"... Hard to believe that the whole world is like this," Morwin was saying, "and that it happened during our lifetimes."
"Ask the CL about it. They did it."
"... And that nobody will ever live here again, on the home planet."
"I live here--to remind them of their guilt, to stand as a warning of their own fate."
"... There are many worlds such as this once was. There are millions of innocent persons on them."
"In reaching all the guilty one sometimes strikes the innocent as well. Generally, I'd say. It is the way of revenge."
"And if revenge is abandoned, a few generations will level both the guilty and the innocent, anyhow. The new generation, at least, will be totally blameless for this--and worlds will endure."
"That's too philosophical an outlook to accept--for a man who has lived through some of the things I have."
"I lived through them too, sir."
"Yes, but--"
He bit off his words.
They stared outward for a time, then, "Has that disease specialist, Larmon Pels, stopped by Honsi recently?" Malacar asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Was he here too?"
"Some time ago. What was he looking for on your world?"
"Some general medical information, vital statistics and a man who wasn't there."
"The man ... ?"
"Hyneck, or something like that, I believe. There was no record of him with us either, though. --Look at that flare-up, will you?"
H? Malacar asked himself. Could this Hyneck or whatever be the disease pool? I never heard of him either, but if he is--.
_Deiban fever has, for the first time, been detected on worlds other than Deiba_, he remembered reading. _It is invariably fatal, save for one known exception. I refer, of course, to the case of H. The agent of transmission is not yet known_.
If this man were H, could he possibly also be the unwitting transmitter of the condition? It would be simple enough to obtain the exact name cited in Pels' request. I will, of course.
The outbreaks of Deiban fever on worlds other than Deiba were always accompanied by the occurrence of half a dozen other exotic diseases. Their presence, simultaneously, had never been adequately explained. But H had had countless diseases and survived them all, been pronounced cured. Could it be that some unknown cue within H caused them to recrudesce simultaneously--all mutually contagious?
The possible military applications flashed through Malacar's mind like the orange flare-up below him.
Everybody is prepared for bacteriological warfare, on one level or another--even combined approaches, he decided. But here would be a random assault, shotgun-style, attributable to knowable yet still unclassified natural causes. If this is possible and H is the key to controlling the process--or somehow _is_ the process--then I hear the tolling of the death bell. I could hurt the CL more than I'd thought. It but remains to determine whether this Hyneck is indeed H; and if so, to locate him.
For hours they stood and watched the flames and the seething lava, the shifting patterns of sky and sea. Then Morwin cleared his throat.
"I'd like to rest for a time now. I still feel somewhat weak," he said.
"Of course, of course," said Malacar, suddenly withdrawing his attention from something distant. "I believe I will remain here myself. It looks as if another flare-up is due."
"I hope you didn't mind the unexpected company."
"Far from it. You've raised my spirits more than I can tell you."
He watched him go, then chuckled.
Perhaps that dream-globe you created was true, he decided. An accurate prediction of things to come. I never actually had hoped to succeed, unless ... How does it go? Those lines I learned at the university ... ?
Unless the giddy Heaven fall,
And Earth some new Convulsion tear;
And, us to joyn, the World should all
Be cramp'd into a _Planisphere_.
If I'm correct on this thing, I am going to cram it all there--all of the CL, just as you did that vision--into a planisphere.
_Shind!_ he called out. _Do you know what has happened?_
_Yes. I have been listening_.
_I will ask Morwin to stay and mind the shop. We ourselves will soon be leaving on another journey_.
_As you say. Where to?_
_Deiba_.
_I feared as much_.
Malacar laughed at this retort, and the mist ran away with the noon.
He watched the spiraling stars, like the distant fireworks of childhood. His hand fell upon the monogrammed bag fastened at his belt. He had forgotten it was there. He glanced downward when he heard the clicking sound, and for a moment he forgot the stars.
His stones. How lovely they were. How could he have pushed them from his memory with such ease? He fingered them and smiled. Yes, these were true. A piece of mineral never betrays you. Each is unique, a world unto itself and harmless. His eyes filled with tears.
"I love you," he whispered, and one by one he counted them out and replaced them in the bag.
As he tied them again at his belt, he watched the movements of his hands. His fingers left moist smudges upon the material. But his hands were beautiful, she had told him. And she was correct, of course. He raised them near to his face and a surge of power swept through his body and settled within them. He knew that he was stronger now than any man or nation. Soon he would be stronger than any world.
He turned his attention once more to the bright whirlpool that sucked him toward its center: Summit.
He would be there in no time at all.
When the message arrived, his first reaction was a very loud "Damn! Why ask _me?_" But since he already knew the answer he restricted his subsequent reactions to the expletive.
Pacing, he paused to flip a toggle and postpone his lunch until further notice. After a time, he noted that he was in his rooftop garden and smoking a cigar, staring into the west.
"Racial discrimination, that's what it is," he muttered, then moved to a hidden plate, thumbed it open and flipped another toggle.
"Send me a light lunch in the manuscript library in about an hour," he ordered, not waiting for a reply.
He continued to pace, breathing in the smells of life and growth that surrounded him and ignoring them completely.
The day grew gray and he turned to the east where a cloud had covered his sun. He glared at it and after a few moments it began to dissipate.
The day brightened once more, but he growled, sighed and walked away from it.
"Always the fall guy," he said, as he entered the library, removed his jacket, hung it on a hook beside the door.
He moved his eyes along the rows of cases which contained the most complete collection of religious manuscripts in the galaxy. On shelves beneath each case were bound facsimiles of the originals. He passed into the next room and continued his search.
"Way up there by the ceiling," he sighed. "I might have known."
Setting the foot of the ladder within three feet of the Qumran scrolls, he adjusted its balance and climbed.
He lit a cigarette after he had seated himself in an easy chair with a fac-copy of _The Book of Life's Manifold Perils and Pleas for Continued Breathing_, in ancient Pei'an script, across his knees.
It seemed but moments later that he heard a click and a programmed cough at his right elbow. The robot had entered, rolled silently across the thick carpeting, come to rest beside him and lowered the covered tray to a comfortable eating level. It proceeded to uncover it.
He ate mechanically and continued reading. After a time, he noted that the robot had departed. He had no memory whatever of what it was that he had eaten for lunch.
He continued to read.
Dinner passed in the same fashion. Night occurred and the lights came on about him, brightening as the darkness deepened.