The seeking and the soul-tearing exercise of what to put in and what to leave out. How well she understood. No dance could be given a personal interpretation without confronting the same devils which tormented every creative artist. The compromise. The limitations of the medium involved. The hopes and aspirations and, always, the sickening knowledge of failure.
Chathelgan had known it and had died by his own hand because of it. The ballet he had composed was acclaimed on a score of worlds but only he had known how far it had fallen short of its original conception. Far enough at least for him to have made an end. And Elmire who had gone insane when confronted with the limitations of the human frame when attempting a new interpretation of that most difficult of pieces, Myada's Rhapsody of Dariroth. She had seen him just before they had taken him away and even now shuddered when she remembered the ghastly emptiness of his eyes.
"I know," she said again. "I know."
"Yes," said Cornelius quietly. "I think that you do. Only an artist can appreciate the difficulties of another. To realize that to give birth to a child is no easier than to produce a new work. As a woman you should know that."
"No," she said. "I can only guess. I have never borne a child."
"But the principle is valid-all creation is an act of birth." His hand gestured at the walls of the studio in which they stood. "As this room is, in a sense, a womb. A concept Captain Tuvey found difficult to grasp when I spoke to him about it. But I forgive him. At least he introduced us."
And now she was his guest.
He found the thought strangely pleasing as he watched her study his work. The stack of canvases leaning against one wall seemed to attract her though many were unfinished and some little more than exploratory sketches. She lifted the one of the suspended man, still waiting for those few, final touches, her eyes traveling from the painting to his face then back to the canvas.
He said casually, "You like it?"
"It's superb!"
"But unfinished."
"You're joking, surely. This is magnificent!"
He smiled at the praise, childishly pleased to have won her approbation, entranced by the novelty of having knowledgeable criticism. Twice now she had mentioned business but each time he had dismissed the subject altering the trend the conversation was taking. Later would be time enough for such matters; now he was eager to enjoy himself, to revel in her praise. It was odd how he had needed it, how little he had felt the necessity, now he sank into it as if it were a warm bath and he cold and tired and stiff from exertion.
"It isn't finished," he insisted. "The face requires a few touches. When I know what they are I shall apply them. Until then-" He broke off with a smile.
The smile made him appear younger than he was and at the same time frighteningly vulnerable. And yet he could be no younger than herself as the heavy lines running from nose to mouth testified. As the crinkles at the corners of the eyes. As the thinning hair and the slight sag of flesh beneath the chin. No child, this, no young and eager boy, but not old either. Just a man growing old and, perhaps, looking older than his years.
A thing she had seen before; often physical strength was the price which had to be paid for the flame of artistic genius, yet the face held a certain resolve. A determination to pursue the demon which plagued him; the creative madness which cursed all true artists. A thing they carried as a burden and a dread, hating it, fearing it, owned by it and totally possessed by it.
As Dumarest was possessed by his determination to find Earth.
Was there a difference? The pursuit of any objective was, in essence, the same. To attempt to convert a mental speculation into a tangible form in which it could be communicated to others and to chase the figments of a legend so as to gain proof that the legend was true- were they not the same? But while one could be seen and evaluated in terms of the objective attempted and success achieved, the other, until resolved, must always portray doubt. Yet a quest was a search and both men sought, in their own way, to find the same thing. The truth. The crystallizing of an inner turmoil. The creation of something neither could wholly understand.
A personal challenge, perhaps. An idea taken and set so that others could see. A painting finished-a world found.
She remembered Amil and what he had told her before he died.
"A man must try. Always he must try. If he does not he is nothing but a stone."
And, if in trying, he found only death?
"Sardia?"
Cornelius was staring at her and it was no time to be lost in introspection. She forced herself to smile as she crossed the floor and stared at what rested on the easel. A handful of flowers their stems spiked with thorns. Blooms which radiated an aura so that, suddenly, she could smell their scent as she had smelled the scent of bright blossoms when she had been a child and had yet to learn that no beauty is unaccompanied by pain.
"Sardia!" Cornelius's hand was on her shoulder, his face anxious as he looked into her own. "Sardia, what is it?"
"Nothing." She blinked her eyes free of tears. "Nothing at all."
She had found the source of a fortune-why should she cry?
Chapter Seven
Dinner was at midnight when the sun had long since died and the sky was ebon velvet dusted with gems. Stars which glittered with cold disinterest, curtains and sheets of luminescence occluded by the blotches of dust clouds, a haze which stretched like a coiled rope low on the horizon. A sky too bright to be that of Earth and one distorted by the electronic stresses found within the rift.
Not Earth but a world holding the knowledge of where it could be found. A woman who must surely know the secret.
Dumarest looked at her as they stood on a balcony prior to joining the assembly. Tall, lithe, her body displaying her innate femininity, touches of reflected light turning her eyes into stars. Below them the city rested like a scatter of jewels cupped in a protective palm. Dull gleams ringed the lake and others shone from houses shielded by shrubbery, masked by trees. The air held the rich, warm scent of natural perfume.
A paradise and Dumarest said so. Ursula shrugged.
"You are easily impressed, Earl."
"I've learned to evaluate what I see," he corrected. "This could match the pleasure gardens on a score of worlds and has something even the Tyrant of Meld couldn't achieve with a fortune spent over a dozen years. His landscape lacks what you have here, a softness, a snugness-it isn't easy to put into words."
"A work of art," she said. "Can any two artists produce exactitude? Always there must be the minor difference of personal temperament. The subtle distinction which spells the difference between competence and genius."
"So the city was made," he said. "Built as a whole?"
"No. It grew and then was planned. There was much alteration and true harmony was not achieved until the Ohrm were removed. As for the rest, well, perhaps it holds a certain charm."
Her tone held condescension, her attitude was one of boredom, things which Dumarest recognized and he was quick to change the subject. Only a little could be learned at a time and to press too hard would risk losing all. The woman knew of Earth. She had knowledge he must obtain. The trick was to make her want to give it to him.
Now he leaned forward, hands resting on the parapet of the balcony, head tilted a little as he looked at the sky.
"Odd how the stars look in the Rift. I'd guessed they would be less plentiful and there could have been the glow of opposed energies. Have you ever seen them? Certain areas seem to trap and enhance natural radiation and, if there should be a fluorescent dust in the vicinity a spectacle can be obtained which holds true majesty. There is one close to Zekiah and another, better, which can be seen from Schwitz. You should make the effort to visit it."