Arbush came towards him, his gilyre strung over his shoulders, two girls hanging on his arms.
"Earl, a message. Eloise expects you at her room tonight." He moved on, a contented man; accepting the surface of things and not bothering about their cause. Indifferent to the clues at hand.
The name, the city, the thing which ran it.
Instone-Installation One.
A scientific project built as a complete unit and set in the midst of a hostile waste, to ensure isolation. And, if it was the first, there could be others placed on remote worlds circling lonely suns.
Perhaps the Cyclan had built it, perhaps not; many worlds bore the traces of early settlers eager to construct civilizations to their own pattern, to create Utopias which would solve all the ills which plagued Mankind. And, on the face of it, Instone was a Utopia; classless, with an even distribution of available goods, no law but the ubiquitous Monitors, no rule but the dictates of Camolsaer. But to exist for any length of time a Utopia had to be static, and the Cyclan would know that. A thing which went against their creed of progressive domination. A testing ground then, for some long-range purpose? A breeding chamber. A culture which could be directed and controlled by the remorseless pressures of necessity and logic.
A mystery, and one he couldn't answer; but if the Cyclan had built it he had fallen right into their hands.
* * * * *
Eloise had never seemed more beautiful. Watching her from where he sat beneath the window, Adara felt again the jealous hurt which had now become all too familiar. She no longer needed him. Now she had found another on whom to lean.
He looked on as she handed Dumarest a goblet of wine. Tonight she wore diaphanous veils, her feet bare, ankles adorned with bands holding tiny bells. More bands graced her wrists, small sounds tinkling as she moved. Her hair was loose, a rippling waterfall which caught the light and reflected it as if it had been oil. Her breasts, half-bared, were dusted with motes of gold.
Dumarest noticed his attention.
He said, quietly, "Your friend is jealous. You should not ignore him."
"Adara?" She smiled, white teeth flashing between scarlet lips. "He's a friend."
A friend and more, a lover certainly; and such a man could be dangerous. Dumarest examined him from behind the cover of his wine. A body which was too soft, a face too worn. A man old before his time, lines creasing his cheeks; his eyes shadowed by sleepless rest, haunted. He drank too deep and too often, like a man seeking an anodyne for an inner pain.
Drink enough and heated emotions would suggest an answer to his problem.
"Forget him, Earl. Drink your wine. Arbush, give us a tune."
The minstrel grinned and slapped the rump of one of his attendant girls.
"My instrument, girl. Hurry!"
The air throbbed as he touched the strings, musing with the skill of long practice, building anticipation as he strummed a succession of chords.
"What shall it be? A love song? No, we have too much love. A wistful air of a young girl betrayed by her lover? No, here that particular type of hell does not exist. One of unrequited passion, perhaps? Of adventure? Of bold men venturing into the spaces between the stars?" The strumming grew deep, strong; the pulse of an engine, the empty gulfs, a beat like that of a pounding heart.
"No." Eloise stood in the center of the room; the others pressed back against the wall, some sitting, others squatted on the carpet. Ten of them; those whom Dumarest had met, friends of Adara and the woman, Arbush's girls.
"Follow me, minstrel." Lifting her arms her fingers began to touch; thin, high ringings coming from the tiny cymbals she had slipped on her fingers and thumbs. "We are in a tavern," she whispered. "A hot and smoky place, heavy with the scent of wine. You know such places and know what is played there. Play, minstrel. Play as I dance."
The thrumming of the strings settled, became a repetitious background against which the tap of whispering drums echoed; chords rising to match the swaying undulations of the woman, accompanying the thin ringings of the cymbals, the bells at wrists and ankles.
It was a dance as old as time, performed with consummate skill; flesh and bone moving in suggestive abandon, naked feet with crimson nails caressing the carpet, the waterfall of hair a shimmering cloud of erotic beauty.
The lights seemed to fade, the walls to fall away, the watchers to turn into a circle of watching eyes, hands moving, fingers tapping as they followed the rhythm; bodies responding to the invitation explicit in every gesture, the thrust and sway of hips, waist, breasts, thighs. So women had danced in primordial times, offering themselves to a surrogate of the Earth God; a ritual designed to make the ground fertile, the harvest good. Now aimed at one man alone.
Adara sensed it and gulped down his wine. Arbush knew it and smiled as his spatulate fingers danced over the strings; the tips hitting the sounding board, returning to alter the note, moving with a fluid grace. Dumarest felt it and wondered what lay behind the bribe, the offer of her flesh.
She wanted something-that had been obvious from the beginning. She had met him too often by apparent chance for it to have been an accident. And there had been hints, barely concealed; suggestions half made, as if she were waiting for him to discover something.
The dance ended and she came to sit on the floor at his feet. Arbush began to play again, this time accompanying himself with a song; a ballad more fitted to a spaceman's dive than to any decent company, but no one seemed to find it offensive. The girls who had accompanied him danced in turn; neat, precise little movements, smooth enough but awkward when compared to the previous display.
"We need more wine," Eloise decided. "Adara, order more wine."
He rose to his feet and came towards her and Dumarest saw that, despite what he had drunk, he was coldly sober.
"Eloise, is that wise? Already you have had more than enough."
"Are you telling me what to do?" He winced at the coldness of her voice.
"No, but-"
"Then order it! Damn you, order it or do I have to do it myself?"
"Eloise, you're mad. Ever since Earl came, you've been acting strange. Don't you realize what you're doing?"
"I'm living!" she flared. "Don't you understand? Living! For the first time in years I've met a real man, and to hell with you and everything else. Get me some more wine!"
A man rose and quietly left the room. Another followed, one of Arbush's girls. Rats, she thought bleakly, getting out while the going was good; not wanting to be contaminated with Eloise's presence, associated with her disregard.
Two women remained. One of them said, "Earl, I can be found in room 532."
"Get out!" snapped Eloise. "Do your hunting somewhere else."
"If you've any sense, Earl, you'll join me." Without further comment she left, her companion close behind.
Arbush plucked at a string. "The end of the party," he said regretfully. "And I was just beginning to enjoy it. That dance took me back. There was a girl who danced as you did. A vision of delight, who took all I had and left me for another with more. Well, such is life. A man can only be thankful for such pleasures, transient though they may be."
"A harlot," she sneered. "Is that what you think I am?"
Again he plucked the string and, as the singing note died, said quietly, "I did not say that you were-but if you are not, then you are unique among all the dancers I have ever known."
"You fat bastard!" She rose, fingers like claws. "I'll have your eyes for that! Earl, do you believe what he says?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters! Dear God, it matters! I love you! Can't you understand? I love you!"
* * * * *
It had come, as he had known it would. Adara looked at his hands and found, to his surprise, that they did not tremble. The inner hurt was gone also, as if emotion had been raised to too high a pitch, to burn itself out and leave only ashes. Would the Knelling be like this? Would he, once his number had been tolled, feel the same cold, detached resignation?