E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 30 - Symbol of Terra

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Symbol of Terra by E. C.

Tubb

Chapter One

Dumarest saw the movements as he made his way along the valley;

small flickers of red which could have been the flirt of a scarlet wing, the

nodding of a bloom, the glow of reflected sunlight from a gleaming leaf.

Facile explanations and none of them true; a bird would have risen, there

was no wind to stir a flower and the sunlight streamed high to leave the

valley in shadow.

Halting, he plucked a leaf and chewed it as he studied the terrain.

Above and before him, monstrous against the sky, the bulk of a mountain

reared in rugged splendor its natural beauty now enhanced by the glowing

colors of sunset. At its base time and weather had conspired to form a

deep, wedge-shaped declivity, flanked with steep inclines fringed with

shrubs and stunted trees; vegetation which swept down to soften the bleak

outlines of dirt and stone and to cover the floor with flowered sward.

An artifice of man; the ground had been carefully leveled and graded,

the plants set with calculated design to form a haven of beauty in which

birds could dwell and exotic flowers fill the air with their heavy perfume.

Faint in the distance came the tinkle of running water.

Dumarest threw down the pulped leaf, catching another glimpse of red

as he resumed his progress. Higher this time, but on the same side of the

valley. An enemy or a watchful guardian but one lacking experience in

remaining hidden. Or one who wanted to be seen so another could remain

invisible.

A possibility but he doubted it. The vegetation was too still and his

sharpened senses would have warned him of lurking danger. Steadily he

moved on down the valley to where the sides closed in to meet the rock of

the mountain. A great door pierced it, made of massive timbers now

closed and firm. Windows flanked it, rising high like a multitude of dark

and wary eyes. Above them the sunlight painted swaths of ruby and gold,

orange and amber, pink and vibrant chrome.

"Hi there!" Dumarest lifted his voice in a shout. "Is anyone at home?"

His words flattened against the rock to fade and become lost in the

tinkle of water coming from a stream rilling to one side. A chain hung

beside the portal and he pulled it, hearing the faint tone of a bell.

Repeated as again he hauled on the links. Turning he saw again the flash

of red, closer now, lower on the slope.

"Chenault?" Again he shouted. "I've come to see Tama Chenault!"

A clearing stood before the door, set with a bench, and he moved

toward it after plucking a fruit from a bush. Steel glimmered as he lifted

the knife from his boot, using the edge to remove the rind, laying the blade

beside him on the bench.

Eating, apparently relaxed, he listened to the tinkle of water, the soft

rustle of leaves, the faint murmur of insects. A bird rose with a whirr of

wings behind and to his left. There was a soft, squashy sound as if a boot

had trodden a fallen fruit. Silence and then, with sudden abruptness, the

unmistakable sound of clicking metal.

Dumarest threw himself to one side, snatching at the knife, hitting the

ground as a dull report filled the air. Rising, he turned, blade lifted,

leaving his hand in a blur of shimmering light as he spotted his target. As

it hit, the woman screamed.

She was tall, slim, her skin the color of sun-kissed grain. The green of

her dress hugged a symphony of curves lushed with mature perfection.

Her eyes matched the hue of her gown. The color of her hair was one he

would never forget.

"Easy." Dumarest was on her before she could move, one hand closing

on her wrist. "You aren't hurt."

"I thought…"She swallowed. "I felt…"

Nothing but the shock of impact as the thrown knife had knocked the

weapon she'd used from her hands. That and the fear born of the ruthless

savagery of his face. It lingered as he sheathed the knife and picked up the

gun. It was crude, a simple affair of twin-barrels with a large bore, the

hammer needing to be cocked before it could be fired. An antique, but one

as deadly as a laser in the right hands with the right ammunition.

"Yours?"

"No. That is—"

"Chenault's?"

"He—" She broke off. "You're hurting my arm."

Dumarest released her, hefting the gun. "Try to run and I'll use this.

Why did you want to kill me?"

