He shifted to ease the ache in his bones. The upholstery was worn and the springs unkind. He'd managed to buy some confection from a machine at Farbein and had managed to quench his thirst with a handful of snow but aside from that had had nothing. One of the derelicts woke, gasping, staring about with rheumy eyes. To Dumarest the sight was reassuring. They had ridden with him all the way, probably buying a ticket to the next station and riding the loop all through the night. Like himself it was the only place they could find warmth and a measure of comfort. Their presence meant that the train was badly checked and he should be safe from questioning guards.
But for how long?
Not much longer, he decided. If Keon was any good at his trade he would anticipate what the fugitive would do. With the hotels blocked and the roads watched the monorail was the only thing left. His only hope was that he would reach the capital before the guards had been fully alerted.
He tensed as the train checked to a halt. The crying woman rose and left the car. The lovers parted for a moment, checked the station and returned to each other. One of the soldiers whistled as a woman entered the carriage and walked to where Dumarest sat. She ignored the whistle and sat across from him, her face muffled in the collar of a heavy coat.
Already Mada was beginning to regret her romantic impulse.
The train had been late and not as large as she remembered but then, she reminded herself, she had never traveled so late before. She had picked the last car for sentimental reasons. She had always chosen that car in the past, but it was not as she recalled. Surely the seats hadn't been so worn, the paint so dull? And the smooth hum of gliding progress, what had happened to that?
Time, she thought, the magic of distance. Foods lost their flavor, colors their brightness and the trifling details of annoyance became swallowed in a nostalgic glow. But that could not be the whole answer. Maintenance standards had fallen, and work that should have been done had been neglected. The wars, the drain of men and money to hold down the rebellious populations of Cest and Hardish must be the cause. How long must it continue?
It would be wise for the members of the council to mix more with the ordinary people. It was too easy to become detached. She made a mental note to raise the matter at the next meeting, then relaxed, looking around, determined to make the best of her illogical whim.
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?