Isobel Boulaye said, "Earl, I'm so very glad you called. Your friend, too." Her eyes moved to where Zalman stood beside the raft now grounded on the roof. "As I told you I am never visited."

  "Since Rudi died?"

  "Even before. There is a lack of social life on this world as you must have learned by now. It didn't bother us—our own company was enough."

  "If we are inconveniencing you please say so." An empty courtesy, if she had knowledge he would gain it, but there was no need to be either brusque or impolite. "But I do need to talk to you."

  A need, she hoped, equal to her own. The day had been a torment with his presence constantly with her—his arrival a totally unexpected delight. From where he sat at the controls of the raft Mtouba said, "Well, if they can stay I'll be off. My regards, Madam Boulaye. Good luck, Earl."

  As the vehicle lifted she said, "What did he mean?"

  Dumarest smiled at her expression. "I may have given him a false impression in order to win his help in getting out here. I mentioned your mine and that I've worked as a miner. As an agent he is anxious to see your shipments increased."

  "For the sake of his commission." She nodded, knowing it was more than that. "Are you?"

  "A miner?"

  "Yes. Have you worked in mines? Do you know about them? If so would you—" She broke off, conscious of being carried away. Slowly, it was best to move slowly— how often had Rudi advised that? "Let's go down into the house."

  The night was thickening, stars blossoming over the hills, and she shivered as she headed toward the stairs. A shiver born more of emotion than climate and she fought to maintain her self-control. She was a grown woman, not an impressionable adolescent, and surely she could entertain two guests to dinner without making a fool of herself?

  "You've caught me unawares," she said as she guided them into the lounge. "There's food, naturally, but my cook is somewhat erratic. If you'll be patient I'll prepare something myself. While I'm doing it help yourself to wine. That machine produces music, that some pleasing colors or—" She hesitated then decided against showing them Rudi's drawings. Not yet. Not ever unless he showed interest. "Just make yourself at home."

  After she'd left Zalman said, "She's tense, Earl. Anxious."

  "Afraid?"

  "No. She wants you to do something. It could be to take her husband's place." He added, casually, "You realize she is in love with you?"

  Love or desire? Had Selina loved him or had it been a game? Words used to enhance emotion and to stimulate desire yet those same words, used between others under the same circumstances, could hold such a greater depth of meaning.

  Dumarest said, "Anything else?"

  "Nothing sharp or clear as yet. That is to be expected, she is disturbed, flustered. She wanted to show you something then decided against it. She was on the verge of asking you something then decided to wait. Give it time, Earl, let her settle."

  Have patience—wait! Advice he found hard to follow. One question could resolve his doubts yet the timing of that question was all-important. Had the man confided in his wife? Did she share the secret? Would she divulge it? And, if guessing its value, would she ask a price he couldn't pay?

  Dumarest rose, like the woman he needed something to occupy his attention. She was busy in the kitchen and he moved toward the devices she had mentioned, activating one, listening to a succession of tonal chords which irritated rather than pleased. Rudi's choice? The color organ was little better and he turned from it after juggling with the controls. Appreciation of the glowing hues depended on mood and his was far from appropriate.

  "Here!" Zalman had occupied himself with the proffered refreshment. "Have some wine."

  Dumarest took it, studying the lambent violet, finding it free of betraying glitters. The taste was of lemon and thyme. Lowering the glass he looked at the chamber.

  "Neglected," said Zalman, reading him. "Like everything else in the house, I guess, but what can you expect? A lone woman trying to do it all. God knows why she doesn't sell up and get out."

  "Because I can't." She had joined them as he spoke. "Because no one wants to buy. How can you work a mine without labor and who wants to dig when a handful of manna provides everything you need? I've servants only because they're too damned lazy to fend for themselves. Workers only because they've run out of manna and are willing to eat my food and scratch at the dirt until the devils dance again and when they do they forget why they are where they are. A curse, Earl, as I told you. This used to be a thriving, commercial world at one time. Then, with no exports, the ships stopped coming. Soon there won't even be a Hausi resident here and, when he goes, that'll be the end. Those who are left will sit and grin and play and pass the hours like happy children. Like idiots!"

