was, would be
eagerly sought by her. But at her time, not his. For she did not in
the least undervalue her opponent.
She was roused from her thoughts by Ogan’s hand on her
shoulder.
“Up—we have to get under cover. Mauth has been
scouting ahead and has found shelter.”
The girl glanced around. One of the men was gone, the other held
a click com in his hand, was listening to the message it ticked
out. She got to her feet with a sigh. If it were much further she
was not sure she could make it.
“Hurry!” Ogan pulled at her.
Of course they had to climb again and took a very roundabout
way, as if Ogan was determined they remain as much undercover as
possible. Twice Ziantha slipped and fell, and the second time she
was unable to regain her feet unaided. But Ogan drew her along,
cursing under his breath.
So he brought her to a cave, and thrust her back into the
shadows well away from the door. When she sprawled there again he
made no move to help her up, but let her lay where she had fallen,
while he returned to the entrance, giving a low-voiced order to the
crewmen that sent one of them away once more.
Ziantha could hear a dull pounding overhead as
she lay there in the freezing dark. They were making very sure that
the spirit door was sealed, that Turan would not return again.
Turan— She used mind-search—meeting nothing!
He was gone. Dead? She was alone in this place of horror, and if
she escaped it would only be through her own efforts.
Ziantha spat the gems out in her hands, pressed them against her
forehead as D’Eyree had done to achieve the greatest
power.
She was not Vintra left to die in the dark—she was
Ziantha! Ziantha! Fiercely she poured all her force of will into
that identification. Ziantha!
A whirling, a sense of being utterly alone, lost. With it a fear
of this nothingness, of being forever caught and held in a place
where there was no life at all. Ziantha—she was
Ziantha! She had identity, this was so! Ziantha! Her name cried out, offering an anchorage.
In this place which was nothingness she tried to use it as a
guide. Ziantha!
She opened her eyes. Her weakness was such that she would have
fallen had she not been held on her feet. Iuban.
“She is coming out of it,” he spoke over her
shoulder to someone the girl could not see. But the relief of
knowing that she had made the last transfer successfully was so
great she wilted into unconsciousness.
Noise—shouting, a cry broken off by a scream of agony.
Unwillingly she was being drawn back to awareness once again. She
was lying in the dust, as if Iuban had dropped or thrown her from
him. There was no light except that which came with the crackle of
laser beams well over her head. Dazed, she pressed against the wall
wishing she could burrow into its substance, free herself from this
scene of battle. Ziantha? Mind call—from Turan? No. Turan was
dead, this was— Her mind was slow, so exhausted that it
fumbled, this was Ogan! She had a flash of reassurance at being
able to fit a name to that seeking.
The firing had stopped and now a bright beam of light dazzled
her eyes as it swept to illumine the looted tomb. She saw a huddled
body, recognized one of the crewmen who had brought her here.
Someone bent over her. She saw Ogan, put out a hand weakly.
“Come!” he swept her up, carried her out of that
black and haunted place into the open where the freshness of the
air she drew in was a promise of safety ahead. But she was so
tired, so drained. Her head lay heavy on Ogan’s shoulder as
the darkness closed about her once more.
How long did she sleep? It had been night, now it was day. For
she did not wake in the ship but out in the open, with a sunlit sky
arching above her. And, for the first moments of that awakening,
Ziantha was content to know she was free, safely returned to her
own time. But that other—he had not returned!
The sense of loss that accompanied that realization was suddenly
a burden to darken the sky, turning all her triumph into defeat.
She sat up in a bedroll, though that movement brought dizziness to
follow.
No ship—then— But where—and how? There were
peaks of rock like shattered walls, and, in a cup among those,
bedrolls. Ogan sat cross-legged on one such within touching
distance, watching her in a contemplative way. Before him on the
ground was a piece of clothing and resting on that—the
Eyes!
Ziantha shuddered. Those she never wanted to see again.
“But you must!” Ogan’s thought ordered.
“Why?” She asked aloud.
“There are reasons. We shall discuss them later.” He
picked up one end of that cloth, dropped it to cover the gems.
“But first—” He arose and went to fetch her an
E-ration tube.
There were two other men in the camp, and they were, she noted,
plainly, on sentry duty, facing outward on opposite sides of the
cup, weapons in hand. Ogan expected attack. But where was Yasa? The
Salarika had expected Ogan to join forces with her. Had Iuban made
Yasa a prisoner?
“Where is Yasa?” Ziantha finished the ration, felt
its renewing energy spread through her.
Ogan reseated himself on the bedroll. In this rugged setting he
looked out of place, overshadowed by the grim rocks—almost
helpless. But Ziantha did not make the mistake of believing
that.
He did not answer her at once, and he had a mind-shield up.
