Terens had never actually been inside it. He found its artificiality repellant when he entered the Park. He knew that the soil and rocks he stepped on, the water and trees around him, all rested on a dead-flat cementalloy bottom and it annoyed him. He thought of the kyrt fields, long and level, and the mountain ranges of the south. He despised the aliens who had to build toys for themselves in the midst of magnificence.
For half an hour Terens tramped the walks aimlessly. What he had to do would have to be done in City Park. Even here it might be impossible. Elsewhere it was impossible.
No one saw him. No one was conscious of him. He was sure of that. Let them ask the Squires and Squirettes who passed him, "Did you see a patroller in the Park yesterday?"
They could only stare. They might as well be asked whether they had seen a tree midge skitter across the path.
The Park was too tame. He felt panic begin to grow. He made his way up a staircase between boulders and began descending into the cuplike hollow circled by small caves designed to shelter couples caught in the nightly rainfall.
(More were caught than could be accounted for by chance alone.)
And then he saw what he was looking for.
A man! A Squire, rather. Stepping back and forth quickly. Smoking the stub of a cigarette with sharp drags, cramming it into an ash recess, where it lay quietly for a moment, then vanished with a quick flash. Consulting a pendant watch.
There was no one else in the hollow. It was a place made for the evening and night.
The Squire was waiting for someone. So much was obvious. Terens looked about him. No one was following him up the stairs.
There might be other stairs. There were sure to be. No matter. He could not let the chance go.
He stepped down toward the Squire. The Squire did not see him, of course, until Terens said, "If you'll pardon me?"
It was respectful enough, but a Squire is not accustomed to having a patroller touch the crook of his elbow in however respectful a fashion.
"What the hell?" he said.
Terens abandoned neither the respect nor the urgency in his tone. (Keep him talking. Keep his eyes on yours for just half a minute!) He said, "This way, sir. It is in connection with the City-wide search for the native murderer."
"What are you talking about?"
"It will take just a moment."
Unobtrusively Terens had drawn his neuronic whip. The Squire never saw it. It buzzed a little and the Squire strained into rigor and toppled.
The Townman had never raised a hand against a Squire before. He was surprised at how sick and guilty he felt.
There was still no one in sight. He dragged the wooden body, with its glazed and staring eyes, into the nearest cave. He dragged it to the cave's shallow end.
He stripped the Squire, yanking clothing off the stiffened arms and legs with difficulty. He stepped out of his own dusty, sweat-stained patroller uniform and climbed into the Squire's underclothing. For the first time he felt kyrt fabric with some part of himself beside his fingers.
Then the rest of the clothing, and the Squire's skullcap. The last was necessary. Skullcaps were not entirely fashionable among the younger set but some wore them, this Squire luckily among them. To Terens it was a necessity as otherwise his light hair would make the masquerade impossible. He pulled the cap down tightly, covering his ears.
Then he did what had to be done. The killing of a patroller was, he suddenly realized, not the ultimate crime after all.
He adjusted his blaster to maximum dispersion and turned it on the unconscious Squire. In ten seconds only a charred mass was left. It would delay identification, confuse the pursuers.
He reduced the patroller's uniform to a powdery white ash with the blaster and clawed out of the deep blackened silver buttons and buckles. That, too, would make the chase harder. Perhaps he was buying only an additional hour, but that, too, was worth it.
And now he would have to leave without delay. He paused a moment just outside the mouth of the cave to sniff. The blaster worked cleanly. There was only the slightest odor of burned flesh and the light breeze would clear it in a few moments.
He was walking down the steps when a young girl passed him on the way up. For a moment he dropped his eyes out of habit. She was a Lady. He lifted them in time to see that she was young and quite good-looking, and in a hurry.
His jaws set. She wouldn't find him, of course. But she was late, or he wouldn't have been staring at his watch so. She might think he had grown tired of waiting and had left. He walked a trifle faster. He didn't want her returning, pursuing him breathlessly, asking if he had seen a young man.
