Surely not Ogan’s L-B. Such a craft was far too small to have made such a spectacular take-off. That must have been the Jack ship! The girl lost all hope now; she had been left in Patrol hands. Ziantha could have wailed aloud. But pride was stubborn enough to keep her lips locked on any weakling whimper.
Who had driven the Jack ship off? The Patrol? Ogan? If the latter, he must have been reinforced. If so, feverishly her mind fastened on that, Ogan was still here—she could reach him—
The stranger walked back toward her, standing now as if he feared no danger of detection. She could see him clearly. Turan she had learned to know, even when she realized that his body was only a garment worn by another. But now more than the uniform this one wore was a barrier between them. There was not only the fear of the Patrol but a kind of shyness.
In the past, on Korwar, she had lived a most retired life. Those forays Yasa had sent her on were tasks upon which it was necessary to concentrate deeply, so that during them she observed only those things that applied directly to the failure or success of her mission. Yasa’s inner household had been largely female, Ziantha’s life therein strictly ordered as if she were some dedicated priestess—which in a way, she had been.
Ogan had never seemed a man, but rather a master of the craft which exercised her talents—impersonal, remote, a source of awe and sometimes of fear. And the various male underlings of the household had been servants, hardly more lifelike to her than a more efficient metal robo.
But this was a man with a talent akin to hers, equal, she believed. And she could not forget the actions on Turan’s time level that had endangered them both, that they had shared as comrades, though he was now the enemy. He made her feel self-conscious, wary in a way she had not experienced before.
Yet he was not in any way imposing; only a fraction perhaps over middle height, and so slender it made him seem less. She had been right about the hue of his skin: that was a warm dark brown, which she was sure was natural, and not induced by long exposure to space. And his hair, in the sun, shown in tight black curls. Of Terran descent she was sure, but he could be a mutation, as so many of the First Wave colonists now were, tens and hundreds of generations later.
He settled down beside her, watching her thoughtfully as if she presented some type of equation he must solve. And because she found that silence between them frightening, she asked a question:
“What ship lifted then?”
“The Jacks’. They tangled with some of their own, at least it looked so. Beat the attackers off, then lifted. But there was not much left of the opposition. I think a couple, three at the most, made it out of range when the ship blasted.”
“Ogan! He will be after—“ she said eagerly and then could have bitten her tongue in anger at that self-betrayal.
“After you? No—he cannot trace us even if he wants to. We have a shield up no one can break.”
“So what are you going to do now?” Ziantha came directly to the point, unwillingly conceding that he might be truthful. No one should underrate the Patrol.
“For a time we wait. And while we do so, this is a good time to make you understand that I do not want to hold you like this.” He pointed to the tangle cords which restrained her so completely.
“Do you expect me to promise no attempts to escape, with erasure awaiting me?”
“What would you escape to? This is not exactly a welcoming world.” There was a reasonableness in his words that awoke irritation in her. “Food, water—and those others”—now he waved to the cliff—“wandering around. You are far safer here. Safer than you might be in Singakok that was.” For the first time he gave indication that he remembered their shared past. “At least the High Consort is not setting her hounds to our trail.”
He took a packet of smoke sticks from a seal pocket, snapped the end of one alight, and inhaled thoughtfully the sweet scent. By all appearances he was as much at ease as he would be in some pleasure palace on Korwar, and his placidity fed her irritation.
“What are we waiting for?” Ziantha demanded, determined to know the worst as soon as possible.
“For a chance to get back to my ship. I do not intend to carry you all the way there. In fact, since I may have to fight for the privilege of seeing it again, I could not if I would. There is an alarm broadcast going out; the Patrol ship in this region must already have picked it up. We can expect company, and we can wait for it here. Unless you are reasonable and agree to make no trouble. Then we shall make for the scout and be, I assure you, far more comfortable.”
“Comfortable for you—not for me. When I know what is before me!”
He sighed. “I wish you would listen and not believe that you already know all the answers.”
“With the Patrol I do—as far as I am concerned!” she flared.
“And who said,” he returned calmly, “that I represent the Patrol?”
17
For a moment Ziantha did not understand. When she did she smiled derisively. What a fool he must believe her to think she would accept that. When he sat before her wearing a Patrol uniform. When—
“Clothes,” he continued, “do not necessarily denote status. Yes, I have been working with the Patrol. But on my own account, and I do this only for a space because my case seemed to match one of theirs. You see, I have been hunting the Eyes—without knowing just what I sought—for a long time.”
The Eyes! Where were they now—in his keeping? Ziantha wriggled her shoulders in an abortive struggle against the cords and desisted at once when they tightened warningly about her with a pressure sharp enough to teach a lesson.
“They are still yours.” He might have been reading her thoughts, though she was unaware of any probe.
“If you are not Patrol—then who are you—wearing that insignia?” She made that a challenge, refusing to believe that he was more than trying to lull her for his own purposes.
