For a moment Ziantha did not understand. When
she did she smiled derisively. What a fool he must believe her to
think she would accept that. When he sat before her wearing a
Patrol uniform. When—
“Clothes,” he continued, “do not necessarily
denote status. Yes, I have been working with the Patrol. But on my
own account, and I do this only for a space because my case seemed
to match one of theirs. You see, I have been hunting the
Eyes—without knowing just what I sought—for a long
time.”
The Eyes! Where were they now—in his keeping? Ziantha
wriggled her shoulders in an abortive struggle against the cords
and desisted at once when they tightened warningly about her with a
pressure sharp enough to teach a lesson.
“They are still yours.” He might have been reading
her thoughts, though she was unaware of any probe.
“If you are not Patrol—then who are
you—wearing that insignia?” She made that a challenge,
refusing to believe that he was more than trying to lull her for
his own purposes.
“I am a sensitive associated with the Hist-Techneer
Zorbjac, leader of a Zacathan expedition to X One. And for your
information X One is the sister planet of this in the Yaka
system.” He inhaled from the scented stick again. Harath
clawed his way up over the rocks behind, as if he had been on a
scouting expedition, and settled down by the stranger’s
knee.
“Ogan there.” The alien’s thoughts were open.
“One other—hurt. The rest are dead.”
He snapped out his tentacles and took to smoothing his body down
with the same unconcern the stranger displayed.
“A year ago,” the other continued, “finds made
on X One were plundered by a Jack force. I was asked to trace down
the stolen objects, since my field is archaeological psychometry. I
followed the trail to Korwar. We recovered seven pieces there; that
is when I joined forces with the Patrol. The eighth was the Eye you
apported from Jucundus’s place. The backlash of that apport
was what set me on your track—that and Harath.” He
dropped one hand to the alien’s head in a caress to which
Harath responded with a broadcast of content.
“Then—was it you at Waystar, too?”
“Yes. When the apport was made I was certain that a
sensitive would know what it was, try to trace it. We have our
people on Waystar; they alert us as to unusual finds that come in
as loot. During the past seasons we have built up a loose accord
with a couple of the Jack captains, offering them more than they
can get from fences to sell us pieces or information.”
“How did you get Harath to join you?”
He laughed. “Ask him that. He came to me on Korwar of his
own. I gathered that he had not been too happy at the use Ogan made
of him. And I knew that he could serve as a link with you when I
might need one. I was right, as you were willing to link with him
at once—though I did not bargain for that linkage to be so
tight as to pull me into Turan.” He grimaced. “That was
a challenge I would not want to face again.”
“You knew about the Eyes all the time!” She had an
odd feeling of being cheated, as if she had performed a difficult
task to no purpose at all.
“Not so! I knew that that ugly little lump Jucundus bought
was something more powerful than it looked to be. One could sense
that easily. But the Eyes—no, I had no idea of their
existence. What they are seems to be infinitely greater than any
discovery the Zacathans have made in centuries.”
“But,” Ziantha came directly back to the part of his
story that shadowed her future, “you joined with the Patrol
to run us down. You wear their uniform.”
He sighed. “It was necessary for me to take rank for a
while. I am not Patrol.”
“Then who are you?”
Again he laughed. “I see that I have been backward in the
ordinary courtesies of life, gentle fem. My name is Ris Lantee, and
I am Wyvern trained if that means anything—”
“It means,” she flashed, “that you are a liar!
Everyone knows that the Wyverns do not deal with males!”
“That is so,” he agreed readily. “Most males.
But I was born on their world; my parents are mind-linked liaison
officers, both of whom the Wyvern council have accepted. When I was
born with the power, they bowed to the fact I possessed it, and
they gave me training. Can one sensitive lie to another?”
Though he invited her probe with that, Ziantha was reluctant to
let her own barrier down. To hold it against him was her defense.
He waited, and when she did not try to test his response, he
frowned slightly.
“We waste time with your suspicions,” he commented.
“Though I suppose they are to be expected. But would I open
my mind if I were trying to conceal anything from you? You know
that is impossible.”
