notice that even the Colone!'s silences commanded attention.
Most of the long table was empty, the group clustered at one end. Across
from Fedmahn Kassad sat a man introduced as the poet Martin Silenus.
Silenus appeared to be quite the opposite of the military *****man
across from him. Where Kassad was lean and tall, Martin Silenus was
short and visibly out of shape.
Countering Kassad's stone-cut features, the poet's face was as mobile
and expressive as an Earth primate's. His voice was a loud, profane
rasp. There was something, thought the Consul, almost pleasantly
demonic about Martin Silenus, with his ruddy cheeks, broad mouth,
pitched eyebrows, sharp ears, and constantly moving hands sporting
fingers long enough to serve a concert pianist.
Or a strangler. The poet' s silver hair had been cropped into
rough-hewn bangs.
Martin Silenus seemed to be in his late fifties, but the Consul noticed
the telltale blue tinge to throat and palms and suspected that the man
had been through more than a few Poulsen treatments. Silenus's true age
might be anywhere from ninetytoa hundred and fiftystandard years. I f
he were close to the latter age, the Consul knew, the odds were that the
poet was quite mad.
As boisterous and animated as Martin Silenus seemed upon first
encounter, so the next guest at the table exuded an immediate and
equally impressive sense of intelligent reticence. Sol Weintranb looked
up upon introduction and the Consul noted the short gray beard, lined
forehead, and sad, luminous eyes of the we!i-known scholar. The Consul
had heard tales of the Wandering Jew and his hopeless quest, but he was
shocked to realize that the old man now held the infant in his arms -
his daughter Rachel, no more than a few weeks old. The Consul looked
away.
The sixth pilgrim and only woman at the table was Brawne Lamia. When
introduced, the detective stared at the Consul with such intensity that
he could feel the pressure of her gaze even after she looked away.
A former citizen of the 1.3-g world of Lusus, Brawne Lamia was no taller
than the poet two chairs to her right, but even her loose corduroy
shipsuit did not conceal the heavy layers of muscle on her compact form.
Black curls reached to her shoulders, her eyebrows were two dark lines
dabbed horizontally across a wide brow, and her nose was solid and
sharp, intensifying the aquiline quality of her stare. Lamia's mouth
was wide and expressive to the point of being sensuous, curled slightly
at the coruers in a slight smile which might be cruel or merely playful.
The woman's dark eyes seemed to dare the observer to discover which was
the case.