“I am a sensitive associated with the Hist-Techneer Zorbjac, leader of a Zacathan expedition to X One. And for your information X One is the sister planet of this in the Yaka system.” He inhaled from the scented stick again. Harath clawed his way up over the rocks behind, as if he had been on a scouting expedition, and settled down by the stranger’s knee.
“Ogan there.” The alien’s thoughts were open. “One other—hurt. The rest are dead.”
He snapped out his tentacles and took to smoothing his body down with the same unconcern the stranger displayed.
“A year ago,” the other continued, “finds made on X One were plundered by a Jack force. I was asked to trace down the stolen objects, since my field is archaeological psychometry. I followed the trail to Korwar. We recovered seven pieces there; that is when I joined forces with the Patrol. The eighth was the Eye you apported from Jucundus’s place. The backlash of that apport was what set me on your track—that and Harath.” He dropped one hand to the alien’s head in a caress to which Harath responded with a broadcast of content.
“Then—was it you at Waystar, too?”
“Yes. When the apport was made I was certain that a sensitive would know what it was, try to trace it. We have our people on Waystar; they alert us as to unusual finds that come in as loot. During the past seasons we have built up a loose accord with a couple of the Jack captains, offering them more than they can get from fences to sell us pieces or information.”
“How did you get Harath to join you?”
He laughed. “Ask him that. He came to me on Korwar of his own. I gathered that he had not been too happy at the use Ogan made of him. And I knew that he could serve as a link with you when I might need one. I was right, as you were willing to link with him at once—though I did not bargain for that linkage to be so tight as to pull me into Turan.” He grimaced. “That was a challenge I would not want to face again.”
“You knew about the Eyes all the time!” She had an odd feeling of being cheated, as if she had performed a difficult task to no purpose at all.
“Not so! I knew that that u
gly little lump Jucundus bought was something more powerful than it looked to be. One could sense that easily. But the Eyes—no, I had no idea of their existence. What they are seems to be infinitely greater than any discovery the Zacathans have made in centuries.”
“But,” Ziantha came directly back to the part of his story that shadowed her future, “you joined with the Patrol to run us down. You wear their uniform.”
He sighed. “It was necessary for me to take rank for a while. I am not Patrol.”
“Then who are you?”
Again he laughed. “I see that I have been backward in the ordinary courtesies of life, gentle fem. My name is Ris Lantee, and I am Wyvern trained if that means anything—“
“It means,” she flashed, “that you are a liar! Everyone knows that the Wyverns do not deal with males!”
“That is so,” he agreed readily. “Most males. But I was born on their world; my parents are mind-linked liaison officers, both of whom the Wyvern council have accepted. When I was born with the power, they bowed to the fact I possessed it, and they gave me training. Can one sensitive lie to another?”
Though he invited her probe with that, Ziantha was reluctant to let her own barrier down. To hold it against him was her defense. He waited, and when she did not try to test his response, he frowned slightly.
“We waste time with your suspicions,” he commented. “Though I suppose they are to be expected. But would I open my mind if I were trying to conceal anything from you? You know that is impossible.”
“So far I have thought it impossible. But you say you are Wyvern trained, and the Wyverns deal with hallucinations—“
“You are well schooled.”
“Ogan gathered information on every variation of the power known—and some only the Guild know,” she answered. “I was given every warning.”
“That, too, is to be expected.”
“If you are not Patrol”—she pushed aside everything now but what was most important to her—“what do you intend to do with me? Turn me over for erasure when their ship planets in? You know the law.”
“It all depends—“
“Upon what—or whom?” Ziantha continued to press.
“Mainly upon you. Give me your word you will not try to escape. Let us go back to my scout.”
Ziantha tried to weigh her chances without emotion. Ogan was free; she had no reason to doubt Harath’s report. He had said he had hidden a detect-safe L-B connected by a timer to a ship. Therefore he had a way of escape. The Jack ship had lifted, she could not depend on any assistance from Yasa. In fact she was sure she had already been discarded as far as the Salarika veep was concerned. Yasa was never one to hesitate cutting losses.
And somehow, between Ogan and this Ris Lantee, she inclined to trust the latter, even though he admitted connection with the Patrol. At least with freedom she might have a better chance for the future.
“As you have said,” she spoke sullenly, trying to let him believe she surrendered because there was no other choice, “where could I escape to? For now, I promise.”
“Fair enough.” He touched the tangler cords in two places with the point of his belt knife, and they withered away.
Ziantha sat up, rubbing her wrists. Hands fell on her shoulders, drawing her to her feet, steadying her as she moved on stiff limbs.
“Do the Zacathans know about Singakok?” she asked as they went.
Harath had climbed up Lantee, was settled on his shoulder. But the man’s hand was under her arm, ready with support when she needed, and they made their way down a steep slope.
“About Singakok—no. But there are ruins on X One that are in a fair state of preservation. Perhaps those who peopled this world—the survivors—fled there after whatever catastrophe turned Singakok into this. As Turan, I recognized a kinship between the buildings of the past and those ruins. And with the aid of the Eyes what will we not be able to discover!” There was excitement in his voice.
