“No, you have no need—you simply go ahead and arrange everything to suit yourself—and that is precisely my point! Your father had a way of pretending to do what the King wanted and all the time he was doing what he wanted. You have exactly the same way with you, Cassyll Maraquine. Sometimes I suspect that it is you, and not I, who rules this…”
Daseene leaned forward again, her rheumy eyes intent. “You do not look at all well, my dear fellow. Your face is quite crimson and your brow glistens with sweat. Are you suffering from an ague?”
“No, Majesty.”
“Well, something ails you. You do not look well. It is my opinion that you should consult your physician.”
“I shall do so without delay,” Cassyll said. He was yearning for the moment he could escape the intolerable heat of the room, but he had not yet achieved the purpose of his visit. Contrary to what Daseene had just said, he was not the complete master of his own affairs. He gazed into her fragile face, wondering if she was playing games with him. Perhaps she knew perfectly well that he was being tortured by the excessive warmth, and was waiting for him either to faint or give in and plead for respite.
“Why are you occupying so much of my time anyway?” she said. “You must want something.”
“As it so happens, Majesty, there is one—”
“Hah!”
“It is quite a routine matter… well within my normal areas of jurisdiction… but I thought, more or less in passing, that I should mention it to your Majesty… not that there is any…”
“Out with it, Maraquine!” Daseene glanced at the ceiling in exasperation. “What are you up to?”
Cassyll swallowed, trying to relieve the dryness in his throat. “The barrier which has appeared between Land and Overland is a matter of great scientific interest. I and Bartan Drumme have the privilege of serving as your Majesty’s principal scientific advisers, and—after sober consideration of all the facts—we feel that we should accompany the fleet which is to—”
“Never!” Suddenly Daseene’s face was an alabaster mask upon which a skilled artist had painted a likeness of the woman who used to be. “You will stay where I need you, Maraquine—right here on the ground! The same goes for your bosom friend, the eternal stripling, Bartan Drumme. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very clear, Majesty.”
“I am well aware that you are concerned for your son—just as I fear for the safety of my granddaughter—but there are times when one must turn a deaf ear to all appeals from the heart,” Daseene said in a voice which surprised Cassyll with its vigor.
“I understand, Majesty.” Cassyll bowed, and was turning to leave when Daseene halted him by raising one hand.
“And before you depart,” she said, “let me remind you of what I said earlier—be sure to see a doctor.”
Chapter 17
The startled cry from Steenameert reached Toller across dark distances of the soul, shadowy distances, where unseen worlds prowled their orbital paths. Each world was the embodiment of a new personality, one of which was destined to be his, and he had little concern for the trivialities of his old existence. Aloof and vaguely irritated, he asked himself why the young man was calling his name. What in all the black reaches of the cosmos could be important enough to justify distracting him at a time like this, just when momentous decisions were being made about his destiny?
But something else was happening! A battle was beginning in the stygian landscapes which surrounded him. Powerful external forces were being brought to bear on the psychic lens whose curvatures governed every aspect of his future…
The lens shattered! Released from his mental and physical paralysis, Toller was reborn into a world of tumult. Dozens of black-clad and ragged-edged Dussarran figures were running across the floor of the dome towards the enclosure. A woman was screaming. The aliens Toller had been crushing behind the panel were now free and were staggering towards their leader. Other aliens who had been clustered behind Zunnunun were fleeing through the exit to unknown parts of the building.
Come with us! A Dussarran appeared at Toller’s side and tugged his arm. We are your friends!
Toller shook himself free of the grey-fingered hand. The alien seemed no different from any of those he had already encountered, except that the ubiquitous piecemeal costume dangling around his spindly form featured a few diamond-shapes of drab green.
“Friends?” Toller made as if to thrust the newcomer away, then—accepting urgent telepathic guidance—realized the alien was one of a group which had recalled him to his own existence with no time to spare. The choice was not a difficult one in any case—stay and face the quietly invincible Director Zunnunun, or seize the unexpected offer of salvation.
“Baten!” Toller saw that Steenameert was staring at him with concern. “We have to trust these people!”
Steenameert nodded, as did some of the women behind him. The entire group of humans began to run in the company of their alien rescuers, but their escape route was being blocked by other Dussarrans who were spilling through the dome’s multiple entrances. The opposing forces converged and the scene quickly became chaotic as black-clad bodies locked with each other in all the grotesqueries of spontaneous physical combat.
Toller’s perception of the scene underwent rapid shifts as he saw that the Dussarrans’ idea of hand-to-hand struggle was to throw themselves at each other, lock arms and legs with opponents and bring them to the ground. Once that had happened they lay in ineffectual pairs, like copulating insects, each cancelling the other’s contribution to the battle. The advantage from the humans’ point of view was that no weapons were being used—the aliens fought like angry children, and although hostile enough were manifestly lacking in the ability to incapacitate an enemy. Toller was comforted when he realized that he and his new allies would not be annihilated in a few bloody seconds; but then the negative aspect of the situation came to him. The struggle was too democratic, too much like casting votes. In this style of combat the numerically superior force was bound to win.
Again longing for his sword, Toller turned on one of the group of unfriendly aliens who were closing on him with arms outspread. Toiler clubbed him to the ground with one diagonal blow of his fist, and then—with murder in his heart—drove his heel down on the alien’s neck, while at the same time hurling away two more attackers.
The feeling of living firmness crunching into inert mush told him immediately that the Dussarran was dead, but a more dramatic confirmation came from the surrounding melee. The mass of black-ragged aliens—friend and foe alike—underwent a convulsive spasm as though some powerful unseen force had torn through them. Their various pairings were dissolved and the air was filled with wordless keenings of anguish. All at once Toller and the other humans were the only mobile and concerted force on the bizarre battle ground.
“What happened?” Jerene shouted, her round face and clear eyes beaconing at Toller from the confusion.
“The scarecrows all suffer when one of their number dies near at hand,” Toller replied, remembering what Divivvidiv had told him about the strange telepathic backlash which accompanied the death of a Dussarran. “The trouble is that those who are favorably disposed to us are not spared. Get them on their feet and keep them moving—otherwise we are lost.”
The other six Kolcorronians responded at once, snatching suitably emblazoned aliens to their feet and urging them to run. They had to be dragged or pushed for some yards before their limbs began to pick up the motive rhythms. The ill-sorted band passed through an archway, entered a corridor and continued their awkward progress towards double-leafed doors at its far end. Other Dussarrans, shown to be friendly by their green-dappled clothing, were waiting at the door and making urgent beckoning signals.