Was—was Yasa dead? So much had changed in her life that
Ziantha could even believe the formidable veep might have been
removed from it. Iuban had tried to use her powers to his own
advantage. She struggled now to remember what she had heard before
he had forced her to look into the focus-stone. It was plain he had
been moving against Yasa, even as the Salarika had earlier schemed
to take over the expedition herself.
“Yasa”—Ogan broke through her jumbled
thought—“is on the Jack ship. I believe that they
intend to use her as a hostage—or bargaining
point.”
“With you—for them?” Ziantha gestured to the
covered stones.
“With me—for you and them,” he assented.
“Unfortunately for them I have all the necessities, and I do
not need Yasa. In fact I much prefer not having to deal with
her.”
“But Yasa—she expected you to come, to
help—”
“Oh, I had every intention of coming, and, as you see, I
did. To your service I did. Yasa may be all powerful on Korwar, but
here she has stretched her authority far too thin. I am afraid it
has just snapped in her face.”
“But—” Ogan had always been Yasa’s man,
a part of her establishment. Ziantha had believed him so thoroughly
loyal to the veep that his attachment could not be questioned.
“You find it difficult to believe that I have plunged into
a foray on my own? But this is a matter which touches my
talents. Such a discovery is not to be left to those who do not
understand the power of what has been uncovered. They cannot use it
properly; therefore, why should they have it to play with in their
bungling fashion? I know what it is, they only suspect as
yet.”
He knew what it was, Ziantha digested that. And he knew she had
used it. He would take her in turn, use her, wring her dry of all
she had learned. Make her— A small spark of rebellion flared
deep in Ziantha. She was not going to serve Ogan’s purposes
so easily.
And with that determined, she began to think more clearly. That
other sensitive—it had not been Ogan who had entered Turan
and shared her adventures. But the sensitive had worked with Harath
and— Was he someone Ogan had brought in? If so, why had the
parapsychologist not mentioned him?
Ziantha realized that there was more than a little mystery left
and the sooner she learned all she could, the better. At that
moment she felt Ogan’s testing probe and snapped down a
mind-barrier.
Trace of a frown on his face. The probe grew stronger. She
stared back at him level-eyed. Then, for the first time in her
relationship with him, she made resistance plain.
“Ask your questions if you wish—aloud.”
His probe was withdrawn. “You are a foolish child. Do you
think because you have managed to use the stones, after some
undisciplined fashion, you are now my equal? That is pure nonsense;
your own intelligence should tell you so.”
“I do not claim to be anything more than I am.” From
somewhere came the words and even as she uttered them Ziantha knew
wonder at her defiance. Had she indeed changed? She knew well all
that Ogan could do to her mentally and physically to gain his own
will. Still there was that in her now which defied him to try
it—a new confidence. Though until she was more certain of
what she had gained she must be wary.
“That is well.” He seemed satisfied, though her
statement might be considered an ambiguous one. He must be judging
her by what she had been and not what she now was.
“Where is Harath?” she asked abruptly, wishing to
clear up the mystery of who had been with her, yet not wanting to
ask openly.
“Harath?” He looked at her sharply.
She held tight to her barrier. Had she made an error in asking
that?
But Harath had been here; she had known his touch, that she
could not have mistaken. Why then should Ogan be surprised that she
asked for him? Harath was Ogan’s tool; it was natural that
they be together, just as it had been natural for the unknown
sensitive to use the alien to contact her.
“Harath is on Korwar.”
Ziantha was startled by so flat a lie. Why did Ogan think she
would believe it? He knew that Harath had been used to contact her;
there was no reason to conceal it. And if he denied Harath so, then
what of the other sensitive? Was this loss of one who had been a
tool such that Ogan must cover with lies? But lies which he knew
she would not accept? She felt for an instant or two as if she were
plunged back into that whirling place which had no sane anchorage.
Ogan was not acting in character, unless he had devised some kind
of a test she did not understand.
Another thrust of mind-probe, one forceful enough to have
penetrated her defenses in other days. But she held against it.
Until she knew more she must hold her barrier.
“Why do you expect to find Harath here?” If his
defeat at reading her thoughts baffled him, his chagrin was not
betrayed by his tone.
“Why should I not?” Ziantha countered. “Have
we not always used him for relaying and intensifying the power?
Here do we not need him most?”
To Ziantha, her logic sounded good. But would Ogan accept it?
And where was Harath? Why had Ogan made such a mystery of his
presence?
Ogan arose. “Harath is too unique to risk,” he said.
His head turned from her; he stood as if listening. Then, in some
haste, he crossed the depression to join one of the sentries.
Ziantha watched him. It was plain he expected trouble. It might
be that Iuban had grown impatient, or even that Yasa had once more
made common cause with the Jack captain when she discovered Ogan a
traitor. The Salarika was no fool. Though she had made an
independent bid for what the focus-stone might deliver, she would
never have shut off all roads of retreat.
