The soldiers she ignored; men trying too hard to convince themselves they were having a good time. The lovers created a sudden stab of envy, startling because unexpected. Yet how wonderful it must be to lose yourself in anothers arms. The derelicts-another matter she should bring to the attention of the council. The man opposite?
She met the impact of Dumarest's eyes.
He was studying her hands, her face, the color of her skin. The rich olive glowed in the subdued lighting and he frowned, wondering. It was the color of the women of Loame and he was reminded forcefully of the girl he had come to find. Elaine Delmayer. Could this woman be she?
It was barely possible and, in any case, she might know of her. Expatriates would tend to stick together or, at least, to remain in contact. He could lose nothing by asking.
He rose and stood above her. "My lady?"
She looked up, thinking that he was trying to scrape an acquaintance and amused at the possibility. An attempted seduction would at least beguile the tedium of the journey. "Yes?"
"Your pardon, my lady, but would you be so kind as to tell me your name?"
He was direct if nothing else, or perhaps the technique had changed since the old days. Yet he didn't look the type of man who would haunt the cars in search of women.
Quietly she said, "Sit down beside me. I do not like people to stand over me."
"As you wish, my lady." He sat and met her eyes. "Your name?"
"Mada Grist." It meant nothing to him, she could tell by his expression. "Why do you ask?"
"A personal reason, my lady. Are you from Loame?"
"No."
"Thank you, my lady. My apologies at having troubled you."
Incredulously she realized that he was going and put out a hand to detain him without conscious thought. He looked at it and then at her, his eyes questioning.
"Please stay with me," she said quickly. "Those soldiers. I am afraid they may try to molest me." It was a weak excuse but she made no comment. Did he think her a woman of pleasure looking for custom? Quickly she added, "And I am bored. Conversation will shorten the journey. Do you go to the capital?"
"Yes, my lady."
His voice was strong, matching the strength of his face, the masculinity she could sense emanating from his body. And she was responding to it! Startled, she felt the glandular reaction, the biological chemistry triggered by the stimulus of his proximity. To yield to it was tempting, but it was safer to concentrate on other things. His clothes, for a start. They were clean but cheap and rumpled as if he had worn them too long. And his manner of address was strange. It reminded her of Ruen, but this man was no cyber. He was being polite, she decided, using a safe term of address in case she should be of superior rank.
And that meant he must be widely traveled and used to dealing with nobility.
She glanced at him. He was relaxed, his eyes closed, dozing or perhaps reluctant to engage in idle conversation. She herself felt a sudden fatigue and wondered if it were genuine tiredness or the association of relative objects. The man, her desire, a bed, which for too long had symbolized nothing but sleep. And yet if she were to get him into bed with her, sleep would be the last thing on her mind.
She nodded, waking as the train halted, dozing again as it continued its journey. At the last halt before the capital guards entered the car. They were trim, awake and determined.
"Your identification, please."
She felt the sudden tension of the man at her side, an inner tightening outwardly invisible, and wondered if he was afraid. But of what? And why?
"Madam?" The guard was young and impatient. He blinked as she held out her left wrist, the thick, identifying bracelet gleaming in the light. She could appreciate his discomposure.
"Satisfied?"
"Why yes, madam. Certainly." He glanced at the man sitting beside her. "Sir?"
She saw the slip of plastic, the thumb held as if by accident over the photograph, and spoke before the guard could make a thorough examination.
"The gentleman is with me."
"Yes, madam. Thank you, madam. I am sorry to have caused any inconvenience."
She relaxed, smiling, as the train continued on its way.
Chapter Seven
A machine had designed the palace, incorporating the Golden Rule in a series of arches, pilasters, vaulted roofs, endless passages and echoing chambers. The result should have been esthetically pleasing. Instead it presented a cold, machinelike atmosphere of repetitious monotony, heightened by the abstract decorations and concealed lighting.
Striding down a corridor, Vargas noticed none of it, his eyes brooding as he mulled over recent events. The council meeting had been a farce, with a good third of the members absent and the rest barely paying attention. The details discussed had been triviaclass="underline" the area to be devoted to crops, the manpower necessary to build a new power installation, an adjustment of taxes; things which could have been better decided by a computer. Why did he have to be burdened with such ignorant, conceited fools?
He halted before the door of an elevator, his guard moving forward to check the interior, turning to watch as he entered the cage. The doors closed and they fell, Vargas fighting his instinctive fear. What if the mechanism had been tampered with? What if the protective devices should fail and the cage with its contents be smashed to atoms at the foot of the shaft?
It slowed and he breathed again, waiting as the door opened and his guard made the usual check. Warm air tainted with the sharp tang of antiseptics struck his nostrils as he walked down a short passage. The odor increased as he entered a chamber glittering with metal and glass. Brekla was before him, turning as he heard the click of the closing door.
"Sire?"
A good man, thought Vargas. An ambitious one and therefore predictable. But because he was ambitious, he was also dangerous. It was something he must never forget. Yet the danger was not immediate. Only when he had firmly secured the position he coveted would Brekla lift his eyes to the pinnacle of power.
"Is everything prepared?"
"Yes, sire." Brekla moved toward an inner door. "Yendhal is waiting."
The physician was a small man with delicate hands and the light of fanaticism burning bright in his eyes. He bowed as Vargas approached and looked pointedly at the guard.
"It would be best, sire, if your attendant remained outside."
"Leave us." Yendhal was to be trusted or the entire project was pointless. Even so, Vargas felt a prickling in the middle of his back as the guard withdrew. "Is this the man?"
He was a prime specimen, well muscled, in good condition, young and handsome. Vargas felt a quick envy as he looked at the naked, virile body. Once he had looked like that.
"You understand what it is you are to do?"
"I-" Sweat gleamed on the olive skin."I think so, sire."
"You are not certain?" Vargas glared at the physician. "Has he not been instructed?"
"Of course, sire, but he is afraid and has forgotten." Yendhal turned to the man and explained as he would to a child. "You have been selected to take part in an important experiment. You are fit and healthy and strong but, as I explained, strength is a relative term. A man under the influence of strong emotion can display unsuspected capabilities. It is this we intend to discover. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then let us commence." Yendhal led the way from the door, down a corridor and to a small chamber flanked by many doors. He pointed to one. "You will pass through that door when the light turns red. Beyond lie many dangers. If you survive them you will be given a rich reward."
"Does that mean I shall be sent back home to Loame, sir?"
"Yes." Stimulus was important to the success of the experiment and Yendhal did not hesitate at the lie. "Now do your best. Your life depends on it."