"It is." The navigator pushed open the panel. "And he appears to be asleep. It would not be kind to wake him, my friend. You were not, I trust, thinking of seeing the captain?"
"No."
"You are wise. He is not in the best of moods. His pet has had the bad grace to destroy itself though I must admit I am not displeased. Only the manner of its passing disturbs me." Renzi smiled and steadied himself with a hand pressed against the bulkhead. "Did I say disturb?"
"What happened?"
"Borol is dead. The spined, horrible thing is no longer with us, but in dying it left its mark. You see, Earl, for some unaccountable reason, the creature decided to chew and tear its way into the radio. Perhaps it needed to eat and if so was doing well until it formed a bridge between two sources of power. Now, cremated, it is no more." Renzi smiled again then added, "And neither is our means of communication. Earl, my friend, I would advise you to find an amiable host-we could all be a long time on Ath."
Chapter Ten
From where she sat on the dais Sardia said, "I'm getting stiff, Cornelius. May I move now?"
"Later." He was being unfair and knew it. Setting down his brush he said, "I'm sorry, of course you may move. I've been thoughtless but time has passed so quickly. Forgive me?"
"For what? Asking me to model for you? That is a compliment. I shall live forever immortalized by your genius."
"You exaggerate."
"No."
Deliberately she drew in her breath before rising to stand, to stretch with arms upraised, the light from the great window adding richer tints to the smoothness of her flesh. She was nude aside from a drape around her hips, the proud contours of her breasts now catching the glow from the painted, sunset sky, the brown of her skin accentuating the shimmer of diverse color. Beauty personified, he thought, watching her. The loveliest creature he had ever seen. Why was it so hard to capture her image in paint?
He looked at what he had so far accomplished and fought the inclination to tear the canvas from the easel and destroy the mockery it contained. Were these lines and daubs the best he could do? Did those scrawls and dabs depict the loveliness which now stood before him?
Was his talent so small that he was unable even to convey what was real to the world where he had thought himself a master?
"No," she said quickly as his hand lifted. "No!"
"It's useless!"
"It's a beginning." She moved with her dancer's grace to stand at his side, eyes narrowed as she studied what he had done. "A good beginning."
Nonsense and she knew it-who could tell what a good beginning was in the realm of art? A scrawl which would not dignify the literary status of an idiot could be nursed and nurtured to form an epic when handled by a master. A few lines, a scatter of notes, an insignificant chord and a symphony could be born. And even though the canvas held little of apparent worth the feeling was there, the striving, the reaching out and the aspiration.
As she was the inspiration.
"It doesn't do you justice," said Cornelius. "Nothing created by human hands could ever do that. You are sublime in what you are. The ultimate of perfection; flawless in every way."
"I am a woman, Cornelius."
"So?"
"No woman is without fault and never make the mistake of believing you have found one who is. May I dress now?"
A request he could not refuse and it had been polite of her to ask. A subtle way in which to let him know that he was the master as well as the host. A courtesy which he recognized and appreciated as he appreciated her willingness to pose for him. Had he asked or had she offered? He couldn't remember and the details didn't matter. It had happened. For the first time it had happened.
And, for the first time, he was in love.
Sardia could sense it as she dressed, recognizing the atmosphere, the slightest tension which ruled his every movement; the little gestures quickly controlled, the words which came a little too fast and were too plentiful; masks for their real meaning, the thoughts they covered. A familiar situation-always there had been those crowding her dressing room entranced with the glamor which accompanied her. Love born of illusion, those experiencing it confusing the performances for the reality. A madness which left most unharmed but which, badly handled, had caused pain and death to others.
Would he kill her if she should refuse him?
She said quietly, "Cornelius, don't misunderstand me, but I think it would be better if I were hosted by someone else. Ursula, perhaps."
"That bitch? No!"
"Would she have me if I asked?"
"Why should you do that?" He imagined he guessed the reason. "Is it because of Dumarest? Are you jealous of him?"
"No."
"No?" His eyes held her own. "I wish I could be sure of that. You traveled together and have been lovers."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No." Me blinked at the interruption. "But it's true, isn't it?"
"Does it matter?" Her shrug gave the measure of the importance she attached to the subject. "I was thinking of your work, Cornelius. I feel I am a distraction. Don't misunderstand me, you are a genius, but with you art must always come first. This portrait, for example, you look at me too often and for too long."
"You are beautiful!"
"As is a flower, the sunset, the flight of a bird. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But your work holds more than beauty. There is an added dimension which must be maintained." The ingredient which set him above others and would make his work fetch fantastic prices. The thing he must not lose and she sensed that it had its roots in pain. She said, "Have you used live models before?"
"No."
"Because they create a conflict?" She knew the answer before he nodded. The fact at war with the impression, eye straining against brain, the observed data clashing with the subconscious awareness of what should be. "Cornelius, you are not alone. Many artists produce their best work in isolation. They store up impressions, ideas, methods of treatment and then, when finally ready, they close themselves in a world of their own and become lost in the creative process."
He said flatly, "Are you telling me that you don't want to see me again?"
"Of course not!"
"For the sake of my paintings? The markets you spoke of? The money you said I would make?" His voice grew bitter. "What is money to me? What can it buy that I don't already own? Happiness? Only you can give me that. Sardia, don't leave me, please!"
He was a small boy crying in the darkness. One begging for the comfort she was too much a woman to refuse. A step and she was close to him, her arm around his shoulders, her free hand running over his hair as, smiling, she looked into his eyes.
"I won't leave you, Cornelius."
"You promise? You'll stay here with me?"
"Until the ship leaves, yes."
"And then?"
"I'll return, of course, often. Or better still, you could come with me."
"No."
"Why not? What is to stop you? Oh, I know, the Choud do not travel." She masked the impatience the answer had given, one she faced again. "But all the Choud? Couldn't you, at least, be spared?"
"No. It isn't that. I-" He drew in his breath and stepped away from her and said, looking at the window, "Why can't you stay here on Ath?"
"Business, Cornelius. I have to attend to the display of your work and achieve the recognition of your genius. I explained all that."
"Agents could handle it. You could send the paintings to friends who would do as you direct. Dumarest could take them. You trust him?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I left him at the lake this morning. We had a quarrel."
"Dumarest." Cornelius threw back his head and his eyes veiled. "He is with the Ohrm." He blinked. "Why should he be there? Ursula has been looking for him and he has neglected the obligations of a guest. Sardia,"