He left the Park, walking aimlessly. Another half hour passed.
What now? He was no longer a patroller, he was a Squire. But what now?
He stopped at a small square in which a fountain was centered in a plot of lawn. To the water a small quantity of detergent had been added so that it frothed and foamed in gaudy iridescence.
He leaned against the railing, back to the western sun, and, bit by bit, slowly, he dropped blackened silver into the fountain.
He thought of the girl who had passed him on the steps as he did so. She had been very young. Then he thought of Lower City and the momentary spasm of remorse left him.
The silver remnants were gone and his hands were empty. Slowly he began searching his pockets, doing his best to make it seem casual.
The contents of the pockets were not particularly unusual. A booklet of key slivers, a few coins, an identification card. (Holy Sark! Even the Squires carried them. But then, they didn't have to produce them for every patroller that came along.)
His new name, apparently, was Alstare Deamone. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. There were only ten thousand men, women and children in Upper City. The chance of his meeting one among them who knew Deamone personally was not large, but it wasn't insignificant either.
He was twenty-nine. Again he felt a rising nausea as he thought of what he had left in the cave, and fought it. A Squire was a Squire. How many twenty-nine-year-old Florinians had been done to death at their hands or by their directions? How many nine-year-old Florinians?
He had an address, too, but it meant nothing to him. His knowledge of Upper City geography was rudimentary.
Say!
A color portrait of a young boy, perhaps three, in pseudotrimension. The colors flashed as he drew it out of its container, faded progressively as he returned it. A young son? A nephew? There had been the girl in the Park so it couldn't be a son, could it?
Or was he married? Was the meeting one of those they called "clandestine"? Would such a meeting take place in daylight? Why not, under certain circumstances?
Terens hoped so. If the girl were meeting a married man she would not quickly report his absence. She would assume he had not been able to evade his wife. That would give him time.
No, it wouldn't. Instant depression seized him. Children playing hide-and-seek would stumble on the remains and run screaming. It was bound to happen within twenty-four hours.
He turned to the pocket's contents once more. A pocket-copy license as yacht pilot. He passed it by. All the richer Sarkites owned yachts and piloted them. It was this century's fad. Finally, a few strips of Sarkite credit vouchers. Now those might be temporarily useful.
It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since the night before at the Baker's place. How quickly one could grow conscious of hunger.
Suddenly he turned back to the yacht license. Wait now, the yacht wasn't in use now, not with the owner dead. And it was his yacht. Its hangar number was 26, at Port 9. Well...
Where was Port 9? He hadn't the slightest notion.
He leaned his forehead against the coolness of the smooth railing around the fountain. What now? What now?
The voice startled him.
"Hello," it said. "Not sack?"
Terens looked up. It was an older Squire. He was smoking a long cigarette containing some aromatic leaf while a green ston
e of some sort hung suspended from a gold wristband. His expression was one of kindly interest that astonished Terens into a moment of speechlessness, until he remembered. He was one of the clan himself now. Among themselves, Squires might well be decent human beings.
The Townman said, "Just resting. Decided to take a walk and lost track of time. I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment now."
He waved his hand in a wry gesture. He could imitate the Sarkite accent fairly well from long association but he didn't make the mistake of trying to exaggerate it. Exaggeration was easier to detect than insufficiency.
The other said, "Stuck without a skeeter, hey?" He was the older man, amused by the folly of youth.
"No skeeter," admitted Terens.
"Use mine," came the instant offer. "It's parked right outside. You can set the controls and send it back here when you're through. I won't be needing it for the next hour or so."
To Terens, that was almost ideal. The skeeters were fast and skittery as chain lightning, could outspeed and out-maneuver any patroller ground-car. It fell short of ideal only in that Terens could no more drive the skeeter than he could fly without it.
