"No."

  So the explosion was going to happen and nothing either of them had yet done had altered that probable future. Perhaps it couldn't be altered, not with the facilities at their disposal. Dumarest glanced around the cubicle. The open medical kit he had raided for the emergency antidote to quick-time stood on a shelf. He rummaged through it, stuffing the contents into his pocket, thinking as he worked.

  Was the explosion, if that was what the glare would be, caused by internal or external causes? If the latter there was nothing he could do to prevent it. If the former he had a choice. To head for the upper regions and warn the captain or to head for the lower and warn the engineer. If he could only calculate the time it was going to happen.

  "I'm going to warn the captain," he told the girl. "Keep checking the future."

  He left the cubicle, walked down the passage, halted at her cry.

  "Earl!"

  "What is it?"

  She came running toward him, eyes huge with shock, trembling so that her voice quivered on the edge of total loss of control. "Earl! It's so bright, so close! Just the glare and nothing else. Earl!"

  "The cards!" He gripped her shoulders, dug in his fingers, used pain to combat hysteria. "You remember when we played with the cards. The image was clear then. Is it the same now?"

  She nodded and he felt the constriction of his stomach. So close? The cards had been scant seconds away in time. Just how long did they have?

  The lounge was thirty feet across. Dumarest crossed it in five strides, jerked open a panel flushing the wall, caught the girl's wrist and dragged her into the revealed opening. More doors and they stood in a chill place, dimly lit, a plastic sac open before them. He thrust her inside, sealed the container, paused with his hand on the material. Beyond it a control protruded from the wall of the vestibule.

  "Once more," he urged. "Kalin, try once more—and be certain."

  He saw the terror on her face, the squeezing of her eyes, the lifting of her hands to protect them from the searing glare. The control moved beneath his hand. A metal shield gasped as air blasted them from the vestibule. Grayness, thick, opaque, tormented with eye-twisting writhings closed around them.

  "Earl!" A form in the grayness: soft, warm, scented with femininity. Hair brushed his cheek as arms closed around His neck. "Earl!"

  "It's all right," he soothed. "We've left the ship. We're outside, still caught in the Erhaft field, still moving along with the vessel. This is an emergency sac," he explained. "It—"

  "Earl!"

  He gripped her close, closing his eyes, burying his face in the masking softness of her hair as the universe exploded in a glare of greenish blue light. The writhing grayness vanished, burned away, dissolving to be replaced by a ball of dwindling flame. Around them the membrane of the sac puffed, stiffened from internal pressure, the thin skin all that stood between them and the cold hostility of space.

  "Earl?" She moved against his chest. "It's gone, Earl. The glare. Shall I look to see what will happen next?"

  "Not yet." Ampules glittered as he fumbled them from his pocket. The normal drugs carried by any ship. Compounds to defeat pain, to ensure sleep, to kill time. He used the latter two and looked at her as the lids closed over the green eyes.

  Quick-time to slow down her metabolism and drugged sleep so that she could avoid the torment, of speculation, the temptation to stare into a future, which, logically, could not exist.

  Not for people stranded in an emergency sac between the stars.

  He shifted a little, cradling the flame tinted head on his shoulder, conscious of the silken glow of naked flesh, the smooth skin of arms and chest and long, long thighs. Beyond the transparent membrane the stars blazed with scintillating colors. The light shone and sparkled so that it dazzled and touched everything with silver. The sac, his clothes, her tunic, her hair—

  Silver and red and an elfin face. The scent of femininity and the warmth of someone close.

  The prick of needles brought slowing and sleep.

  Chapter Five

  IN THE DIM LIGHT beyond the mesh the man's face was drawn, strained. "Grant me forgiveness, Brother, for I have done much wrong."

  Sitting behind the mesh, Brother Jerome listened to the litany of wrongdoing and mentally stepped back half a century in time, and forgotten light-years in distance, to when he had helped to establish a church on an inhospitable world. They had been hard days, hard enough to test the resolution of a man who had, until then, never known real hardship. Well, he had survived and in ways he no longer cared to think about. He had seen the human animal at its worst; the human angel at its best. Two sides of the same coin. If he could enhance one at the expense of the other, it would be enough.

