"This is novel to me," said the ruler of Jest. "A perfect example of the workings of fate. You are here through no act of mine. I owe you nothing. You admit that?"
Dumarest remained silent.
"You can hardly deny it. So I have been given a rare opportunity to learn." Jocelyn leaned a little farther over the edge of the raft. Ilgash moved as if to grab his master should he venture too far. "To learn the value a man sets on his continued existence," said Jocelyn slowly. "Wealth is relative, as I think you will agree. What will you give me if I save your life?"
"All I possess, my lord."
"Is life then so valuable?"
Dumarest coughed and looked at his hand. He washed it in the sea before answering. "Without life what is wealth? Can a dead man own possessions? I float on a fortune, my lord. It is yours if you will lift me from the sea and restore my health."
A fire burned deep in Jocelyn's eyes. "A fortune? Golden spore?"
"Yes."
"So Yeon was right," murmured Jocelyn and then he said, "What is to stop me taking it and leaving you here?"
"Try it and you get nothing." Dumarest was curt, tired of playing. "I have a knife. It is pointed at the bottom of the sacks. One puncture and the spore is lost in the sea." He coughed again. "Hurry, my lord. Make your decision."
The raft descended. Strong arms reached out and hauled Dumarest from the water. Jocelyn himself took charge of the plastic containers. He smiled as he saw the hilt of Dumarest's knife still in his boot.
"So, Earl, you were bluffing all the time."
Dumarest coughed again, looked at the redness on his hand. "No, my lord," he said. "Desperate. A spore has settled in my lung. I would not have lived to see the winter."
Chapter Ten
There were little noises, the clink and tap of metal on metal, a liquid rushing, the soft susurration of air. Erlan made a satisfied grunt and straightened, his head haloed by an overhead light.
"Good," he said. "Completely clear of any trace of infection and the tissue has healed perfectly."
Dumarest looked up at the physician from where he lay on the couch.
"The upper part of the left lung was badly affected," continued Erlan cheerfully. "A bulbous mass of vegetable growth which had to be completely eradicated by major excision. That was a vicious spore you managed to get inside you, a quick-grower, nasty."
He stepped back and did something to the couch. The head lifted raising Dumarest upright.
"I had to remove quite a large area but managed to do it by internal surgery. There may be a little scarring but the regrowth has fully restored the lung capacity so you will have no difficulty as regards oxygen conversion. I also repaired your left eardrum which had burst, probably due to high pressure."
Dumarest looked at his arm. There was no trace of where he had cut himself. "How long?"
"In slow-time therapy?" Erlan pursed his lips. "About forty days subjective, a day normal. Your tissues showed signs of dehydration and malnutrition so I gave you intensive intravenous feeding. You can rest assured, my friend, that you are now completely fit and free of any physical disability, both present and potential."
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "You've taken a lot of trouble."
Erlan shrugged. "Don't thank me, it was Jocelyn's order. He is waiting for you in the lower cabin. Your clothes are on that chair."
They had been refurbished and were as good as new, the soft gray of the plastic seeming to ripple as it caught the light. Once dressed, Dumarest left the medical chamber and descended a stair. Ilgash ushered him into a cabin. Inside Jocelyn sat listening to music.
It was a sweeping melody of strings and drums with a horn wailing like a lost soul in atonal accompaniment. There was a wildness about it and a hint of savagery, the taint of the primitive and barbaric splendor of ancient days.
Jocelyn sighed as it ended and switched off the player. "Unusual, is it not? The factor allowed me to take a copy of his recording. He has quite a wide selection of melodies and shows a particularly sensitive taste. This one, I believe, originated on Zeros. Do you know the planet?"
"No, my lord."
"And yet you have traveled widely, I understand." Jocelyn shrugged. "Well, no matter. A man's, path sometimes takes him in strange directions, to Scar, perhaps even to Jest."
Dumarest made no comment.
"You disagree?" Jocelyn smiled. "And yet, what choice have you? The price you paid me for saving your life was the total of your possessions. Your clothes and ring I do not claim; the rest I do. Sit and discuss the matter."
"There is nothing to discuss, my lord." Dumarest took the proffered chair. "I do not wish to accompany you to Jest."
"You intend to remain on Scar without money and with the winter almost due? How will you survive?"
Dumarest shrugged. "I can manage, my lord. It will not be the first time I have been stranded on a hostile world."
"You are stubborn," said the ruler of Jest. "It is a trait which I find admirable. Without it, you would now be surely dead."
He rose and paced the floor. At his rear the worn bindings of ancient books rested in their cases of wood and crystal. He paused, looking at them, then glanced at Dumarest.
"Are you willing to leave the matter to fate?"
"The spin of a coin, my lord? No."
"A pity," sighed Jocelyn. "How else can I persuade you?" He resumed his pacing, feet silent, head inclined a little as if about to spring. "Wait," he said. "There is something you seek, a world, Earth." His eyes were bright as he looked at Dumarest. "Terra."
Dumarest surged from his chair. "You know it?"
"The name is not strange to you?"
"No. I have heard it before, on Toy." Dumarest caught himself. "And again on Hope, my lord, in the archives of the Universal Brotherhood. Do you know where Terra lies?"
Jocelyn was honest. "No, but I have thought of your problem and perhaps I could be of help. My father was an unusual man. He loved the past; he squandered his wealth on ancient things. Traders came from all over with their wares. They even coined a name for him, the Jester, the Fool. Sometimes I think the name was apt."
Dumarest made no comment, recognizing the bitterness in the other's tone.
"He bought old books, charts, mathematical tables together with the works of those who probe into the meaning of things, philosophers. I think that they alone can teach you how to find what you seek."
Books, printed in almost indecipherable words in a medley of languages no longer current, hardly seemed the answer. Dumarest felt a sudden anger. Was Jocelyn toying with him, enjoying his private jest? How did he expect a traveler to have the knowledge or time to read who could guess how many books?
"You would need specialists," said Jocelyn as if reading his thoughts. "You would need those who have devoted their lives to the study of what has gone before, men who dream of strange possibilities alien to accepted fact, not scientists, who are limited to what they can see and feel and measure, but philosophers, who recognize no mental boundaries. For example, I can give you a clue. Not the name Terra, which you already know, and which was a fragment of a forgotten poem, but the use of navigational coordinates. We use a common zero, correct?"
"The center," said Dumarest. "Where else?"
"Let us assume something ridiculous," said Jocelyn seriously. "Let us, for the purpose of argument, assume that all mankind originated on a single world. The ancient poem I spoke of mentioned such a possibility. In that case, where would the zero of their coordinates lie?"
"On their home world." said Dumarest slowly. "As they expanded they would use that as their point of reference."