"He is wrong," said Dumarest. "Earth exists. I know. I was born there."
"Born there?" Parect frowned. "But surely, in that case, it would be simple to find your way back. The coordinates-"
"Are lost." Dumarest looked at his hand. It was clamped tight around the goblet, the knuckles white with strain. To talk might be to say too much, but, always, was the chance that this man, once convinced, might remember some clue, a scrap of information to add to the rest, so painfully acquired.
"Earth is no paradise," he continued bleakly. "It is an old world torn and scarred by ancient wars. Life is hard there. I was a boy when I left, half-starved, frightened, stowing away on a ship. The captain was more than kind. He should have evicted me; instead, he let me work my passage. He was old and had no son, and for a time we traveled together. Then he died."
Leaving him alone to drift from world to world, always heading deeper into the galaxy where the suns were close and planets thick. A region in which the very name of Earth had become a legend and its whereabouts totally lost.
"And so you travel," said Parect quietly. "Looking, always searching, examining old records, asking questions, following clues that lead to what? Failure, as they must. Tell me, in all your travels, have you ever met anyone from your home world?"
"No."
"Nor anyone who has ever heard of it?" He took Dumarest's silence for assent. "Once I knew a man who held a dream. He was convinced that, somewhere, was to be found a secret so vast that its possession would make him the master of the universe. He was a rich man, but beggared himself looking for it. He followed a dozen leads, undertook a score of expeditions. He died on a barren world on the very edge of the galaxy, and now even his grave is lost. He was my cousin."
"So?"
"If an intelligent man can cling to fantasy, then why not a boy? A lonely, scared, frightened boy who, somewhere, picked up a name and by some means associated it with his home world. All of us tend to enhance our station. A pauper will dream he is a baron and invent lies to bolster his illusion. After a while they cease to be lies, to him at least. Do you understand what I am saying?"
Too well, and Dumarest wondered at his motive. To convince him that what he knew to be real was, in fact, a fantasy? Or did he have some subtle reason not obviously apparent? Chan Parect was a devious man, working in unobtrusive ways to gain his own ends. A skilled manipulator of men, applying pressure here to cause a desired result there, or seeming to move to the left when in reality edging toward the right. But Dumarest was in no mood for games.
He said, "My lord, you owe me five thousand cran. As a man of honor, you will wish to pay it. Give me the money and allow me to leave."
"Leave, Earl? And where will you go? To another world to follow a fruitless search?"
To a dozen if it was necessary, riding High when he could, Low when he couldn't. Money would buy comfort and the magic of quicktime, the drug which slowed the metabolism and turned hours into minutes, months into days. Five thousand cran would buy a High passage. A tenth of that sum would buy a Low, riding in a casket meant for the transportation of animals, doped, frozen, ninety-percent dead, risking the fifteen-percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. He had done it before, and he could do it again.
Slowly Chan Parect poured more wine. Lifting his goblet, talking to it rather than to his guest, he said, "There is no need for you to leave. Work with the house of Aihult, and you can live in comfort for the rest of your life."
"Are you offering me employment?"
"Let us say, rather, an opportunity. What did you think of Zenya?"
The change of subject was disturbing. Dumarest said cautiously, "She seems a pleasant girl."
"She is warped, as is Lisa Conenda, Zavor, all the younger members of my house. Inbreeding-need I say more? The original stock weakened and spoiled by luxury and subtle mutations. When I die there will be a scramble to fill my seat. It is what the Zham are waiting for. The Zham, the Deai, the Leruk, a dozen clans. There will be war, and it is one we shall not win. You appreciate the problem?"
"Change is the way of life, my lord."
"Spoken from the viewpoint of a man who does not care. Who might even think it is a good thing that the tree which has sheltered this world for so long be cut down to make room for lesser growths." Parect gulped at his wine. "You will understand that I have different feelings on the matter. To me it is a personal thing. I intend to make it yours."
Dumarest said flatly, "Intend?"
The sound of a gong echoed the question, soft tones rising to fade against walls and expensive hangings. Aihult Chan Parect set down his goblet. "Dinner," he said. "Good food should not wait on the meaning of a word. I hope you have a good appetite."
* * *
There was fish, meat, game of a dozen kinds, served on fragile plates and accompanied by a score of vegetables, a choice of sweets and compotes, attended by relevant wines. Servants glided like shadows, clearing, changing plates, deft as they replenished glasses.
Parect dominated the assembly. He sat at the head of the board, Lisa to his left, Zenya to his right, his thin, acid voice cutting through the blur of conversation. A dozen others filled the table, all young, all bearing the facial characteristics of the Aihult. At the foot of the board sat a man at whom Dumarest stared with interest.
He had not expected to see a monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood in this place.
Brother Eland was old, his face gaunt with privation, looking, in his brown homespun robe, a little like a sparrow among birds of paradise. He sat quietly, eating in small mouthfuls, chewing long before he swallowed. Physically he was insignificant, a mouse of a man lacking bulk and muscle, but Dumarest knew that the small body contained more courage than the average man could guess. And the eyes betrayed him. Wide, bright, glowing with intelligence and determination. And something else. A thing called faith.
Dumarest said quietly, "The monk. Is he resident here?"
"Brother Eland?" At his side Zenya emptied her glass and watched as it was immediately refilled. "No. He arrived a couple of hours ago. While you waited for grandfather. Our people found him on the field."
"And intend… what?"
"Nothing." She laughed, teeth white between the parted fullness of her lips. "Just to feed him and listen to him talk. Grandfather is probably amusing himself."
Dumarest doubted it, but made no comment, concentrating instead on the food, choosing items rich in protein and low in bulk.
"You eat well, Earl," said Zenya, "I wish I could eat like that. Really enjoy my food, I mean."
"You could," he said. "If you wanted to."
"How?"
"Starve for a week," he said bluntly. "Get out into the fields and work. Take a Low passage-you'd be hungry enough then."
Again she laughed, reaching for her wine. Like the others, she had merely picked at her food; the assortment of dishes was for titivation, not sustenance. "You amuse me, Earl. I like that. Did grandfather talk to you?"
"A little."
"Did he…" She broke off. "Never mind. It can wait."
From the head of the table Parect said, "And now, brother, tell us why you came to Paiyar."
The monk set down his fork. "To work, brother, what else? With your permission we would like to set up a church. A small place where those who are in distress could gain ease. We would require very little-a patch of ground outside the gate would serve."
"We?"
"Brother Wen is with me. He waits at the field with our possessions."
The portable church and the benediction light beneath which suppliants were hypnotized, given subjective penance, and then the bread of forgiveness. The wafer of concentrates which alone drew many to the church. But the monks did not object; they regarded it as a fair exchange.