The people reflected the atmosphere. Students huddled in their dun-colored robes, waited impatiently for the festival to end and normal routine to provide the warmth of classrooms, the comfort of dormitories and dining halls. Those who could not afford such luxuries resented the others who robbed them of space and opportunities. Visitors ached from nocturnal enjoyments. Others counted their gains or losses and adjusted their aims. Some merely waited.
Dumarest saw a pair of them as he left the precinct station and turned to his left to pause and turn again to retrace his steps. These were two men, students by their robes, a little too clumsy, a little too careless. Dumarest studied them both as he passed; a glance which took in their boots, their faces, their averted eyes. Men who could have been set as decoys to distract his attention from others who could even now be following him with greater skill.
Dumarest remembered the exotic wine Myra Favre had pressed him to drink. Something she had obtained to enhance the evening as she had obtained the gown, the services of a beautician-how had she been so certain he would return? And why should she have wanted him to sleep?
"Mister?" The inevitable beggar stood with a hand out-stretched, his voice the inevitable whine. "I'm starving, mister. I've no place to sleep. If you don't help me I'll die."
Dumarest felt in a pocket.
"Me too, mister!" A girl this time, face sunken, eyes feral. "Just the price of a meal!"
More joined in, others came running as Dumarest sent coins spinning high, to catch them, to send them up again in a bright, enticing stream.
"Me, mister! Don't forget me!"
"No, me!"
"Me!"
"Me! Me! Me!"
Voices rose to a scream, restraint forgotten as Dumarest flung a shower of money into the air. Small coins spun and bounced, tinkling, to be snatched up or kicked or buried beneath lunging bodies. Another handful completed the confused scramble and, as Dumarest moved on, the pair he'd noted were caught up in the surge and swept to one side.
Had they been agents of the Cyclan?
Men could have waited in hope of easy prey-even though civilized Ascelius wasn't proof against thieves, and Bartain had mentioned the desperation induced by the cold. Aside from a scrap of overheard gossip Dumarest had no proof that the Cyclan were on the planet or that Myra Favre had been in contact with a cyber. It was time to eliminate doubt.
"Earl!" Jussara smiled at him from the screen. "How nice of you to remember me!"
"How could I forget?"
"You flatter me."
"No-I simply tell the truth."
"Which could be flattery in itself." Her smile faded a little. "I was sorry to hear about Myra. A tragic loss and you must be desolate. Why didn't you call me before?"
"I was otherwise engaged," said Dumarest dryly. "As you can imagine."
"The proctors-I'd forgotten." Her smile was that of a vixen. "Am I going to see you?"
"It is my dearest wish." He smiled in return. "Just as soon as I clear up a few things. Tonight if I can manage it. Are you free?"
Regretfully she shook her head. "Not tonight, darling."
"Tomorrow?" Without giving her time to answer he added, "I'm too impatient and you must forgive me for being impetuous. Blame your own attraction. I forget I have things to do and could use some help if it's available. At the party you mentioned a name-someone you thought had helped Myra. Okos-if he's good I could use him."
"A cyber doesn't come cheap, darling. Why not try the university computer system? They are adapted to give analogues on stated problems. I assume you're concerned about your future now that poor Myra is dead. Did you actually see her fall?"
"Yes."
"And you tried to save her?"
"Of course, but that isn't why I'm calling. About my future, I mean."
"Of course not." Her smile turned cynical. "You must tell me all about it. Not tomorrow, but the day after? Can you make it then, Earl?"
"The day?" His tone left no doubt as to his meaning. "I was hoping to share dinner with you."
"That would be nice. Call me in the afternoon and we'll fix the time and place."
A smile and she was gone, the screen turning a nacreous white as the connection was broken. A doubt resolved but it brought little comfort. Myra had known the cyber. If she had seen him Okos would know of his presence, had anticipated it, perhaps, the prediction later verified. Was that why she had invited him to be her guest? Bribed to hold him in a silken snare? Did it account for the wine-lying in a drugged sleep he would have been easy prey. And why had Bartain held him so long?
He had phoned from a hotel and outside the streets were waking to a sluggish activity as shadows clustered at the foot of buildings and darkened the mouths of alleys. Dumarest plunged down one, took another, traced a wide-flung path of apparently aimless movement, finally plunging into an area of small shops and winding paths. In a store he bought a student's robe, picking one too large, worn, not torn but far from new. When next he hit the streets his face was shielded by a cowl, his bulk swollen by the voluminous garment, his height lessened by a stoop. His camouflage was less efficient than it seemed-putting a man into uniform does not make him invisible to his fellow soldiers. And aping a student meant he had to act like one.
"Not here!" A young man, hard, brash, his robe clean, bright with badges, held up a blocking arm. "This tavern's reserved for Schrier." He saw the badges on Dumarest's robe. "You don't even belong to the Tripart-this area's not for you."
Dumarest looked at him, at the pair who had come to join him. Relatively rich, spoiled, enjoying their moment of power. The owner of the place would tolerate them for the guaranteed custom they brought. To argue was to invite attention and worse.
He said, "I'm new. Just landed. Looking for somewhere to spend the night."
"Enrolled?"
"Yes."
"At Brunheld," said the youth. "At Nisen and Kings if those badges are to be believed. You'll find a place over to the west. Angeer's-they take anyone."
Dumarest moved down the street, masking his gait, eyes watchful from beneath the shadow of the cowl. Soon there would be a reawakening of gaiety with crowds thronging the main avenues in dancing processions, with women shrieking their mirth or outrage, men drunk and poised on the edge of violence. Thieves would be busy and assassins unseen. At such a time a wise man sought refuge.
Dumarest moved on toward the field, swinging away from it as the ships came into sight, heading north in the thickening shadows. The festival was ending-tonight was its finish. When the ships left tomorrow he wanted to be with them. But first he had to pass the night.
The woman said harshly, "You want more soup?"
Dumarest shook his head.
"Then out!" She jerked her thumb at the shelves lining the far end of the room behind the counter, the hourglasses on them. "You've had your time."
To stay he would need to buy more soup; a small bowl of tasteless swill, but if that was the cost he would pay it. He scowled as, delivering it, she demanded the money.
"A quarter? It was-"
"The price doubles after dark." Impatiently she snapped her fingers. "Give! The heat's got to be paid for, the lights, the shelter from the wind. The bench you're sitting on, the table, the bowl, the whole damned setup. If you don't like it the door's over there."
Outside, the street was now scummed with ice, wind carried the burning touch of iced razors. A bleak area lacking the warmth of crowds, the shelter of massive buildings.
But, as a student, he was expected to complain.
"It's robbery. I'll report you to the university council and the student body. I'll have you-"
"Blasted and blacklisted and bedeviled-I've heard it all before. Now that's off your chest you staying or not?" Her fingers snapped again. "A quarter and no more argument."