  "… and, Brother, I was jealous of my friend. He had a new house and I lied about my circumstances and…"

  Sins like stones rolling from a basically decent soul. Basically decent because otherwise the man would not be here, not be suffering the anguish of overwhelming guilt. It was good to know that that anguish, at least, could be resolved.

  Brother Jerome switched on the benediction light as the voice ceased. The face was tense, the eyes hungry with anticipation as the swirling kaleidoscope of color caught and held his attention.

  "Look into the light of forgiveness," said the monk softly. "Bathe in the flame of righteousness and be eased of all pain, cleansed of all sin. Yield to the benediction of the Universal Brotherhood."

  The light was hypnotic, the subject susceptible, the monk an old master of his craft. The face relaxed and peace smoothed the features. Subjectively the man was undergoing self-determined penance. Later he would receive the bread of forgiveness.

  The High Monk stretched as he left the booth. Today he had chosen to spend his hour of relaxation at the confessionals and wondered if he had done so simply in order to recapture his youth. It was probable, he admitted on his way back to his office. There was no harm in looking back as long as it was kept in mind that events moved forward. And it was good to know that he still served a purpose, that he could still give a man ease of heart.

  Brother Fran looked up as Jerome entered the inner chamber. The secretary held a folder of papers in his hand. He rested it on the desk. "There is news from Sard, Brother."

  "With reference to Centon Frenchi?"

  "Yes."

  Jerome seated himself and looked at the folder without touching it. "His story, of course, has been verified in every detail."

  "As you said it would be."

  "It was a minor prediction," said Jerome quietly. "I didn't doubt for a moment that the facts as he gave them would tally with the facts we might discover in an independent investigation. Even so, the man was lying."

  Brother Fran made no comment.

  Jerome raised his eyebrows. "You do not agree?"

  "The facts as he gave them have proved to be true," said the secretary cautiously. "But," he admitted, "facts can be both manufactured and manipulated. Yet, in this case—"

  "Look at the facts," interrupted the High Monk. "The details. That there was an actual vendetta I do not for one moment question. The daughter, he claims, left the planet years ago. With all the family dead who is there to verify that statement? But it could be true. Stranger things have happened and he certainly has an excellent reason for trying to find the girl. And yet I am not satisfied. Something does not ring true."

  "The likeness," said Brother Fran. "It is an inconsistency."

  "It is more than that," said Jerome evenly. "Would he have kept it for five years? Perhaps. But, in that length of time a girl can change. Is her hair still red? Her eyes still green? Her measurements, certainly, need not be the same. And yet he mentioned nothing of this." His fingers made little rapping sounds as he drummed them on the folder. "Her coloring," he mused. "Is it not unusual for Sard?"

  "Unusual but not unknown," said the secretary. "Red-haired women married into several of the higher families several generations ago. The pure strain has become diluted but there are instances of atavists. The girl could be such a one. A throwback to her early ancestry."

  "Or," said Jerome slowly, "that could be yet another manipulated fact. Several worlds have bred for these peculiar characteristics. The girl could have originated on one of those and not on Sard at all." He looked sharply at the other monk. "You think that I am being too suspicious?"

  "I think that caution can be carried to the point where it loses its value."

  "Yet you agree there are inconsistencies?"

  "Everything is open to doubt," said the secretary flatly. "But we must be logical. What point would there be in Centon Frenchi lying to us? Either he wants to find the girl or he does not. His positive action in coming to us to beg our aid proves that he does want to find her."

  "I have never doubted that for one second," said the High Monk quietly.

  Brother Fran restrained his impatience. "Then, surely, the only question now remaining is whether we look for her or not."

  "You think so?" Jerome shook his head. "That is not the question at all. Whether we look for her or not is something already decided—we do. Already we are looking. But the real question remains. Assuming that Centon Frenchi is lying, and instinct tells me that he is, just what reason has he for wanting to find her? Or," he added after a moment's pause, "is he working for someone else?"