“So far I have thought it impossible. But you say you are
Wyvern trained, and the Wyverns deal with
hallucinations—”
“You are well schooled.”
“Ogan gathered information on every variation of the power
known—and some only the Guild know,” she answered.
“I was given every warning.”
“That, too, is to be expected.”
“If you are not Patrol”—she pushed aside
everything now but what was most important to her—“what
do you intend to do with me? Turn me over for erasure when their
ship planets in? You know the law.”
“It all depends—”
“Upon what—or whom?” Ziantha continued to
press.
“Mainly upon you. Give me your word you will not try to
escape. Let us go back to my scout.”
Ziantha tried to weigh her chances without emotion. Ogan was
free; she had no reason to doubt Harath’s report. He had said
he had hidden a detect-safe L-B connected by a timer to a ship.
Therefore he had a way of escape. The Jack ship had lifted, she
could not depend on any assistance from Yasa. In fact she was sure
she had already been discarded as far as the Salarika veep was
concerned. Yasa was never one to hesitate cutting losses.
And somehow, between Ogan and this Ris Lantee, she inclined to
trust the latter, even though he admitted connection with the
Patrol. At least with freedom she might have a better chance for
the future.
“As you have said,” she spoke sullenly, trying to
let him believe she surrendered because there was no other choice,
“where could I escape to? For now, I promise.”
“Fair enough.” He touched the tangler cords in two
places with the point of his belt knife, and they withered
away.
Ziantha sat up, rubbing her wrists. Hands fell on her shoulders,
drawing her to her feet, steadying her as she moved on stiff
limbs.
“Do the Zacathans know about Singakok?” she asked as
they went.
Harath had climbed up Lantee, was settled on his shoulder. But
the man’s hand was under her arm, ready with support when she
needed, and they made their way down a steep slope.
“About Singakok—no. But there are ruins on X One
that are in a fair state of preservation. Perhaps those who peopled
this world—the survivors—fled there after whatever
catastrophe turned Singakok into this. As Turan, I recognized a
kinship between the buildings of the past and those ruins. And with
the aid of the Eyes what will we not be able to discover!”
There was excitement in his voice.
“You—you would be willing to evoke the past
again—after what happened?” Ziantha was surprised at
this. Had she been the one lost in that awful limbo that he entered
when he could no longer fight off Turan’s
“death,” she would have fled full speed from such a
trip again.
“This time one could go prepared.” His confidence
was firmly assured. “There would be safeguards, as there are
for deep trances. Yes, I would be willing to evoke the past again.
Would you?”
To admit her fear was difficult. Yet he would learn it at once
if she ever relaxed the barrier between them.
“I do not know.”
“I think that you could not deny your own desire to learn
if you were given free choice—”
He was interrupted by a wild clicking of Harath’s beak.
Lantee’s arm swung up, formed a barrier against her
advance.
“Ogan is near.”
“You said you have what can safeguard us.”
“Against mental invasion, yes. Just as you hold a barrier
for me now. But if Ogan has some means of stepping up power it may
be that we must unite against him, the three of us. I do not
underestimate this man; he cannot be taken lightly even when he is
on the run.”
This was her chance. But, no, the word she had given was as
tangible a bond as the tangler cords had been. Nor was she sure,
even if that promise did not exist, that she would have left these
two, sought out Ogan.
“What can he bring against us?” Lantee
continued.
“I do not know,” she was forced to confess. What
equipment was small enough to be packed personally Ziantha could
not tell. The Guild was notorious for its gathering of unusual
devices. Ogan might even have the equivalent of the Eyes.
“I—” she was beginning when the world around
her blurred. The rocks, the withered-looking vegetation, rippled as
if all were painted on a curtain stirred by the wind. The change
was such to frighten, passing from desolation to land alive.
She stood on a street between two lines of buildings. Before her
stretched the length of a city, towering against the brilliances of
sunlit sky. People moved, afoot, in vehicles—yet about them
was something unreal.
