"I'm fine." A lie; the fatigue she had mentioned was gritting his eyes and dulling his vision. He resisted the desire to yawn. "I'll be all right."
"Of course you will." Her hand fell from the nape of his neck. "Natural sleep is the best medicine there is. Your cabin has been made ready." She rose, waited for him to join her, smiled as she led the way to the door. "I'll take you to it and, Earl-you are safe now. There is no need to lock your door."
There had been a face which had smiled at him and touches which had felt like the impact of snow before they turned to flame but he had been too tired to notice and had ignored them to wander like a ghost in a haunted land of dreams. Now, awake, he lay supine and looked at a ceiling decorated with writhing serpents. At walls bearing the snarling faces of assorted beasts. At the bed on which he rested in naked comfort.
Luxury matched by the thick carpet, the glowing plates set to provide a softly warm illumination, the rest of the furnishings.
Visible proof of the wealth of the Chetame Laboratories.
Of Charisse who owned them.
Leaning back, he remembered their conversation. The collection of old books and records her father had studied and of the legends he had wanted to pursue. Eden-he knew of several worlds named that, but had there, at one time, been a single spot as Charisse had said? A garden-if the word had changed that's all Eden could mean. And Earth?
He tried it, mouthing the word, advancing it toward his lips, noting the increasing difficulty in pronouncing it aloud. The hiss which came when trying to push the diphthong too far. The change.
Earth… Earse… Earce… Erce…
Erce?
Erce!
The name Boulaye had gained from an old book or so he had claimed. Another name for Earth? An older one?
Where had the man gone after he'd left Myra Favre on Alba?
Dumarest rose to pace the floor, trying to flog himself into action. A shower stood in a corner of the room and he stepped into it, ice-cold water lashing from jets to wake his flesh from lethargy.
An old book-how long would a book last on Ascelius unless protected from biodegradation? A copy, then, but from where?
The sting of water ceased and he dried himself before looking into a mirror. It was of tinted glass, designed to flatter, lessening the harshness of mouth and eyes. The dressing on his temple had diminished a little; the compound absorbed into his flesh. A mote of darkness rested beneath the transparency at the healing lip of the wound.
Turning, he searched for his clothes, finding them in a cabinet. Dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared thoughtfully at the writhing decorations on a wall. He felt that he trembled on the edge of a discovery but it eluded him as had the identity of the face in his dream. Myra? Charisse? Isobel Boulaye?
Would her husband's ghost never be at rest?
The man had come into possession of a book, common currency among students. Could one of them have given it to him in return for a favor received? Or mentioned something which had aroused his interest? Caused him to send for a copy, but if so, from where? And what had been the trigger to send him on his journeying? Erce? Erce-and something else. What had Myra said before she died? A word her lover had mentioned in laughter.
A clue?
Dumarest rose and stepped toward the door. It opened at his touch and he passed from the cabin into the passage. It was deserted, the air holding a strange, acrid taint at variance with the ornamentation. There should have been perfume, the odor of incense, rich and decadent smells to match the opulence. Beneath his boots the deck was covered with soft fabrics which muffled his tread. As he neared the forepart of the vessel a uniformed man stepped forward to bar his way.
"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a restricted area."
"I'm a guest of Charisse Chetame."
"I know you are, sir." The man was big with the easy confidence of a man who knew his own capabilities. "The restriction remains."
Dumarest said quietly, "I was only identifying myself. I would appreciate the loan of some star charts of this area together with an almanac and measuring devices."
"Sir?"
"A problem I wish to resolve." Dumarest added, "A hobby of mine and it will serve to pass the time. I would appreciate your cooperation."
The guard barely hesitated; a guest of the owner would have influence and his request was harmless enough. "It will be my pleasure to help, sir. This area, you say? I'll have them sent to you in the salon."
Dumarest nodded, turned, walked back down the passage toward where the engine room would be, the cargo holds, the generator. Another guard materialized to stand before him.
"I'm sorry, sir-"
"I know," said Dumarest. "This area is restricted."
"That is correct, sir." The man could have been the twin of the other guard. He added, "Aside from the control section and the private cabins the rest of the vessel is free."
"The salon?"
"Yes, sir, of course."
Like the cabin it was extravagantly decorated with the likeness of beasts, birds, things which crawled. It was deserted, the charts and things Dumarest had asked for lying heaped on the table. Sitting, he adjusted them, unrolling the charts, holding them fast with magnetic clips, checking the almanac, placing the protractors and dividers, the rules and scales close to hand. An astrogator would have done it faster, an engineer as well, but he was capable enough.
And Sheen Agnostino had narrowed the field.
Boulaye had been on Alba with Myra Favre and he knew the time of their official honeymoon. Knew too the time she had returned and so the period the man had available for journeying. Alba was a busy world set close to suns and teeming planets; Tampiase, Cilen, Elgent, Kuldip, Chord, Freemont-all would have been within reach.
Dumarest sat back, looking at his notes, the charts, the almanac which gave stellar positions at definite times. Stars moved and so did their worlds and that movement affected journey times. A thing he'd needed to check as he had others: Boulaye's character, his determination, his resources.
A man basically weak who wanted to gain with the minimum of effort. One easily swayed. One with a twisted sense of humor; a sadistic bent which could have stemmed from a knowledge of his own inadequacy.
Which world had he visited? On which had he learned where Earth was to be found?
Again he felt himself to be on the edge of a discovery and yet lacking the ability to take the one step which would make things clear. Tampiase? A possibility, but if he had visited it Boulaye would have had little time and what was so special about the world? Elgent? A place of sands and winds-eliminate Elgent. Chord? There was a cult of ancestor worship which turned the cities into necropolises. A promising situation for a man who had learned an old and ancient name for the planet Earth. Had he gleaned a clue in some esoteric ritual? Deciphered some fading inscription?
Dumarest closed his eyes, wondering at his bafflement. Not at the inability to solve the problem but at the fog which seemed to cloud his memory. The word Myra had said she had heard while lying at her lover's side. Not Erce-of that he was certain. One which had sounded like it and which he'd taken for a distortion.
Opening his eyes, he looked at the beasts ornamenting the walls, the writhing depictions of life in many forms. Decoration inspired by the legend of Eden? The goddess which had ruled over a multitude of forms? What had Myra said?
Dumarest looked at his hands, the charts, the answer which had stared him in the face all along.
Circe-the woman who had turned men into beasts.
How better to describe a genetic engineer.
Kuldip was a small, dark world warmed by a distant sun; a smoldering furnace blotched with ebon, ringed by a scarlet corona. The mountains had weathered into hills, the seas dried into lakes dotted with islands and scummed with weed. From the hills men wrested ores, gems, precious metals. From the seas the product of massive bivalves. The main industry was the Chetame Laboratories.