"Dumarest," he said. "Earl Dumarest. I don't know you but all visitors are welcome. Do you have books to sell? Some retrieved information? Facts as yet unknown to me?"
The wrong man but a natural mistake. Dumarest had asked for the head of the house; a title Marc must hold by courtesy. He blinked when Dumarest explained.
"You must want Melvin. My younger brother but far more clever than I. Our fortunes depend on him. A moment while I correct the error."
He moved away to leave Dumarest standing before the long windows at the far end of the chamber. Overhead the sky was dull with cloud and a mist of rain had wetted the panes with a scatter of droplets. To the north clouds were darker, roiling beneath the impact of high winds.
"He will be with us in a while," said Marc as he returned. "A matter of business, you understand. At times it never seems to end. Well, I've been done with that for years now. It was never my strength, you understand. I lack the quickness of mind, the skill, the killer instinct needed to survive. Which is why Melvin was voted Head at a Family Council. No disrespect, you understand, but even I could recognize the need."
One admitted too late, perhaps; Bulem was tottering on the edge of ruin. A fact Dumarest did not mention as he listened to the old man.
"My interest has always been in the past. Books, records, old artifacts, old legends. Did you know that Eden actually exists? The fabled world of comfort and luxury often mentioned in old stories?"
A common name; Dumarest had visited three worlds bearing it. "Is that a fact?"
"I could give you the coordinates. Bonanza, too, a world of incredible mineral wealth. One day, if things get too bad, I will arrange an expedition to go there and restore our fortunes."
A madman, or a man made mad by the pressure of life on Sacaweena. One living in a dream, finding comfort in false resources, strength in his supposed knowledge. Now he bustled about the room, lifting books, setting them down to handle a scroll, a file from which he blew dust.
"It's all in here; facts and coordinates and all the old legends sifted and turned into concrete fact. Did you know that, at one time, all men lived in a single world? They left it to reach out to form new settlements. Thousands of them! Millions! Small groups wanting to live as they decided, free from all restraint and compulsion. A long time ago now but such great events. See! Let me show you! I have the proof!"
Dust faded print on moldering pages. Stained lists and scrawled annotations. Insertions from other sources, references legible only to the old man, notes of complex ambiguity. The gossamer fabric of hope and fantasy.
"You see? They're all here. Worlds of wealth and promise. We have no need to worry. No need at all." He held out the book. "Jackpot, Avalon, Erce-they're all here!"
"Erce?" Dumarest reached for the book. "The old name of this world?"
"Yes, but it was borrowed from another. The mother planet, perhaps. The source of all life as we know it. The pure, original world." Pages fluttered in the thin hands. "Look! See this reference! This deposition! All life stemmed from the primordial egg. The fruit of cosmic forces which sparked off sentient awareness. One original race which later split into the factions we know. One original world which held that new and pristine life. A state of grace which lasted for millennia and then something happened. The race split and fragmented to leave the home they had known. They scattered and spread as if from a point of utter corruption. To fly in terror to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."
The creed of the Original People. Could this man be one of them? The Orres itself be a part of the sect? The name itself held significance; the Original Residents-the Original People. Given their known love of secrecy such a change would be logical.
Did the coordinates of Earth lie in those moldering pages?
"No!" The old man snatched the book away from the reaching hand. "You are after my secrets!"
"You offered to show me the book."
"You tricked me." The suspicious eyes became cunning. "You are trying to steal my knowledge. Who sent you here? The Maximus? Helm? Ashen? Chargel? Enemies all of them. I am surrounded by enemies. They would ruin my House. Steal my fortune. Help! Help!"
He backed, the book clutched tight in mottled hands, pressed hard against the hollowed chest. A man terrified by the ghosts of his own distorted imagination. He spun as servants ran into the room, a tall, well-built man at their head. "Melvin! Be warned! The man is an enemy!"
The wine was sweet, touched with honey and roses, holding a golden warmth which added brightness to the musty chamber and helped to dispel a little of the external gloom.
Lifting his glass, Melvin Bulem said, "I am in your debt, Earl. I drink to your health." A sip. "To your fortune." Another sip. "To your success."
Dumarest followed the ritual as he studied the other man. He was younger than his brother, hard instead of soft, direct instead of devious, the eyes shrewd but free of the suspicious cunning. Even so he betrayed the signs of anxiety which had marked Fiona's face with premature lines, his own now a mask of studied courtesy.
He said, "I must apologize, Earl. Need I explain that my brother is not wholly as other men? His illusions, at times, threaten to overwhelm him. The talk of all men having lived on a single planet, for example. An apparent absurdity; how could such divergent types rise on a single world? A common environment must lead to a common race. And the talk of a cosmic egg and the babble he repeats about the need for men to expiate sin. Did you examine the book? No? A pity, if you had you would have seen it composed of rubbish. Even his talk varies at times; today it will be an expedition to Bonanza to restore our fortunes, tomorrow Avalon, the day after he will have wrested a secret from an old parchment and boast of immortality."
"When young did he travel?"
"Marc? No. Why do you ask?"
"His ideas. He could have learned them on other planets."
"He has never left Sacaweena. His notions are due to lies told by visiting captains and traders who beguiled him when young. A poison which produced wild blooms when, later, he had to manage our affairs." Bulem took a sip of his wine. "But enough of my unfortunate brother. In your travels you must have seen many like him."
"He could be helped."
"Helped," mused Bulem. "An odd word for you to have used. Most would have said 'cured.' Well, we shall see, perhaps the monks could aid him with their skill." He took another sip of wine, a gesture which terminated the subject. "I am pleased to see you, Earl, but may I ask the reason you came?"
"You mentioned it. A matter of debt."
"I see."
"You acknowledge it?"
"I, my Family, and most certainly Ivor are grateful to you for having saved our honor. The boy is young in heart if not in body and, it could be, he takes after Marc in certain ways. That is not important. If you wish me to reassure you of what we owe then consider it done."
"I do," said Dumarest. "But I was thinking of repayment."
"Of course." A veil dropped over Bulem's eyes, adding to his earlier detachment. "I had thought that-well, we are often mistaken. It's a matter of payment, then. The cost of a High passage? Travelers, I understand, are used to such calculations. Would you be satisfied with that?"
"No."
"Double then? Double-I refuse to bargain."
"I want your aid not your money."