"From here to Sark," he said. He knew that piece of Squire slang for "thanks", and threw it in. "I think I'll walk. It isn't far to Port 9."
"No, it isn't far," agreed the other.
That left Terens no better off than before. He tried again.
"Of course, I wish I were closer. The walk to Kyrt Highway is healthy enough by itself."
"Kyrt Highway? What's that got to do with it?"
Was he looking queerly at Terens? It occurred to the Townman, suddenly that his clothing probably lacked the proper fitting. He said quickly, "Wait! I'm twisted at that. I've got myself crossed up walking. Let's see now." He looked about vaguely.
"Look. You're on Recket Road. All you have to do is go down to Triffis Avenue and turn left, then follow it into the port." He had pointed automatically.
Terens smiled. "You're right. I'm going to have to stop dreaming and start thinking. From here to Sark, sir."
"You can still use my skeeter."
"Kind of you, but..."
Terens was walking away, a bit too quickly, waving his hand. The Squire stared after him.
Perhaps tomorrow, when they found the corpse in the rocks and began searching, the Squire might think of this interview again. He would probably say, "There was something queer about him, if you know what I mean. He had an odd turn of phrase and didn't seem to know where he was. I'll swear he'd never heard of Triffis Avenue."
But that would be tomorrow.
He walked in the direction that the Squire had pointed out. He came to the glittering sign "Triffis Avenue", almost drab against the iridescent orange structure that was its background. He turned left.
Port 9 was alive with youth in yachting costume which seemed to feature high-peaked hats and hip-bellying breeches. Terens felt conspicuous but no one paid attention to him. The air was full of conversation spiced with terms he did not understand.
He found Booth 26 but waited for minutes before approaching it. He wanted no Squire remaining persistently in its vicinity, no Squire who happened to own a yacht in a nearby booth who would know the real Alstare Deamone by sight and would wonder what a stranger was doing about his ship.
Finally, with the booth's neighborhood apparently safe, he walked over. The yacht's snout peered out from its hangar into the open field about which the booths were placed. He craned his neck to stare at it. Now what?
He had killed three men in the last twelve hours. He had risen from Florinian Townman to patroller, from patroller to Squire. He had come from Lower City to Upper City and from Upper City to a spaceport. To all intents and purposes he owned a yacht, a vessel sufficiently spaceworthy to take him to safety on any inhabited world in this sector of the Galaxy.
There was only one catch.
He could not pilot a yacht.
He was tired to the bone, and hungry to boot He had come this far, and now he could go no further. He was on the edge of space but there was no way of crossing the edge.
By now the patrollers must have decided he was nowhere in Lower City. They would turn the search to Upper City as soon as they could get it through their thick skulls that a Florinian would dare. Then the body would be found and a new direction would be taken. They would look for an impostor Squire.
And here he was. He had climbed to the farthest niche of the blind alley and with his back to the closed end he could only wait for the faint sounds of pursuit to grow louder and louder until eventually the bloodhounds would be on him.
Thirty-six hours ago the greatest opportunity of his life had been in his hands. Now the opportunity was gone and his life would soon follow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CAPTAIN
It was the first time, really, that Captain Racety had found himself unable to impose his will upon a passenger. Had that passenger been one of the Great Squires themselves, he might still have counted on co-operation. A Great Squire might be all-powerful on his own continent, but on a ship he would recognize that there could be only one master, the Captain.
A woman was different. Any woman. And a woman who was daughter of a Great Squire was completely impossible.
He said, "My Lady, how can I allow you to interview them in private?"
Samia of Fife, her dark eyes snapping, said, "Why not? Are they armed, Captain?"
"Of course not. That's not the point."
"Anyone can see they're only a pair of very frightened creatures. They're half scared to death."
"Frightened people can be very dangerous, my Lady. They can't be counted on to act sensibly."
