Part 5 (1/2)

”Too heavy. I like to stay mobile.”

He nodded and looked at the paintings. Each was on a thin sheet of metalized paper and could be flexed and rolled without damage. Final products; the one she had made of himself had been crude by comparison. She guessed what he was thinking.

”I was in a hurry but I'd like to paint you again. I'd be able to achieve greater depth this time now that I know you better.

What do you think of that?”

A rose lay on a cus.h.i.+on, the petals dewed, the stem with its spines so real that he could almost smell the perfume.

”And that?”

An egg, broken, the bird newly hatched, struggling with tiny wings to free itself from the smooth prison. Each feather was a fluffed gem. The gaping beak seemed to be sounding all the fury of all the creatures ever born. The eyes held in their orbits the panoply of worlds.

”And these?”

Dumarest leafed through them, pausing to look at the woman.

”Did your father ever see any similar work?”

”Of mine? No.”

”A pity. If he had he wouldn't have died a disappointed man.”

Frowning, she said, ”I don't understand, Earl.”

”He wanted you to be a genius, you said.” Dumarest touched the painting in his hand. ”This is proof of it. The proof of hissuccess-your success. I-” He broke off, looking at the next to be revealed.

A woman, seated on a casket, and she was old.

Old!

The acc.u.mulated weight of years piled invisible mountains on her shoulders, bowing them, hollowing the thin chest to match the hollows of her cheeks, the sunken pits in which dwelt her eyes. Her hair was a cloud of whiteness holding the fragile delicacy of gossamer. The hands resting on her lap were brittle straws ending pipestem arms which matched the reed-like figure. The face was creped with a countless mesh of lines, the lips thin and bloodless, the whole giving the impression of a mask.

Old!

Old-and patient.

The impression was almost tangible and dominated the portrayal. The woman was old and yet not ugly. She held the same beauty as a tree that is old or a lichened wall or the worn hills of ancient worlds. The mask-like face looked at things created by time beyond normal comprehension-the span of years which had pa.s.sed in a ceaseless flow from the time of her conception and would continue long after she was dust. Time spent in waiting as she was waiting now. Waiting with the incredible patience of the very old.

”Who-?”

”She isn't real,” said Carina, antic.i.p.ating his question, ”Not an actual person. She symbolizes an ideal.”

Age and patience and waiting-but waiting for what?

Dumarest closed his eyes, pressed the lids tightly together, looked again at the timeless face of the old woman. An ideal, Carina had said. An artist's impression-but of what?”The box,” she said when he asked. ”I saw it and was curious and made some inquiries. It looks like a s.h.i.+pping container but it isn't that and neither is it a coffin. I thought it was at first, despite its size, but I was wrong. It's the reverse, in fact. A survival-casket.”

That was new to him. s.h.i.+ps carried life-support sacs for use in emergency but they were a last hope and a desperate gamble.

The usual caskets were strictly functional affairs shaped by the need to achieve a low temperature in the minimum time and to keep it stable once obtained. And why the old woman? The impression of limitless patience?

”They wait,” said Carina. ”Those who use the boxes, I mean. I depicted an old woman but it could have been a man. And I guess neither had to be old but that's how I felt it. Old people lying in their boxes in a form of suspended animation while the years spin past outside. Just lying there, waiting. Patiently waiting.”

”For what?”

She shrugged, indifferent. ”Who knows? They are crazy, of course, they have to be. To waste a life just lying in a box in the hope you'll be able to last long enough to be around when whatever you're waiting for happens. The end of the universe, maybe. The discovery of immortality. Who knows?”

And who cared? Oddities were common in a galaxy thick with scattered worlds bearing a host of varying cultures. Societies with peculiar beliefs and customs strange to any not of their kind. Frameworks of reference which turned madness into normal behavior. Freaks and fanatics going their own way, tolerated or ignored as long as they did no harm.

Dumarest put down the painting, half-turned, then reached for it again with belated recognition. The woman dominated the scene or he would have noticed it before. Had noticed it but fatigue had delayed his reaction. Now he studied the painting again, concentrating, not on the woman but on the box.

It was decorated with a profusion of painted symbols.”Earl?” He turned and saw her face, the anxiety in her eyes, and realized he had stood silent and immobile for too long. ”Earl, is anything wrong?”

”No. Where did you see this?”

”The box? Why, Earl, is it important?”

”Where!”

”On Caval,” she said quickly. ”The Hurich Complex- Earl, please!”

He turned from her, smoothing his face, forcing himself to be calm. She didn't know. She couldn't know-to her the box was nothing more than an oversized sarcophagus. An amusing novelty which had triggered her creative artistry. The symbols adorning the casket merely vague abstractions.

Symbols which could guide him to Earth.

Chapter Five.

Caval rested on the edge of the Zaragoza Cl.u.s.ter, a small, fair world of balmy air and rolling fields, devoid of the stench of industrial waste, the bleak shapes of functional machines; a world in which time seemed to have slowed, even the clouds drifting with stately grace across the pale amber of the sky. The people matched their world, adapted and conditioned by inclination and environment: slow, stolid, a little bovine but far from stupid.

The Hurich Complex lay thirty miles from the landing field on the far side of a ridge of rounded hills now bright with yellow flowers which covered crests and slopes with a golden haze. The place itself was wrapped in the easy somnolence of a tranquil village; wide streets flanked by open-fronted shops in which craftsmen plied their trade. The air carried the endless tap ofhammers, the scuff of files, the echoes of saws and planes. The place was a hive of industry devoid of the mechanical yammer of machines-all work was done by hand.

”There!” Carina lifted a hand, pointing. ”It was down that street, I think. Yes, it was down there-I recognize the sign over that shop.”

A swinging plaque bore the imprint of a rearing beast adorned with a crown-carved wood touched with gilt and paint bearing a startling likeness to a living creature. The street itself was given to residential establishments, only a few of the houses with the familiar open front, some closed with broad windows displaying the goods within.

”On the left,” said Carina. ”About halfway down.”

She had insisted on accompanying him as a guide when he had left Shard. Now she walked three paces ahead of him as if eager to prove her memory correct. She wore the slacks and tunic she had donned when leaving Shard: loose fabric of dull green which disguised her femininity. Her boots were high but soft, the belt wide and fitted with pouches. She carried no visible weapons.

”Here!” She halted and looked to either side, frowning. ”I'm sure it was here. Over there, I think.”

Dumarest looked at a blank wall.

”I'm sorry, Earl. I'm sure it was there.”

He said, ”When you left here did you go straight to Shard?”