  "No!" Zalman was sharp. "You had it right the first time. Why does a man work? To feed himself and his family and what else? To obtain those things he is told are necessary to his status and comfort: a house, a means of transportation, clothing, toys, special foods—the list is as long as commercial interests can make it. And those who rule him always have a hand extended for taxes. Here there is none of that. A man eats the manna and he is happy. Can Heaven offer more?"

  She said, "Earl—is that how you think?"

  "Hans asked a question. Can you answer it?" Then, as she remained silent, Dumarest added, "Each to his own, Isobel. To you these people are idiots, to others they have all anyone could want. It all depends on your point of view."

  "And yours?"

  "Mine is simple—live and let live." He finished his wine. "Dare I ask if the food is ready?"

  The meal was plain; dehydrated foods mixed, blended, cooked in the microwave oven and garnished with hastily prepared sauces. A meal Rudi would have disdained but which her guests ate with relish. Toying with her own she thought about what Dumarest had said.

  To live and let live.

  A simple philosophy but great truths were always simple. She remembered the discussions she'd had with Rudi in the past when the full impact of the mistake he'd made had registered. How he had wanted to alter the ecology of this world with men and machines hired to destroy the ephemerae with radioactive dusts, flame, and poisons. To rob the population of their manna so as to force them to work—to dig in the mine, to provide the wealth he lacked. Riches he professed to despise yet for which he inwardly yearned. Why else did he delve for precious metal? Why else expound his dream?

  She had agreed with him then—did she agree with him now? The girl who had died had probably known more pure enjoyment in her few short years than both she and Rudi in their combined lifetimes. And, if life had any purpose at all, wasn't it to be enjoyed?

  "Madam?" Zalman, watching, leaned forward to replenish her glass. "You were introspective," he said. "Thoughtful. Recalling an incident in the past, maybe?"

  "My husband." She pushed aside her plate. "He loved good food, wine, conversation. I am not doing his memory credit."

  "Because of the meal?" He shook his head, smiling. "Simple food nicely served, what could be better? You agree, Earl?"

  "The meal was excellent," said Dumarest. "As you're thinking of your late husband let's talk about him. That is, if it will cause you no pain. No? Then where did you meet? On Ascelius?"

  "Yes. He taught at the university. I was a student. I'd known him for years but we didn't get close until I returned for a post-graduate degree in geology. I was the oldest in the class and that was enough to bring me to his attention. We shared a few meals and saw a few plays and then, well, it just happened."

  "You married?"

  "Yes." She paused, remembering, a little surprised at the lack of pain. "Then, well, Rudi was always a dreamer and he'd heard about Elysius. The wealth which was just waiting to be won. It's true, too, there is wealth here; the Fulden Hills are loaded with jascar." She ended, bitterly, "Getting it is something else."

  Zalman poured more wine. He said, "I met your husband. It must have been about the time you were going together. There was a celebration—the Lupinia?"

  "The Ludernia. Yes, we'd just started going out together then." Seven years ago—was it so long? "We married that same year and came to Elysius the year after."

  "So I heard. Did he ever mention me?" Zalman shrugged as she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. It's just that we shared a love of old things; stories, legends, things like that. He told me he had evidence of the actual existence of a mythical planet. Did he ever mention it? The planet Earth?"

  A casual question placed by a master and Dumarest fought the instinctive clenching of his hand as he waited for the reply.

  "Earth?" Isobel frowned. "No, I don't think so. A planet, you say? What an odd name."

  "It has another," said Dumarest. "Terra. Did he ever mention a world named that?"

  "No. No, I don't think so." She rose, bustling to clear away the dishes. "If you'd care to return to the lounge I'll bring in the tisane. Or would you prefer coffee? I think there's some around if the cook hasn't used it all. Or there could be something else."