Ziantha gasped, tried to leap aside as a landcar bore straight
for her. But she was not allowed to escape; a grasp held her firmly
in spite of her cries, her struggles. Then, the car was upon her
but there was no impact, nothing! Another came the other way,
scraped by her. She shut her eyes against those terrors and went on
fighting what held her helpless in the Singakok returned—for
this was Singakok.
The Eyes—they had done this! Yet she had not focused upon
them. And if they were able to do this without her willing—!
She raised her free hand to her breast. Unsealing her pocket slit,
she snatched forth the Eyes, hurled them from her.
But she was still in Singakok! Locked in Singakok! Ziantha
screamed. With a last surge of strength, backed by panic, she beat
with her free hand against that thing which held her, fighting with
fist, both feet, in any way she could, to break the hold. While
around her—through her—the people and cars of
the long-dead city went their way.
“Ziantha!”
She had closed her eyes to Singakok. Now she realized that, for
all the seeming reality of the city, there had been no sound. Her
name called in that demand for attention was real. But she dared
not open her eyes.
“Ziantha!” Hands held her in spite of her fierce
struggles. And the hands were as real as the voice.
“What do you see?” The demand came clearly, to
compel her answer.
“I—I stand in Singakok—” And because her
fear was so great she released the barrier against mind-probe.
Instantly touch flowed in, that same strong sense of comradeship
she had known with Turan. She no longer fought, but rather stood
trembling, allowing the confidence he radiated to still her panic,
bring stability. And—she had been a fool not to allow this
before—he did not mean her ill! As they had fought together
in Singakok, as he had given of his last strength to aid her out of
Nornoch, so was he prepared to stand with her now.
Ziantha opened her eyes. The city was still there; it made her
giddy to see the cars, the pedestrians, and know that this was
hallucination. But who induced it? Not the Wyvern-trained
Lantee—he could not have done so and responded to her mental
contact as he was now doing. Harath? The Eyes? But those she had
thrown away.
“The Eyes! I threw them away, but still I see
Singakok!” She quavered.
“You see a memory someone is replaying for you.
Ogan—” Lantee’s voice from close beside her, even
as she could hold on to him. But she could not see
him—only Singakok.
“Do not look, use your mind sense,” Lantee ordered.
“Do you pick up any thoughts?”
She tested. There was Lantee—Harath—nothing of those
alien patterns she had known before. Just as the city had no sounds
to make it real to one sense, so it had no mind-pattern to make it
real to another.
“It is sight—my sight—”
“Well enough.” Lantee’s voice was as even as
if he fully understood what was happening. “The hallucination
is only for one sense. It worked in that it made you throw away the
Eyes.”
Sent to force her to discard the Eyes? Then it had
succeeded.
“I did. I threw them—”
“Not very far. Harath has retrieved them. Now listen, this
was meant to engulf us all. But because I am Wyvern trained, and
because Harath is alien, we were not caught. But if we stay here to
fight for your freedom we may be courting another and stronger
attack. Therefore we must push on. You must discount what you see,
depend upon mind-send and your other senses, so we can reach my
scout. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Ziantha kept her eyes tightly closed. Could
she walk so blind, even with them leading her?
“We can do it.” Lantee was confident. “Keep
your eyes closed if you must, but follow our directions. Harath
will work directly with you. I am now putting him on your
shoulder.”
She felt the weight, the painfully strong clutch of
Harath’s claws.
“Keep your eyes closed. Harath wishes to try
something.”
She felt the touch of the alien’s tentacles about her
head; then their tips were lightly touched to her eyelids.
It—it was like seeing and yet unlike—the sensation was
strange. But through Harath she could visualize the scene as it had
been before the illusion entrapped her. And, with her hand in
Lantee’s, as he drew her on, with Harath’s shared
sight, Ziantha started ahead. She went with only a shaky belief
that this could be done, but her confidence grew.
They were following one of the small stream trickles now, and,
remembering the poisonous lizard, she projected a warning. Lantee
reassured her.
“We are sending warn-off vibrations. You need not worry
about the native life.”