The Eyes—Ziantha’s attention shifted to the stones
under their cloth covering. That they were a prize beyond any one
tomb, no matter how rich, she now realized. Ogan suspected that,
and perhaps Yasa also. But they did not have her proof. There was
also this: were the Eyes unique in answering to one sensitive
alone, or could any, including Ogan, bring them into action?
She had worn them twice in those other worlds, as Vintra, who
had not known the power of the stone that was forced upon her by
her enemies, and as D’Eyree, who had known it very well and
had put it to use. She had not been an onlooker, but had entered
into Vintra, D’Eyree. Therefore the stones had answered her
will. Were they “conditioned” then to her? And if so,
did she now have a bargaining point with Ogan?
But that other kept intruding into her half-plans and hopes. Who
was the sensitive who had been sacrificed to help her out of the
past—and where was Harath, that source of energy? Ziantha
tried not to think of Turan, except as a problem she must solve for
her own safety in future relations with Ogan. She tried to hold off
the dark shadow that came at the very name of Turan. Turan was a
dead man—and he who had accompanied her through that wild
adventure had been a stranger, some tool of Ogan’s, to whom
she owed nothing now. But she did! The fact that Ogan had used him
made him no less. Ogan had used her, too, in the past, over and
over again, molded and trained her to do just what he—or
Yasa—wanted. So why could she feel that this other was any
less than she had been? Ogan had used him and he had died. Ogan
would try again to use her, and, if the circumstances answered, he
would discard her as easily at any moment.
Ziantha snatched up the stones, put them in the front of her
planet suit, resealing it. If Ogan thought to treat her so, he
might have a surprise. She knew what D’Eyree had been able to
do with the Eyes. It might be that she could put them to far more
potent use than Ogan guessed. And that she would try it before the
end of this venture, Ziantha was now certain.
There remained Harath. If the alien were still on-planet she
would reach him. The bond between them was one which Ogan had first
brought into being, that was true. However she wanted to hold that
much of the past. Of all who were now on the surface of this
half-destroyed world, Harath was the only one whom she could
trust.
Ogan came back to her. “We are moving on.”
“To your ship?” She hoped not, not yet. Oddly enough
while she was in the open she at least had the illusion of
freedom.
“Not yet.” But he did not amplify that, as he knelt
to fasten her bedroll.
With those slung as packs, and the men each carrying in addition
a sling of supplies, they edged between the fanglike rocks and
climbed down into a very deep valley. In the depths of this a
thread of water trickled along, and there were some stunted bushes.
Here and there a coarse tuft of grass gave more signs of life than
she had seen elsewhere.
What had happened to the world of Turan to reduce Singakok and
the land around it to this state? Only a disastrous conflict or
some unheard-of natural catastrophe would have wrought this. And
how many planet centuries ago had it all happened?
The footing was very rough and, though Ogan apparently wanted to
set a fast pace, they did not keep to what was any better than
perhaps a slow walk on smoother surface. Also the scrambling up and
down was most wearying, and Ogan himself began to breathe heavily,
rest more often.
As they traveled, the valley opened out, the vegetation grew in
greater luxuriance, though all of it was stunted, rising at the
highest no farther than one’s shoulder. Yet as it thickened
it slowed their advance even more. So far Ziantha had seen no other
life except that rooted in the soil. And she wondered if all else
had been slaughtered in the doom which came to Singakok.
Then one of the men gave a furious exclamation and flashed a
laser beam into the bushes. As he called a warning Ziantha saw on
his out-thrust boot the scoring of teeth spattered with yellow
foam.
“Lizard thing—watch out for it.” He set his
foot on a rock and leaned over to examine the boot.
“Didn’t go through.” Then he dabbled his foot in
the stream, letting the current wash away that foam. Meanwhile his
partner methodically lasered the ground ahead, cleaning it down to
the bare rock, until Ogan caught at his arm.
“Do not use all your charge on this—”
The man jerked away. “I am not going to get a poison
bite,” he returned sullenly. But he did not continue with the
laser.
Their progress slowed again beyond that clearer section because
they had to watch the ground carefully. Ziantha’s legs ached.
She was not used to such vigorous and continued exercise, and she
liked this ground less with every moment they fought their way
across it.
Twice Ogan had fallen back a pace or so behind; then they made
one of their frequent halts, his attitude still that of one who
listened. Ziantha decided he must be using mind-send to check on
some possible pursuer. But she did not release her own probe to
follow his. It might be a trick of Ogan’s to force her
barrier down to his own advantage. She must be on constant guard
with him, as she well knew.
They came to a barrier formed by the land. The stream spilled
here in a long ribbon of falling water over the edge of a drop. And
they must now strike east, climbing up one of the valley walls,
since the descent before them was too steep to attempt.