  "And, if so, for whom?"

  "Exactly," said Brother Jerome. "An intriguing situation, is it not?"

  * * *

  A shadow drifted from the clouds, circled, wide-winged and silent. It straightened and became a hundred pound projectile of flesh and feather tipped with eighteen inches of tapering bone. Kramm watched it come, lifted his rifle and stared through the telescopic sight. Gently he closed his finger on the trigger. The explosion made a sharp crack echoed by another, more distant and muffled. The thren twitched as the explosive bullet ripped its interior to shreds. The long beak opened in a soundless gesture of pain; then another shot filled the air with once-living debris.

  Beneath him the horse moved once, then quietened to the pressure of his knees.

  "A good shot, master." Elgin, the verderer, spat in the direction of the thren. "That's one monster who will never raid our herds again. More's the pity that you could not destroy them all with a single bullet from your rifle. There is none on Solis more likely to do that than yourself. Never have I seen a better marksman."

  The praise was extravagant, overly so, but Elgin was currying favor and Kramm knew why. The man had his eye on a girl of the household. Kramm knew that she was not adverse to changing the duties of the kitchen for those of a wife. Provided their genes matched, so that the color bred true, there was no barrier to their union. But it pleased him to keep the man on edge. It would even pay the girl later dividends. No man valued what came too easily.

  "He never misses," said Elgin to the third member of the party. "Fives times now he has won the challenge head at the open competition."

  "That's enough," said Kramm.

  "I but speak what all men know, master."

  "Our guest is not concerned with local gossip," said Kramm. "Let us be on our way."

  Scarlet fabric rippled as the horses began to move. The cyber, Kramm guessed, was having trouble keeping in the saddle, but the thin expressionless face beneath the cowl gave no sign of any difficulty. Kramm almost yielded to the temptation to break into a gallop; then sternly resisted it. Cyber Mede was not a person with whom to jest. Neither was the Cyclan an organization at which to sneer. Too many had gained too much for that.

  "My apologies that you must travel in so primitive a manner," he said after scanning the sky for sight pf a wheeling shadow. It had become almost instinctive, this searching of the clouds. "To ride a beast of burden must be a novel experience for you."

  "It is, but do not blame yourself, my lord." Mede's voice was a trained modulation devoid of all irritant factors. "I could have chosen to wait for a flier. Instead I decided to accompany you. You breed horses, my lord?"

  "The finest on the planet," said Kramm without boasting. "A pure strain which has yet to be equaled in this sector of space. Unfortunately the thren find them succulent prey." His eyes lifted to the sky. "One day I'll band some men and burn out their nests."

  "Is that possible, my lord?"

  "No," admitted Kramm. "It's been tried before. Too many breeding spots and not enough men, but one day we'll do it."

  "Radioactive dusts could help, my lord. In the meantime why do you not protect your beasts with lasers?"

  "Lasers cost money, cyber." Kramm guided his mount between two boulders. "On Solis money is scarce. We raise horses, dairy herds, some fruit and grain. We manufacture small items of little cost and limited appeal. I make my own powder and load my own shells."

  He shrugged, dismissing the subject, conscious of all that he had left unsaid. But how to communicate with a man who was a total stranger to all emotion? How to describe the thrill attending the use of a rifle? The kick of the butt, the clean, sharp sound of the shot, the satisfaction of hitting the target and seeing feathers fly?

  They wended on between boulders and rising slopes. The horses merged into the background as the sky began to dull. Sleek shapes, maned, tailed, anachronisms in an age where ships spanned the stars and power came in portable units. Only the three splotches of flaming color gave the scene brightness and life. The robe of the cyber and the hair of the two other men. Red hair of a peculiar flame-like brilliance. The hallmark of the people of Solis.

  Kramm turned in his saddle, eyes raking the sky before he lowered them to the cyber. In the gathering twilight his skin shone nacreous. Behind him, green eyes watchful, Elgin scanned the surrounding slopes, the empty clouds.