“You—you would be willing to evoke the past again—after what happened?” Ziantha was surprised at this. Had she been the one lost in that awful limbo that he entered when he could no longer fight off Turan’s “death,” she would have fled full speed from such a trip again.
“This time one could go prepared.” His confidence was firmly assured. “There would be safeguards, as there are for deep trances. Yes, I would be willing to evoke the past again. Would you?”
To admit her fear was difficult. Yet he would learn it at once if she ever relaxed the barrier between them.
“I do not know.”
“I think that you could not deny your own desire to learn if you were given free choice—“
He was interrupted by a wild clicking of Harath’s beak. Lantee’s arm swung up, formed a barrier against her advance.
“Ogan is near.”
“You said you have what can safeguard us.”
“Against mental invasion, yes. Just as you hold a barrier for me now. But if Ogan has some means of stepping up power it may be that we must unite against him, the three of us. I do not underestimate this man; he cannot be taken lightly even when he is on the run.”
This was her chance. But, no, the word she had given was as tangible a bond as the tangler cords had been. Nor was she sure, even if that promise did not exist, that she would have left these two, sought out Ogan.
“What can he bring against us?” Lantee continued.
“I do not know,” she was forced to confess. What equipment was small enough to be packed personally Ziantha could not tell. The Guild was notorious for its gathering of unusual devices. Ogan might even have the equivalent of the Eyes.
“I—“ she was beginning when the world around her blurred. The rocks, the withered-looking vegetation, rippled as if all were painted on a curtain stirred by the wind. The change was such to frighten, passing from desolation to land alive.
She stood on a street between two lines of buildings. Before her stretched the length of a city, towering against the brilliances of sunlit sky. People moved, afoot, in vehicles—yet about them was something unreal.
Ziantha gasped, tried to leap aside as a landcar bore straight for her. But she was not allowed to escape; a grasp held her firmly in spite of her cries, her struggles. Then, the car was upon her but there was no impact, nothing! Another came the other way, scraped by her. She shut her eyes against those terrors and went on fighting what held her helpless in the Singakok returned—for this was Singakok.
The Eyes—they had done this! Yet she had not focused upon them. And if they were able to do this without her willing -- ! She raised her free hand to her breast. Unsealing her pocket slit, she snatched forth the Eyes, hurled them from her.
But she was still in Singakok! Locked in Singakok! Ziantha screamed. With a last surge of strength, backed by panic, she beat with her free hand against that thing which held her, fighting with fist, both feet, in any way she could, to break the hold. While around her—through her—the people and cars of the long-dead city went their way.
“Ziantha!”
She had closed her eyes to Singakok. Now she realized that, for all the seeming reality of the city, there had been no sound. Her name called in that demand for attention was real. But she dared not open her eyes.
“Ziantha!” Hands held her in spite of her fierce struggles. And the hands were as real as the voice.
“What do you see?” The demand came clearly, to compel her answer.
“I—I stand in Singakok—“ And because her fear was so great she released the barrier against mind-probe.
Instantly touch flowed in, that same strong sense of comradeship she had known with Turan. She no longer fought, but rather stood trembling, allowing the confidence he radiated to still her panic, bring stability. And—she had been a fool not to allow this before—he did not mean her ill! As they had fought together in Singakok, as he had given of his last strength to aid her out of Nornoch, so was he prepared to stand with her now.
Ziantha op
ened her eyes. The city was still there; it made her giddy to see the cars, the pedestrians, and know that this was hallucination. But who induced it? Not the Wyvern-trained Lantee—he could not have done so and responded to her mental contact as he was now doing. Harath? The Eyes? But those she had thrown away.
“The Eyes! I threw them away, but still I see Singakok!” She quavered.
“You see a memory someone is replaying for you. Ogan—“ Lantee’s voice from close beside her, even as she could hold on to him. But she could not see him—only Singakok.
“Do not look, use your mind sense,” Lantee ordered. “Do you pick up any thoughts?”
She tested. There was Lantee—Harath—nothing of those alien patterns she had known before. Just as the city had no sounds to make it real to one sense, so it had no mind-pattern to make it real to another.
“It is sight—my sight—“
“Well enough.” Lantee’s voice was as even as if he fully understood what was happening. “The hallucination is only for one sense. It worked in that it made you throw away the Eyes.”
Sent to force her to discard the Eyes? Then it had succeeded.
“I did. I threw them—“
“Not very far. Harath has retrieved them. Now listen, this was meant to engulf us all. But because I am Wyvern trained, and because Harath is alien, we were not caught. But if we stay here to fight for your freedom we may be courting another and stronger attack. Therefore we must push on. You must discount what you see, depend upon mind-send and your other senses, so we can reach my scout. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Ziantha kept her eyes tightly closed. Could she walk so blind, even with them leading her?
“We can do it.” Lantee was confident. “Keep your eyes closed if you must, but follow our directions. Harath will work directly with you. I am now putting him on your shoulder.”
She felt the weight, the painfully strong clutch of Harath’s claws.
“Keep your eyes closed. Harath wishes to try something.”