This left them in the open on fairly level ground, and the
attitude of both Ogan and his men was that of those exposed to
possible attack. So they hurried on, Ogan even taking her by the
arm and pulling her forward, coming thus to another upstand of
rocks into which they crawled.
Here they broke out rations and ate. Ziantha rubbed her aching
legs. She was not sure if she could keep going, though she was very
certain Ogan would see to it that she did if they had to drag her.
It was plain he wanted to avoid some pursuers. Iuban was perhaps
not waiting for negotiations over Yasa but again striking out on
his own as he had when he took her to the tomb.
“Is it Iuban?” She rolled the empty E-Tube into a
tight ball.
Ogan merely grunted. She recognized the signs of
ultraconcentration. He was trying mind-search, striving to learn
what he could. But there was no confidence in his tension; rather
the strain of his effort grew more apparent. And she was troubled
by that. In the ordinary way any crewman such as Iuban led would be
well open to reading by a master as competent as Ogan. That the
mysterious pursuers were not, as his concern suggested, meant they
were equipped with shields. But why, if he had discovered that
fact, as he would have at once, did he still struggle to touch?
And why had he not ordered her to back him in a thrust? It was,
Ziantha decided, as if he had a reason to keep her from learning
the nature of what he sought to penetrate. Or was she only
imagining things? She leaned her back against an upstanding rock
and closed her eyes.
If Ogan was not present she could try herself. Not to cast to
what might be trailing them, but for Harath. Somehow it was
important that she find out where the alien had gone and why Ogan
denied he was here.
And for Harath—again her thoughts slid on to the one whose
power Harath had guided to her: Ogan’s
tool—Turan—but he was not Turan. She tried to recall
now all those she had seen from time to time visiting Ogan’s
lab at the villa. He could have been any one of those, for Ogan had
kept her aloof from the others he used in his experiments. The one
thing that puzzled her now was that Turan (he must remain Turan for
she knew no other name to call him) was indeed a trained sensitive
of such power that she could not easily see him subordinated to
Ogan.
He was not one to be used as a tool, but rather one who used
tools himself. The physical envelope he had worn as Turan continued
to mislead her. Now she strove to build up a personality with no
association with the dead Lord Commander. It was like fitting
together shards of some artifact of whose real shape she was
unaware.
But that depression which she had held in abeyance settled down
on her full force. In all her life, in the Dipple and after Yasa
had taken her from that place of despair, she had had no one of her
own. The Salarika veep had given her shelter, education, a
livelihood. But Ziantha had always known that this was not because
she was herself, but because she represented an investment that was
expected to repay Yasa for her attentions many times over.
Ogan had been a figure of awe at first, then one to be feared
and resented. She admitted his mastery, and she hated
him—yes, she recognized her depth of emotion now—for
it. Sooner or later now she would have to face Ogan and fight for
her freedom. She had not been a real person when he had taught her,
only a thing he could shape. Now she was herself, and she intended
to remain so.
Yasa and Ogan—they had been the main factors in her
existence. To neither was she bound by any ties of softer emotion.
Harath—the closest she had ever come to having what one might
deem a “friend”—was a strange alien creature.
She trusted Harath.
Then—Turan. It had not been master and pupil between them,
or benefactor and servant, but rather what she imagined was the
comradeship between two crewmen, or two of the Patrol who faced a
common danger and depended upon one another in times of crisis.
As he had depended upon her at the last!
Ziantha felt moisture gather under her closed eyelids. She had
never wept except for physical reasons when a child—cold,
hunger. These tears now were for a sense of loss transcending all
those, a wound so deep within her that she was just beginning to
know what damage it had wrought. And Ogan had done this
thing—sent the other after her—and had left him to
die.
Therefore her reckoning with Ogan, overdue as it was, would be
eagerly sought by her. But at her time, not his. For she did not in
the least undervalue her opponent.
She was roused from her thoughts by Ogan’s hand on her
shoulder.
“Up—we have to get under cover. Mauth has been
scouting ahead and has found shelter.”
The girl glanced around. One of the men was gone, the other held
a click com in his hand, was listening to the message it ticked
out. She got to her feet with a sigh. If it were much further she
was not sure she could make it.
“Hurry!” Ogan pulled at her.
Of course they had to climb again and took a very roundabout
way, as if Ogan was determined they remain as much undercover as
possible. Twice Ziantha slipped and fell, and the second time she
was unable to regain her feet unaided. But Ogan drew her along,
cursing under his breath.
So he brought her to a cave, and thrust her back into the
shadows well away from the door. When she sprawled there again he
made no move to help her up, but let her lay where she had fallen,
while he returned to the entrance, giving a low-voiced order to the
crewmen that sent one of them away once more.