  "Tisane will do," said Zalman quickly. "The one Rudi liked—you don't mind me calling him by name? In a sense I've known him as long as yourself."

  "No, Hans, I don't mind." How good it was to be on friendly terms again with mutual friends. "He liked it spiced and hotly pungent. Earl?"

  "The same, please, Isobel."

  In the lounge Zalman said, quietly, "Keep her mind on her husband. I caught something, a hint, my guess is she knows but is not wholly aware of what she knows. The man must have talked and told her what he suspected or had discovered. It may not have registered—a new bride would have other things on her mind than legendary worlds. Just be patient."

  A game in which he held all the cards; knowing if and when she lied, told the truth or what she thought was the truth, held back, hesitated, stilled unspoken questions. Dumarest watched as the man went to meet Isobel when she entered the room, the way he relieved her of her burden, poured the steaming tisane, sipped, nodded with false appreciation.

  "Just as I remembered. Rudi liked strong flavors. Why did he yield his position at the university?"

  "For me." She shrugged at his expression. "I was twenty years his junior and he was conscious of the disparity. A little guilty, I think, though he had no reason. He wanted to give me the universe as a reward for having been so kind as to become his wife. Stupid, of course, but it pleased him so I didn't argue. Then, one day, he told me we were coming here. He was like a boy and full of grandiose ideas. We would gather wealth and use it to go to a place where we would find riches beyond all imagining. It was all nonsense. Just foolish talk."

  "No," said Dumarest. "He could—" He fell silent as Zalman lifted a warning hand.

  "Talk," he murmured. "And maybe foolish, but not wholly so. After all he did yield his position and come to Elysius. That couldn't have been cheap."

  "It took all we had," she admitted.

  "And yet, loving you as he did, still he came."

  "To die. To be buried."

  "But he left something behind? A chest, some papers, a journal?" Zalman's eyes were shrewd as he read her answer. "He did?"

  "There are some drawings. He made them when making a survey of the hills."

  "But there's more," urged Zalman. "Things he brought with him from Ascelius. Books? Graphs? Condensed computer readouts? A file?" He nodded as if she had spoken. "It could hold the answer to your problem, my dear. Rudi was not a fool and I am certain he would never have risked your future security without excellent reason. If we could see that file?"

  He relaxed as she left the room. "Earl, my friend, I think we have it."

  Dumarest looked at his cup of tisane. The surface of the untouched liquid was quivering, alive with dancing coruscations of reflected light, the cup and fluid acting as an amplifier to magnify the trembling of his hand. He set it down and the surface stilled and grew calm. An example he found impossible to follow.

  The secret at last?

  Was the woman, even now, fetching him the information he had searched for so long? The coordinates which would signal the place in the galaxy where Earth was to be found? The figures which were carried in no almanac, no navigation table no matter how old. Figures which had to exist and yet were absent.

  "Here!" Isobel was back, a thick folder in her hands, one stamped with the seal of the university on Ascelius. "He called this his treasure chest—I've no idea why and when I asked him to explain it to me once he grew annoyed. It wasn't worth pursuing the matter. If Rudi wanted to keep a secret I saw no harm in it and we all need some privacy. I've never even opened it."

  "Not even after he'd died?"

  "No, Earl." She met his eyes. "He could have had things in there from his past. Details I wouldn't have wanted to know about."

  The photographs of previous loves, evidence of a side of his nature never revealed, data of weaknesses she hadn't wanted to expose. Dumarest wondered at her sensitivity then remembered how late she had married and to whom. Had Rudi been a father image and had she wanted to remain deliberately blind to any faults? Or had the rejection of the file been a part of her closing her mind against the agonies of the past? The dead were dead—let the dead rest in peace. The man, the love, the memories, the hopes—lock them all behind a closed door.

