“All… including you?” Corson asked in disbelief.
“The Old Race and the humans. All who live on Uria.”
“All who live on Uria,” Corson repeated thoughtfully. “That’s good news.”
“Good luck on your journey, my son,” the old Urian said.
So, Corson said to himself, peering through the time fog which rose from the ground to engulf him and his pegasone, the humans and the natives have become reconciled. Splendid!
The Urians must have managed to exorcise the demons of war. Their species was not doomed, as he had imagined.
By now he was getting to know the planet well. The location of the beach reminded him of something. That was where Antonella had taken him. By coincidence?
He decided to make a detour via Dyoto. It was an irrational impulse, an urge to make a sort of pilgrimage. He locked the pegasone to the present at the top of a hill, and looked skyward in search of that pyramidal cloud of a city seemingly balanced on its twin vertical rivers.
The sky was empty.
He reconfirmed his position. There was no possible doubt. Up there, a hundred and fifty years ago, a colossal city had reared to heaven. It had not left a trace.
He looked down, into a hollow made by the convergence of three grassy valleys between wooded hillsides. A lake filled it. Corson narrowed his eyes to see better. In the middle of the lake a sharp peak pierced the surface; elsewhere ripples broke around obstacles a few centimeters underwater. Among the vegetation on the shore he recognized other geometrical ruins.
The city had fallen and the vertical river had given birth to the lake. Underground canals were still supplying it and the overflow escaped by a little brook running along the lowermost valley. Dyoto had been destroyed. The force which had upheld its buildings over a kilometer in the air had failed. It had all happened long ago, perhaps a century, to judge by the density of the vegetation.
Sadly Corson recalled its lively streets, the swarms of floaters which poured from it like bees from a hive, that store where he had stolen food, that mechanical voice which had so courteously reprimanded him. And he thought of the women he had met there.
Dyoto was dead like so many other cities overwhelmed by the tempest of war. Perhaps at the bottom of that lake reposed the body of Floria Van Nelle, who had by chance introduced him to the strangeness of this world.
The old Urian had been lying. His smile had been false. The war had occurred and the humans had lost. It must be so, if their cities were in ruins.
He hoped Floria had not had time to realize what was happening. She was unprepared for this or any war. If she had survived for a while, it would have been as a plaything for Veran’s mercenaries, or worse still as a victim of the pitiless crusaders serving whoever had taken Ngal R’nda’s place.
So he had failed.
With an effort he resisted the impulse to jump back into the past. He remembered his dream of a city being destroyed and the cry of its inhabitants, who, too late, were foreseeing their doom. Sweat ran down his face. He could not go back now; he had an appointment in the future which he could not escape. Up there, with the Council if it proved still to be in existence, he would have to discuss the problem and find out whether the lumbering wagon of history might yet be diverted down another road. Then there would be time to come back and discover what had gone amiss.
And even if he could accomplish nothing more, he could kill Veran. A cracked bell rang in his head. If he killed Veran he himself would die. This collar would pierce his neck with poisoned spikes. He was not even supposed to think of fighting Veran without killing himself. He could not quit now.
He suppressed his lust for vengeance. Exhausted, he remounted the pegasone and urged it onward.
It went forward sullenly, and for the first time Corson noticed how gray everything was around him. In the impenetrable fog of the centuries, where nights and days were intermingled, he felt the pegasone escape from his control. His fingers tugged on its tendrils, but in vain. The beast, whether from fatigue or under the command of another will, threatened to lock into the present. Disheartened, he let it do so.
The sound of the sea, a slow and regular rhythm. He was on a long beach which the setting sun had gilded. That struck him as odd. Left to their own devices pegasones normally preferred to synch with daylight because of their appetite for energy. But this time his mount had been drawn to twilight.
He opened his eyes wide. Stretched out on the sand before him were three naked bodies, motionless. He took off his helmet, feeling the moist air on his face, and stared at them. Three naked bodies, dead for all he could tell—could this be all that remained of the Council of Uria? One man, two women, like the victims of a dreadful shipwreck, tossed ashore by the tide.
Chapter 33
At Corson’s approach, however, the man moved, rising on one elbow to examine him with interest. He smiled. Apparently he had come to little harm.
“Ah, you must be the man from Aergistal,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Corson managed to say, “The Council—”
“Here we are,” the man said. “The Council of Uria for this millennium.”
Corson leaned over him. “Do you need any help?”
“I don’t think so. Why don’t you sit down?”
“But these women—” Corson began, dropping to the sand.
“Don’t disturb them. They’re in communion.”
“Communion?”
“We have plenty of time, don’t worry. It’s a lovely evening, don’t you think?”
As he spoke he was scrabbling in the sand. Now he unearthed a crystal flagon, which he opened and handed to Corson.
“Refresh yourself, friend. You’re looking very strange.”
Corson made to argue, but changed his mind. If this bit of human jetsam said there was plenty of time, who was he to contradict? He set the flagon to his lips. It contained cool wine. He was so surprised he swallowed the wrong way and almost choked.
“Don’t you like it?” demanded the castaway.
“It’s the best wine I ever tasted.”
“Then drink the lot, friend. There’s more. There’s always more.” Peeling off his gauntlets, Corson complied. A second swig put fresh heart into him. Then he recalled the place and the circumstances.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I have some field rations with me.”
“Thank you,” the man said, “but I prefer somewhat more delicate fare… Oh, how stupid of me not to have thought of that. You must be hungry after your journey.”
He rose on his knees, energetically scooped aside more of the sand, and revealed a large silvery container. He removed its lid and sniffed the contents with approval.
“Help yourself. You’ll have to eat with your fingers, I’m afraid, but we lead a very simple life here.”
To Corson’s astonishment, the dish held what looked like half a chicken, garnished with a sauce and vegetables such as he had never seen before. But the smell made him instantly ravenous, and he ate so eagerly it was a while before he was able to utter the words which a moment ago had been at the forefront of his mind.
“I saw Dyoto!”
“A handsome city,” the man said. “If a little out of style.”
“It was at the bottom of a lake. The war has completely destroyed it.”
Startled, the man rose on his elbows and sat up.
“What war?”