"Men willing to kill?"
"Men willing to fight," he corrected. "To reach out for what they want. To destroy those who try to stop them."
"Violence."
"Protection." He turned to face her, looking at the face blurred in the dim illumination, the wide, luminous pools of her eyes. "Without it what do you have? The trust that others will not harm you? The hope you will be ignored and left to go your own way? Your ancestors knew better. They knew that all life is a continual act of violence. Why else did they build Zabul?"
"As a haven."
"True, but an armed one. In the beginning it was a fortress designed to safeguard the Terridae in their caskets. How else to ensure protection from fire and flood and war? From quakes and natural hazards? Where better to wait as the years drifted by and the Event came nearer? But they weren't prepared just to wait. The original plans make it clear what they intended."
"But we bred," she said. "Grew in numbers-can we be blamed for that?"
"You made a choice. The Terridae wanted children and, losing the initial drive, became apathetic. Zabul was designed to be moved-why else but in order to search for Earth?"
"The Event will happen," she said uncertainly. "That is what we believe."
"It will happen," he promised. "I'm going to see that it does. But I can't do it alone. And it must be done fast."
"I know Volodya said that, but he will be reasonable. The committee will see to that. He-"
"I'm not talking of Volodya."
"What then?" Her eyes widened. "The Cyclan? But Lim is dead. You destroyed the Saito."
Dumarest leaned back, closing his eyes, seeing again the white gush of searing flame from the pyre his bomb had created, which had destroyed the cyber and reduced the ship to a cloud of expanding, incandescent vapor. That battle was won, but the war continued and he knew the forces of the Cyclan must be on their way.
When would they arrive?
Too much time had been wasted while Volodya had made up his mind to throw his weight on the winning side. There had been too many arguments, manipulations, indecisions. The dead weight of inertia had forced him to move slowly when every nerve had screamed for haste. The young had needed to be convinced, their support assured. The Council had to be weakened by subtle innuendo. A dreaming race had to be shaken into wakeful acceptance of the imminence of their destiny.
The work had sapped his stamina and clogged his mind with fatigue and toxins, which introduced the danger of a careless tongue-already he had made one slip which the woman had seemed to ignore. How many others had escaped him due to impatience and frustration?
A balancing act, he thought, feeling himself sink deeper into a semi-doze. To push and yet to appear to be only a reluctant follower. To urge and suggest and persuade and never, ever, to appear more than helpful. As a stranger he would be resented despite open denials. Those who would accept promises and glittering images of the splendid future about to come would gibe at the work necessary to achieve it.
Dreamers-he was trapped in a world of dreamers. Easy prey for the Cyclan when they came unless, first, he could form his own defenses. If Volodya would allow him to. Unless the newly formed committee grew too fond of personal authority.
But that was a knife edge he had to walk if he was ever to find Earth.
CHAPTER THREE
Each day now on waking Vera Jamil spent longer on her toilette, painstakingly arranging her hair, adorning her eyes with touches of cosmetics, adding extra perfume to her bath. These small acts held their own excitement as did the selection and arranging of her clothing. Vanity, of course, but it gave her pleasure and, at times, brought back memories of her youth when Amrik had been alive and they had found magic in the shadowed compartments of Zabul.
A time long gone now yet still she could feel the pain when learning of his death. Still see the smile on his face when they had lifted him from the casket. If nothing else his dreams had been pleasant and she wondered if they had been of her. That was a bad time and she had longed to return to the surcease of forgetfulness, resenting the obligatory periods of wakeful activity. What need did she have of physical stimulation? Of renewing contacts with reality? Amrik was gone and with him had gone her happiness.
Now a small part of it had returned.
It was everywhere in the only world she had ever known; the stir and bustle of expectation, of activity directed to a definite object. Time seemed to have gained a new dimension and she felt the pulse of her blood and the tingle of renewed interest. Luck, she thought; at any other time she would have missed the participation she now enjoyed. Missed the close association with the stranger who had created the new conditions.
"Earl!" She rose as he entered the chamber and turned to him, hands extended, palms upward, smiling her pleasure as he touched them with his own. "I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
He returned her coquetry with a smile. "Sorry, Vera, but I've been busy."
"I know." Her gesture embraced the shelves, the racks and files and books, the computer data banks of the installation in her charge. "I've been compiling your activities for posterity."
She was too eager but Dumarest retained his smile. Vera Jamil was the custodian of the Archives and could help him ferret out the secrets he hoped they contained. Now, as she produced a pot of steaming tisane together with the traditional cakes of hospitality, he forced himself to mask his impatience.
"Some of the young men were talking of your training program," she said, handing him a cup of the scented tisane. "They admire you even while nursing their bruises. Do men really have to fight like that on other worlds?"
"At times, yes."
"It seems unnatural." Vapor wreathed her eyes as she stared at him over the rim of her cup. "To fight and hurt and maybe to kill. Why can't everyone live in peace?"
"Because all worlds are not like this one." Dumarest set aside the cup and ate a cake. It was good and he said so. "Did you bake it?"
Her flush gave the answer. "An old recipe. Amrik-a friend, used to like them."
"A wise man." Dumarest caught the shadow which drifted over her face and knew better than to labor the point. "Dare I ask if we've made any progress?"
Again the flush, this time caused by his use of words. How nice of him to make her feel an equal partner!
"A little," she said. "There is so much data and you did say to check it all. Give me a moment and we'll get down to business."
She rose to clear away the tisane and cakes, a tall, slender woman, delicately fashioned, her hair a mass of convoluted strands. Hair so blond as to appear almost silver, rising high in an elaborate coiffure, set with small gems which shone like trapped stars. Her face held the ageless placidity of all the Terridae; she could have been five years older than himself or as many centuries. But, in the real experience of living, she was little more than a child.
"Here is a summary of all references together with computerized assessment. Here is a condensation which negates all duplication. This is a compilation of personal notations; items from old logs and navigational tables together with data from personal journals." She looked at the piled sheaves. "I'm afraid it's rather a lot."
An understatement; the data was indigestible in sheer volume. Dumarest selected a file and ran his eyes over the neat columns of references. The woman had done a thorough job but had missed the point of his search.
He said patiently, "What I hoped for was actual coordinates."
"We have them." She picked up a folder. "The exact location of more than a hundred worlds each of special significance to the Terridae." She added, regretfully, "I'm afraid there's no way of telling which is Earth."