  He looked at the folder she'd placed in his hands. It was fastened by a clasp of cheap gilded metal and he thumbed it open. It was fashioned after a box; loose leaves placed within, a spring to hold them firm. A scent of dust rose when he opened it, a musty odor containing the hint of decay.

  "Earl?"

  Dumarest ignored the other man. The topmost paper was covered with a mass of neat handwriting and he read it, words and phrases seeming to spring from the sheet, to glow as if illuminated… Earth… Terra… The Original People.

  He read on:

  The Original People are a minor sect of religious fanatics to be found on various backward planets scattered throughout the galaxy. The sect is a secret one and does not seek nor welcomes converts; fresh followers being obtained from the natural increase of existing worshipers. The main tenet of their belief is that Mankind originated on a single world, the mythical planet Earth, and that, after cleansing by trial and tribulation, Mankind will return to this supposed world of origin at which time the universe will cease to exist and the cleansed race be transformed into a higher form of life. This belief, founded on an obvious fallacy, is surrounded by esoteric ritual and elaborate ceremonies based on a primitive cult of fertility. There are no grounds for supporting the truth of their contention which must remain as one of the more illogical creeds.

  (Extract from "Rites and Rituals of the Romantic." Vol. 3 University Library Ascelius)

  Note 12: The assumption that the mythical planet cannot exist because the beliefs surrounding it are patently absurd is a clear example of irrational thinking and demonstrably untrue. See terra, note 28.

  Dumarest rippled papers, oblivious to the others.

  Terra is an alternate name for Earth and could have an association with the creed of the Original People which states—From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united.

  Note 28: The name tends to bolster the belief of the creed but could be a natural distortion. It does, however, lend weight to the possibility of an actual planet existing and which has, somehow, become forgotten. Discounting the obvious fallacies of the belief expressed by the religious sect the similarity of name remains together with the undeniable association of a place left and waiting to be discovered. If we accept that legends are messages forwarded from one generation to another, said messages becoming distorted with the passage of time and repetition, together with the necessity of making such messages simple to begin with, we see the possibility that the creed does hold, in its heart, the knowledge of a world known as Earth.

  There was more, much more, and Dumarest read it all. The hints that Earth was a repository of vast wealth. That it was made of solid metal all precious. That it was an artificial construction housing technological knowledge of unbelievable magnitude—all snares which had trapped Rudi Boulaye and had cost him his life.

  Yet the man had believed.

  And the man had known.

  He had known!

  "Earl!" This time Zalman wasn't to be denied. "It's there, isn't it? The answer. I've kept my promise. More than kept it. Not the man, true, but what he'd learned. My share of our partnership."

  Isobel said, "Is that what you wanted, Earl? The coordinates of a world?"

  "Yes."

  "And do you have it?"

  "No."

  Zalman reared to his feet. "Earl, you—" He broke off, reading the truth. "No," he said, dully. "It can't be. Look again, man, look again."

  There was no need and Zalman's despair was nothing against his own disappointment. Dumarest leaned back, seeing again the papers he had read, the dry expositions couched in precise words and bearing the stamp of the man of letters. A lecturer who had put down his thoughts, the steps which had led to his final discovery—and yet he had not written down the essential data.

  Why not?

  And why should the file contain a receipt from a jeweler?

  Dumarest looked at it. "Isobel, did Rudi wear a ring?"

  "No."

  "No other jewelry? Did he give you a piece." He handed her the receipt. "A ring or necklace, perhaps?"

  "No." She studied the paper. "This must be for the chain and medallion he wore around his neck. I remember now. I wondered why he had bought it. He'd never worn anything like it before. When I asked him about it he laughed and said he wore our future around his neck. I thought he was joking—Earl! Your face—is something wrong?"

  A man playing games, hugging to himself the secret he had won, the discovery he had made. A man given to flights of imagination who'd given free rein to his fantasy. Dumarest could almost see him buying the medallion, stamping it with the precious coordinates, wearing it around his neck. A secret safe from prying eyes—one now buried with him far below the Fulden Hills.