"I didn't. The gun fires a harmless dart. It would just have made you

sleep for a while." She frowned at his expression. "You don't believe me.

Look for yourself." She pointed to where a gaudy tuft of feathers stood in

the grass beyond the bench. "That's what I shot at you. You can check it."

"There's an easier way." Dumarest lifted the gun and aimed it at her

body. Deliberately he thumbed back the hammer. "Two barrels," he said.

"Two charges. Let's see if they're both the same."

She watched, wide-eyed as he moved to place her between himself and

the bench. A hand lifted to her mouth as he began to close his finger on

the trigger but she made no other sign of fear. Not even when he fired.

"Well?"

Dumarest looked at the dart standing from the wood of the bench.

Perhaps it was as harmless as she'd claimed or perhaps she'd only thought

it to be harmless. The latter, he guessed, she hadn't flinched from the

decisive test.

He said, "Did Chenault give you the gun?"

"Yes."

"Why? What were you supposed to do with it?"

"Sometimes there are predators. They come into the valley and hunt

the creatures here. When they do I take care of them."

"And visitors?" Dumarest shrugged as she made no answer. It was

prudent to be cautious on even the most civilized of worlds and, in the

Burdinnion, few were that. "Were you born here on Lychen?"

"No."

"Where then? Solis?" A guess and a wrong one as the shake of her head

signified. "It's just that you remind me of someone I knew once. She had

the same color hair as your own."

A red which burned in his heart like a flame. One which would never

die as the memory of Kalin would never die. Kalin whom he had loved.

Long gone now, the spirit which had won him dissipated, dead, leaving

only the memory of a shape. Of eyes and hair and skin and mouth and…

and…

***

And, suddenly, she was before him.

A bird broke the spell, rising with a thrum of pinions, leaves falling

with a rustle—sounds of potential danger which jerked him from a dream.

An illusion in which time had encapsulated and a person long gone was

again at his side. Standing as she had so often stood before, looking up at

his superior height, the long, clean line of her throat before his eyes, the

magnet of her body, her chin, her lips, the flaming cascade of her hair. The

emerald pools of her laughing eyes.

The hair, of course, it had to be the hair. The red which had betrayed

her when she had watched him. That and her shape and her lips and her

eyes. The eyes which held more than laughter.

She said, "Are you well?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"You seem disturbed. Would you like to sit?" She gestured toward the

bench. "Would you like some fruit? Water? I could fetch it from the

stream."

And vanish while getting it but Dumarest felt certain she wouldn't. He

watched as she crossed the clearing, noting the movement of her legs, the

sway of her hips. A woman, but not the one he had known. Not the one he

had imagined standing before him so short a while ago. Yet the

impression had been so sharp. An illusion? The effect of the fruit he had

eaten? Had the juice held a subtle hallucinogen which distorted reality?

He narrowed his eyes as she returned bearing water in some folded

leaves. Against the vegetation she seemed neutral, a figure wearing green,

one who could have been anyone—a female, well-made, but without

character. An impression heightened by her face as she concentrated on

her burden. It was smooth, somehow unformed, a collection of contours

and planes. Then, as she noticed his interest, it firmed into what he had

seen at first.

"Here." She handed him the folded leaf. "Drink and rest for a while."

Thirst and weariness made it easy to obey. The water was cool,

refreshing, and Dumarest swallowed it all. Relaxing he smelt the perfume

of the valley, listened to its quiet humming. The susurration of insects and

growing things, the rustle of an upper breeze which stirred the vegetation

as if to a giant's breath. Peace enfolded him and a calm tranquility.

To the woman he said, "What are you?"

"Who am I? My name is Govinda."

A question he hadn't asked and he wondered at the poetry which had

made him liken her to some elemental spirit. One who lived in a tree or a

stream, a thing of legend come real, belonging to this place like the stream

and the plants, the enigmatic face of the house which was barred like a

castle.

"Govinda." The name held music to match her tone. "Just that?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"Of course, but others I've known here on Lychen have several names."