"Then why do you keep them frightened?" She had the tiniest stammer when she was angry. "You've got three tremendous sailors standing over them with blasters, poor things. Captain, I'll not forget this."
No, she wouldn't, the Captain thought. He could feel himself beginning to give way.
"If Your Ladyship pleases, will you tell me exactly what it is that you want?"
"It's simple. I've told you. I want to speak to them. If they're Florinians, as you say they are, I can get tremendously valuable information from them for my book. I can't do that, though, if they're too frightened to speak. If I could be with them alone it would be fine. Alone, Captain! Can you understand a simple word? Alone!"
"And what would I say to your father, my Lady, if he discovers that I allowed you to remain unguarded in the presence of two desperate Criminals?"
"Desperate criminals! Oh, Great Space! Two poor fools that tried to escape their planet and had no more sense than to board a ship going to Sark! Besides, how would my father know?"
"If they hurt you he would know."
"Why should they hurt me?" Her small fist lifted and vibrated, while she put every atom of force she could find into her voice. "I demand it, Captain."
Captain Racety said, "How about this then, my Lady? I will be present. I shall not be three sailors with blasters. I shall be one man with no blaster in view. Otherwise" - and in his turn he put all his resolution into his voice - "I must refuse your demand."
"Very well, then." She was breathless. "Very well. But if I can't get them to speak because of you I will personally see to it that you captain no more ships."
Valona put her hand hastily over Rik's eyes as Samia entered the brig.
"What's the matter, girl?" asked Samia sharply, before she could remember that she was going to speak to them comfortingly.
Valona spoke with difficulty. She said, "He is not bright, Lady. He wouldn't know you were a Lady. He might have looked at you. I mean without intending any harm, Lady."
"Oh, goodness," said Samia. "Let him look." She went on, "Must they stay here, Captain?"
"Would you prefer a stateroom, my Lady?"
Samia said, "Surely you could manage a cell not quite so grim."
"It is grim to you, my Lady. To them, I am sure this is luxury. There is running wate
r here. Ask them if there was any in their hut on Fiorina."
"Well, tell those men to leave."
The Captain motioned to them. They turned, stepping out nimbly.
The Captain set down the light aluminium folding chair he had brought with him. Samia took it.
He said brusquely to Rik and Valona, "Stand up."
Samia broke in instantly. "No! Let them sit. You're not to interfere, Captain."
She turned to them. "So you are a Florinian, girl."
Valona shook her head. "We're from Wotex."
"You needn't be frightened. It doesn't matter that you're from Fiorina. No one will hurt you."
"We're from Wotex."
"But don't you see that you've practically admitted you're from Fiorina, girl? Why did you cover the boy's eyes?"
"He's not allowed to look at a Lady."
"Even if he's from Wotex?" Valona was silent.
Samia let her think about it. She tried to smile in a friendly way. Then she said, "Only Florinians aren't allowed to look at Ladies. So you see you've admitted that you're a Florinian."
Valona burst out, "He's not."
"Are you?"
"Yes, I am. But he's not. Don't do anything to him. He really isn't a Florinian. He was just found one day. I don't know where he comes from, but it's not Fiorina." Suddenly she was almost voluble.
Samia looked at her with some surprise. "Well, I'll speak to him. What's your name, boy?"
Rik was staring. Was that how women Squires looked? So small, and friendly-looking. And she smelled so nice. He was very glad she had let him look at her.
Samia said again, "What's your name, boy?"
Rik came to life but stumbled badly in the attempt to shape a monosyllable.
"Rik," he said. Then he thought. Why, that's not my name. He said, "I think it's Rik."
"Don't you know?"
Valona, looking woebegone, tried to speak, but Samia held up a sharply restraining hand.
Rik shook his head. "I don't know."
"Are you a Florinian?"
Rik was positive here. "No. I was on a ship. I came here from somewhere else." He could not bear to look away from Samia but he seemed to see the ship co-existing with her. A small and very friendly and homelike ship.