"There'll be no trouble," said Dumarest. "And we can pay."
He lifted Lemain as the woman cleared the table and spread wide a purple sheet, placed the limp figure on the flat surface, stepped back to ease the ache in his arm and shoulder before he stooped to inspect the wound. It was bad. Blood welled from a seared opening as he pulled the clamping hand away, the black of char clearly ran deep in the intestine. The laser had hit hard and strong. How the man had been able to run at all was a mystery.
"Earl!" Lemain writhed in pain. "God, Earl, do something!"
"Give him wine," said Dumarest to the woman. "Spirits if you have any. And where is that other sheet?"
He bound it tightly around the injured man as she fed him sips of brandy, compressing it over the wound in an effort to staunch the blood. It was a hopeless gesture. With immediate medical attention the man might have stood a chance; now he had none at all.
"Earl?" Lemain pushed aside the woman's hand. The brandy had given him momentary strength, bringing a false flush to his pallid cheeks. "How bad is it, Earl?"
"Bad."
"I'm dying?"
"Yes," said Dumarest emotionlessly. Lemain was not a boy, and a man should be told when to ready himself for the final adventure. "Are you in pain?"
"Not now," said Lemain. "Not as I was. It seems to have eased a little." He turned his head, the dancing candlelight giving his face the somber appearance of a skull. "So much to do," he whispered. "And now there's no time to do it. If only the cards had fallen right I-" He broke off, his smile a rictus of approaching death. "Listen, Earl, will you do something for me?"
"What is it?"
"A wise man," said Lemain. "You don't promise until you know what it is I ask. But it isn't much, Earl. I just want you to carry a message for me. To my brother on Loame. Tell him that there is no answer on Shem, Delph and Clovis. Will you do that?"
"Couldn't I send it?"
"No, Earl, there are reasons why it must be kept private. That is why I want you to carry it. To Loame, Earl. Doesn't the name interest you? It's like the one we talked about. Earth. The planet you want to find. There is a man on Loame who might be able to tell you exactly where it is."
Dumarest leaned forward, his face intent in the fitful illumination. "His name?"
"Delmayer, Earl. Grower Delmayer. He owns a big place and he is a collector of antiquities. Go to him, Earl. Talk to him. I promise nothing but I'm sure he can help."
Dumarest hesitated. Another wasted journey? Another disappointment? Earth, he was positive, lay somewhere in this region of the galaxy, yet the exact coordinates remained a mystery. To be so close and still be so uncertain was a nagging irritation.
"Please, Earl." Lemain's hand lifted, gripped his own. "I'm dying and we both know it. You're leaving anyway so why not head for Loame? Carry my message and maybe you'll help to save a world."
Exaggeration? Dying men saw things from a distorted viewpoint but there was no denying the urgency in his voice, the appeal in his eyes. And why not? One planet was as good as another, and it was barely possible that the man Delmayer possessed valuable information.
"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll carry your message."
"God bless you, Earl." The hand fell from his own, fumbled at a pocket. "The address… in here… my brother's a good man… help." Lemain swallowed and said clearly: "You won't regret this, I'm sure of it."
"He's dying," said the woman suddenly. "Does he want anything? A monk, perhaps?" She stepped forward, the candle in her hand. "There's a small church at the edge of the landing field. I can get you one if you want."
"No," said Dumarest. "There isn't time."
"There could be. I'll run all the way."
And return with what? A monk of the Universal Church with his hypnotic skill to ease the mind and body of the dying or a pair of guards eager to earn a reward? Self-preservation dictated that she return with the latter. It was a risk Dumarest dared not take.
"No," he said again.
Gold shimmered as she looked at him, the candlelight bright in the gilded tresses of her hair, more gold flashing from her nails, matching the gleam in her eyes. "You're hard," she said. "By God, you're hard. And you call yourself his friend?"
"I did," said Dumarest quietly. He looked at Lemain. While they had argued the man had died. Reaching out, he closed the staring eyes. "But not now. A dead man has no need of friends."
"He's gone?" She sighed and put down the candle. "Well, what do we do now?"
"We wait," said Dumarest, "Until the dawn."
* * *
Waiting, they talked. Her name was Zillia and she was a professional woman of pleasure, her attitude a peculiar blend of hardness and sentiment, a typical product of the old city where tradition had set her class in a prison of rigid formality. To Dumarest's questions as to how she would dispose of the body she shrugged.
"There are men who will do anything for money. I will bribe a couple. The dead man will be found in a street far from here. Not today, but tomorrow. There is no time now to make the arrangement, and there will be no questions and no suspicion as to my part in the affair. A dead man, one from the workings, who is going to be concerned about such as he?"
"You don't like the workings?" Dumarest sipped at the glass in his hand. She had produced wine and served them both, now they sat on the edge of the bed, the sheeted corpse a formless bundle to one side of the room.
"The workings?" Again she shrugged, the upward movement of her shoulders causing her full breasts to strain against the thin fabric of her robe. "To me they mean nothing, but to those who rule this world they could spell disaster. Already the young are becoming independent and dissatisfied with their lot. You, those like you, are a fresh wind to blow away ancient cobwebs with your news of other worlds, other societies. Once the habit of obedience is broken how can it be restored?"
"Blind obedience is never good," said Dumarest flatly. "Always a man must ask himself why he should obey. Because the one giving the order is older? Has greater wealth? Is in a position of authority? Commands respect because of his greater knowledge and experience? Unless these questions are asked the habit of obedience leads inevitably to mental slavery."
"Deep thoughts," she said, smiling. "And questions not of our concern. Had you known the dead man long?"
Dumarest sipped more wine. "Not long. We worked together, and once he saved me from injury. A grab discharged its load above where I stood. Lemain thrust me aside." His hand tightened on the glass. "The grab operator had cause to regret his carelessness later."
"You killed him?"
"No, just hurt him a little. After that Lemain and I spent some time together. We ate at the same table and slept in the same dormitory. We talked of various tilings. I liked him. He was a good man."
"And Earth?"
Dumarest looked at the woman, her face soft in the kindly light of the candle, the glimmer of her gilded hair a shimmering halo against the shadows beyond. She had, he realized, subconsciously fallen into the habits of her trade, putting him at ease with wine and conversation, letting her magnificent femininity work its biological magic.
"It's a place," he said quietly. "A world."
"Your world?"
"Yes."
She frowned, puzzled, her mind teasing the problem. "But he said that you didn't know where it was. At least he said that someone could tell you that. But if it is your world, surely you know the way back?"