"Nobles. Those aspiring to rank and position. They add names to each

other like pearls." Her shrug dismissed the importance of labels. "And

you?" She smiled as he told her. "Earl Dumarest. I shall call you Earl. Were

you born here on Lychen?"

"No more than you." He reached out and rested his fingers on her hand.

The skin was soft and warm. "Which is your home world, Govinda?"

"I don't know." She met his eyes and answered the question she read

there. "I had no real family and must have been passed around. I

remember Yakimov. I did most of my growing there. After a while I moved

to Kremer, then to Habralova then to other worlds. Finally I came here."

"To stay with Chenault?"

"He looks after me, yes." She withdrew her hand from beneath his

fingers. "What do you want with him?"

"To talk."

"Just that?"

"Are you worried I'll hurt him? Is that why you tracked me and tried to

knock me out?" Dumarest shook his head and smiled. "You said he looked

after you. I think it's the other way around. But why should he need

looking after at all?"

She said, "You want to talk. What about?"

"I'll tell him that."

"You can tell me and I'll tell him. Then, if he wants to see you, he will."

"And if he doesn't?" Dumarest let the question hang. "Surely he doesn't

live here alone aside from you. There must be others."

"There are."

"In the house?"

"You talk too much, Earl, and say too little. Just what do you want with

Chenault? To talk, you say, but how can I believe that?" She met his eyes,

her own direct. "Why didn't you call ahead to arrange an interview? Why

steal into the valley like a thief? How did you get here, anyway? I saw no

raft."

"I walked."

"From where?"

Dumarest said, "That I'll tell Chenault when I meet him. And I'm going

to stay here until I do. Tell him that and tell him we have mutual friends.

Edelman Pryor for one. Tayu Shakira for another." He saw her face alter.

"You know Shakira?"

"I—I'm not sure."

"Shakira of the circus of Chen Wei? You know him. Tell Chenault he

sent me to him. Tell him now."

"I can't." She looked at the sunlight painting the mountain, the level of

mounting darkness beneath it. The warning of approaching night which

already filled the valley with dusty shadows. "Not yet but soon. I promise.

You'll have to wait." Rising, she added. "If you want to leave do it now. If

you see Tama and upset him you'll never leave this valley alive."

He came when the sun gilded the topmost peak of the mountain,

turning the ice and snow which crusted it into an effulgent flame.

Deceptive warmth. It would soon yield to the star-shot indifference of

night. Dumarest heard the sigh as the great doors swung open, and rose

from the bench to stand facing it and the figure which came toward him,

silhouetted against the light filling the hall.

"Dumarest? Earl Dumarest?"

"Chenault?"

He was tall, broad, thick around the waist. A man old as a tree grows

old, as gnarled, as strong. The lines engraved on his face gave him a hard,

emotionless appearance, one belied by his sudden smile, teeth flashing

white between drawn-back lips. His eyes in their sunken sockets held a

bright awareness.

"I'm Chenault. The girl said we had mutual friends."

"That's right."

"Edelman Pryor, for one." Chenault tilted his head a little, the thick

mass of gray hair higher than Dumarest's own. "Tell me about him."

"Old, dry, dusty. He deals or dealt in old books, maps, logs, statuettes,

legends."

"Statuettes?"

"He gave me one. A small thing he'd had for years. You may have seen

it; a woman, grossly emphasized, of a size you could hold in a hand. He

said it was the depiction of some ancient goddess. Erce."

"Mother Earth," said Chenault. "Or the Earth Mother. You have it with

you?"

"No. Pryor is minding it for me. I didn't want to lose it."

"Neither did he." Chenault nodded, understanding. "You are subtle,

Earl, I like that. A gift accepted and returned in a manner devoid of

offense. He gave you my name?"

"Yes."

"And Shakira?"

"Yes." Dumarest met the stare of the bright eyes, brighter now with

reflected starlight. "Tayu Shakira of the circus of Chen Wei. He said you

could help me."

