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“Okay,” said Sherret. “I’m ready. Really.”

CHAPTER SIX

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THEY WALKED along the valley side by side. The blue had passed into the purple time again, and the place looked unutterably gloomy. Sherret wished the phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” would cease recurring in his mind. He said, “I don’t like the violet hour. Everything bad seems to happen to me then.”

“I rather like it,” said Lee. “It creates a mood of mystery and poetry. See, the lights are on in the village.”

The little houses in the distance had lighted windows.

The two men walked on in preoccupied silence. The mountain walls on either side had become topless in the purple obscurity. Lee was weaponless, but carried the shield. He knew it was probably useless, but he had made a vow. Sherret had brought all his traveling gear. He had private doubts that he would ever see Na-Abiza now, but he had made a promise.

He felt empty inside as they reached the outskirts of the village. It had only the single street, and that was completely deserted. To him it appeared pretty much like a village one could find in the southern Highlands of Scotland. Some neat houses on two floors, some bungalows, a few cottages and shacks. All were detached. Each had its small cultivated garden. There were trees planted at regular intervals to form an avenue.

It was very quiet—but so were Scottish villages. Lights glowed behind window drapes, but some houses were dark and seemed empty.

It was the most ordinary-looking place he’d seen on Amara. The purple was too intense, but apart from that it could be an autumn evening in the purple mists of the Trossachs.

Familiar, harmless.

Nevertheless, he found himself fingering the handle of the machete depending from his belt.

Lee noticed. “Getting edgy, friend?”

Sherret nodded. “I’m scared green. Or purple, if you like.”

“So am I. It’s all just too innocent, isn’t it? I’m glad we came together.”

They reached the end of the street without perceiving a movement of any kind. The wind which had streamed through this pass not long ago had died to nothing. The air was oppressively still. The silence itself was unnerving. It was as though the world was holding its breath in anticipation of some shattering explosion. But they could hear the sound of their own breathing.

They turned and looked back along the empty street.

Sherret felt an unworthy impulse to suggest that this was enough, honor was satisfied, they could now leave with dignity. But he knew it wasn’t enough.

“Let’s pay a social call,” said Lee. “Which house d’you think might have

‘Welcome’ on the mat?”

Sherret’s secret little shame bred an over-compensating boldness.

“I like the look of that one.” He pointed to the largest of all, double-fronted, on two floors.

“I’m with you there,” said Lee.

They negotiated a front gate and a short path to the door. It was a flat, bare door. Deliberately, Lee thumped on it thrice with his great fist. They waited.

They heard faint sounds of movement within the house but no one came to the door.

Lee banged again, and shouted, “Wake up in therel”

No answer.

“No,” said Sherret finally. “No ‘Welcome’ on the mat here. Probably no mat. Let’s try one of the neighbors.”

“I’ve a hunch none of them’s going to rush out to welcome us.” Lee was beginning to get angry, partly through fear, partly because of what the inhabitants had done to his father.

“Damned pack of murderers!” he bit out suddenly, and rammed his shoulder against the door. Its bolts burst apart and it flew open, revealing a lighted passage.

“We’ll root ’em out,” Lee snapped. “Come on.”

Sherret followed him. They opened doors into two empty rooms, and then in the third and largest they found one of the Three-people.

He was sitting quietly in a deep, hide-covered chair, and looked up as they burst in. The furniture was of good quality and looked to be handmade. Murals of mountain scenery covered the walls and the skins of unknown animals covered the floor. A white spiral of light glowed in the ceiling.

It seemed reasonably normal and civilized.

So did the occupant, who wore an elaborately embroidered jacket and comfortable, fur-topped high boots. He was a frail, oldish man with gray-white hair and a mild, kind face.

He regarded them benevolently.

“My name is Canato,” he said, in a pleasantly deep voice. “It’s kind of you to call. But would you mind leaving right away? I should like to be more hospitable, but you must know of our bad reputation. Believe me, it’s well-founded. You are in mortal danger in this village. Leave the valley while you can, and please, waste no time.”

“I’m sure your warning is well meant, Canato,” said Lee, closing the door but watching the man in the chair warily. “I can assure you we’ve not come here to waste time. We just want some information. I, personally, want to know what happened to various visitors here from my country. Most particularly, what happened to my father.”

“If your father is not buried in the graveyard just outside of the village, then he managed to get away.”

“He got away,” said Lee savagely, “but at some expense.”

“Friend, you are dangerously angry and vindictive. I implore you to go.”

Lee leant his shield against the wall, strode over and grabbed a handful of the fancy jacket. He lifted Canato by it and growled in his face, “I don’t want advice. As I told you, I want information. Are you going to talk or must I apply pressure?”

“How can he talk when you’re choking him with his collar?” Sherret protested, disturbed by a sympathetic choking sensation himself.

Slowly, reluctantly, Lee let Canato fall back in his chair. His face suffused, Canato tried to answer but couldn’t recover his breath. Lee snapped, “Earthman, take a look around the house. I’ll keep guard on this specimen.”

“All right,” said Sherret. He wanted free and easy movement, so he slipped his rucksack off. He started for the door, then paused. Canato had raised his hands in an imploring gesture, making inarticulate noises, striving to speak.

“He doesn’t want you to search the house,” said Lee. “That means he’s hiding something. Go and find what it is—but be careful.”

Sherret nodded, unhooking his machete. He stepped out into the passage. He was glad Lee couldn’t see the way his hands were beginning to shake. He ignored the two unoccupied rooms on this floor, and began to climb the stairs cautiously. He saw that the lights were on upstairs, which was some relief. He didn’t feel happy and was having to suppress his imagination. It would have been more difficult in the dark.

Yet, did the lights upstairs mean that there were people upstairs?

He reached the top of the stairs and found himself looking along a corridor of doors. A strip of light gleamed under every one, and there were six of them. His mouth became dry. Yet again, this was like one of the old nursery nightmares becoming real. The one which centered around something nasty hiding behind the door.

Which door? And what was the something?

He braced himself and kicked open the nearest door.

The room appeared to be empty. There was no reaction, no sound. But there was that hidden space between the door and the wall…

He made a grand leap into the room, and whirled around, machete poised. There was nothing behind the door. Although the light was on, this room didn’t appear to be in use. Some odd pieces of furniture, some paintings and general bric-a-brac were piled against the wall. That was all.

He visited each room in turn. First the screwing up of courage, the kick, the leap, and the anti-climax of the empty room. Only two of the rooms showed signs of being lived in. One was a bedroom. The other, the biggest room of all, was a studio workshop. There was a workbench littered with tools and wood shavings. There was an easel and a little table bearing a trayful of paints. There were a number of canvases stacked on shelves.