  "How are you doing, cyber?" Kramm's voice rose in echoes from the dunes. "Have you discovered yet how to turn this scrub into wealth?"

  "The problems of a planet are not so easily solved, my lord," said Mede smoothly. "Will the journey last much longer?"

  "Getting sore?" Kramm's laugh came from his belly, rolling, deep. "Take no offense, cyber, you've done better than most could have managed in your place." He laughed again. "You'll have reason to remember Klieg. Our house," he explained. "The founder called it that. A long time ago now."

  Long enough to breed a race of green-eyed, pale-skinned men and women with heads of flame. Pride, thought Mede detachedly. A poor planet, yet a proud one. A world made almost unique by the founders. Almost. Solis was not the only planet on which red hair was dominant.

  An hour later they rounded a curve and came within sight of the house. Mede stared at it from beneath the shadow of his cowl. Stone walls enclosing a courtyard. Thick walls of stone rising within to support a sloping roof. There would be snow here in the winter, he knew. Snow and heavy ice. Only in one thing was the house different from a dozen others he had seen during his stay on the planet. Its proximity to the sea. It clung to the cliff, one side facing the water, a limpet defying nature.

  Kramm grunted as his horse, scenting its stable, broke into a canter.

  "Steady, girl," he said. "Steady." And then, to Mede. "Home, cyber. Welcome to Klieg."

  * * *

  Komis heard the music as he opened the door of his study. It shrilled high, clear and far too loudly. The skirl of pipes echoed above the rattle of drums. Keelan's favorite, the tune which she had hummed and sang and played all the time when Brasque was away. The tune which they had composed together and played at their wedding and played even after that dreadful time when the universe had turned against their happiness. The tune which had turned into a dirge and which he hadn't heard for a long time now.

  The stairs fell away beneath his feet. The music swelled even louder as he reached the door, opened it, stepped into the room with the open side, with the sea-scent and sea-wind coming through the pillars. Another door and a white-faced girl dancing with her red hair a swirling flame.

  "Mandris!"

  "Master!" She turned, shock widening her green eyes, hands lifting to cover her mouth. Against one wall the record player spilled its music, the speakers sonorous with over-amplification. "Master, I—"

  He reached her, passed her, killed the music with a twist of his strong white fingers. He stood in the abrupt silence, ears strained, listening—looking toward the shadowed room past an open door, the darkened room where Keelan lay.

  Silence. Nothing but what had been for too long now. He turned and stared at the shame-faced girl. She cringed before his eyes.

  "Master! I am sorry! I did not think. But it grows so silent here, so lonely. I thought that—"

  "You did not think," he interrupted coldly. "There could have been a cry, an appeal for aid. Could you have heard it over that noise?" The thought of it generated rage, a mounting, consuming anger. "Your duty is to serve," he said. "To wait, to watch, to listen. To attend the Lady Keelan at all times. For this we give you money for your dowry."

  She lowered her eyes, pink flushing the pearl of her cheeks.

  "But you grew bored. You decided to play a little music. To play and dance and, perhaps, to dream of a strong young lover riding to carry you away." He caught himself. He was being petty, unfair. Of what else should a young girl dream? And yet she must,learn her lesson. "If I gave you the choice, which would you choose?" he snapped. "Discharge from our service or twenty lashes on the naked back?" Again he was being unfair. Discharge would mean degradation, the loss of status, the opportunity to better her position. And yet who would willingly be lashed?

  "Never mind," he said quickly before she could answer.

  "Master?"

  He was not a consciously cruel man. Punishment, if it was to be given, should be announced immediately. To delay was to be sadistic and her fault had been no more than human frailty. He looked around the chamber. It was too silent, too somber for someone so young. Beyond the outer door the sea-sound echoed. Inside the inner door only darkness and the knowledge of what lay within. And, who knew that the music might not have been a stimulus? Perhaps they were wrong to maintain such a stringent watch.