"Tell me about him." Chenault listened as Dumarest obeyed. "Did you

know him well?"

"No."

"But if he gave you my name—"

"No one knew him well," interrupted Dumarest. "But if you knew him

at all, really knew him, you must know one thing about him. He

is—unusual."

"In what way?" Chenault leaned forward, tense. "Tell me!"

Dumarest said, curtly, "He is not like other men. He has hands

sprouting from his waist. Extra hands."

"The product of wild genes." Chenault sighed and relaxed. "You know

him. Tayu must have trusted you to allow you to live with that knowledge.

Later you must tell me about him and also how you managed to make

Edelman Pryor feel so indebted to you that he gave you his most prized

possession. Govinda was right; you are a most unusual man, Earl

Dumarest. I am proud to greet you as my guest."

"It will be an honor to shelter beneath your roof."

"The old courtesies." Chenault smiled his pleasure. "It is good to hear

the traditional words again. But I am remiss as a host. Govinda told me

that you claimed to have walked here and must be fatigued. She was also

curious as to where you came from. We are somewhat isolated here. The

nearest village lies over a hundred miles to the west. The town—"

"I had a raft," said Dumarest, "but I didn't want to be followed. So I

dumped it and came here on foot. From the other side of the mountain."

"Where water is scarce and game even scarcer. Well, you are here now,

and can have all you need." Chenault gestured toward the open doors.

"Shall we go in?"

The hall matched the barbaric splendor of the great doors; a place of

vast dimensions, the roof peaked, the floor tessellated in garish diamonds

of red and green. Colors repeated on the walls together with others of

smoldering vividness set in a profusion of designs which Dumarest found

vaguely familiar. As the doors closed behind them the air seemed to

vibrate and the designs to blur, to seem to move as perspective changed,

to freeze in a series of grotesque parodies.

Faces distorted by the painted masks peculiar to clowns.

A circus!

Dumarest halted as he recognized the vague familiarity for what it was.

The floor, the hall, the peaked roof which depicted the summit of a tent,

the designs themselves all reflections of a small and bizarre world. Now he

could recognize the semblance of cages, the hint of watching beasts, the

shape of a ring, the tiered seats, the hanging strands of a trapeze. An

illusion created with paint and light and undoubted genius.

"You noticed." Chenault stood facing Dumarest his bright eyes direct.

"What do you see?"

"A circus tent, of course. But—"

"Lopakhin created it. He felt the need and I permitted it. Tyner is a

genius and, I suppose, I have a weakness for the grandiose. A happy

combination and one which allows of such indulgences. Others also find it

amusing and, at times, they come to stare and gawk and make their

observations. Fools for the most part, but it does no harm to cater to their

whims as long as they do not clash with my desires." Casually Chenault

added, "Perhaps you have met those I'm talking about. Jaded dilettantes

from the great Houses. Those of influence and position with too little to do

and too much time in which to do it. At times they visit me and request

permission to view my hall. Sometimes I accommodate them."

"You are gracious."

"Sensible. Why arouse antagonism when there is no need?" Chenault

turned and moved down the hall. As Dumarest fell into step beside him he

said, "I give a little and receive much in return. If they think I am an

amusing eccentric then that is to my advantage. Also, from such people,

information can be gained."

As to his own presence on Lychen and what had happened since he had

landed. Dumarest glanced at his host and wondered just how much the

man knew and what he intended. An academic question; if the

information he had gathered was true then he had no choice but to stay

close to the man until he had gained the coordinates of Earth. The secret

Chenault owned—or did he?

Always there was doubt and there had been too many disappointments

and yet, this time, Dumarest felt close to success. A conviction based on

instinct but which he knew could be contaminated by hope. And if this

was another blind lead it would be best to discover the truth without

waste of time.

Dumarest said, bluntly, "Shakira gave me your name and that of this

world. He said you would help me."

"Of course. And I shall."

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