“This is the long way round,” he added a moment
later. “Ogan may have more weapons. We have the shield; but
since he has been able to pierce that in your case, we cannot be
sure he will not try more direct methods of attack.”
More direct methods of attack—laser fire from ambush? No,
she must not let herself think of that, she must concentrate on the
journey. There were differences in Harath’s sight and her own
as she speedily discovered, a distortion that was a trial. But it
was far better than being led blindly.
They toiled up a rise where Ziantha found the going harder than
it had been before. And there was a second descent as both Harath
and Lantee cautioned her, taking so long on the passage down, she
felt they would never reach bottom.
But before them stood a ship. Far smaller than the Jack craft
that had once been a trader, this, she presumed—though
through Harath’s intermediacy its outlines were odd—was
the Patrol scout.
“Wait!” Lantee’s hand was now an anchor.
“What is the matter?” Through Harath Ziantha could
not see anything that might be amiss. But this perception could be
deceptive.
“The ship—it was left on persona-lock—with the
ramp in!”
“But the ramp”—with Harath’s aid she
could see that—“it is out!”
“Just so. Walk into a trap. Does he think he has panicked
us into being utter fools? If so he is
wrong—but—”
Ziantha stiffened. “It is not the ship. He wants
you to try for that—”
She could hear his heightened breathing, so still he was. Harath
had tensed in turn on her shoulder until his claws cut her flesh.
She welcomed that pain as a tie with reality.
“A distort! Can you not feel it?” Surely he was
aware of that stomach turning, that inner churning, as if mind and
body were swinging about.
It was growing so much stronger that she knew she could force
herself no nearer. Now she felt Harath’s tentacles slip from
their hold about her head, their touch gone from her eyelids. She
no longer had his sense as her guide, while that terrible feeling
of disorientation grew and grew.
Harath uttered a shrill cry, carrying the force of a human
scream. Apparently he was more susceptible to this attack than even
the other two. He lost his hold, and Ziantha caught him, felt the
shudders in his body. As she cradled him against her he went limp
and she lost his mind-touch.
“Back!” Lantee drew her with him. But the distort
centered on them, followed their retreat. Whatever defensive
barrier her companion trusted in had not held. And if they were
caught by the full force of a powerful distort they could lose all
coherent thought.
“I am stepping up barrier power.” Lantee’s
voice had not changed; he still seemed confident.
“But,” he continued, “that cannot hold too
long.”
“And when it blows—” she added what he had not
said, “we can be overcome.”
“There is one thing—” He pulled at her hand.
“Get down, behind these rocks.” Gently he forced her to
her knees. The distort broadcast lessened.
“You say there is something we can do?”
“You have the Eyes.”
“I threw them away back here. Harath—”
“Harath returned them to me. Here.” His hands on
hers, opening her fist, dropping on her flattened palm those two
pieces of mineral.
“Since you have used them, they will answer best to you.
Now, Ogan has plunged you into a visual hallucination. He is hiding
near here somewhere. He could not have forced entrance to the ship,
although he hallucinates for us that he has. We must reverse on him
his own illusion.”
“Can this be done?” She had heard of the master
illusionists of Warlock, those Wyverns who ruled with dreams and
could make anyone falling under their influence live in a world
they had created. Lantee was Wyvern trained, but she had never
heard of engulfing someone in his own hallucination.
“We cannot tell until we try. Singakok is your illusion.
If we can—we shall send him to Singakok!”
Ziantha gasped. She had never heard of such trial of power. But
then she had heard strange things of what the Wyverns
could do with their dream control. And—she was suddenly sure
of one thing—that Lantee could be depended upon in a way she
had never dared to depend upon anyone in the past. Yasa, Ogan, for
them she was a tool. Lantee sought to use her talent now, but as a
part of a combined action from which they might both benefit.
“I—I have never tried this.” She moistened her
lips, unwilling to let him think that she was more able than she
was.
“I have—a little. But this is a full test.
Now—open your eyes. Look upon Singakok, if we are still
within its boundaries. If not, look upon the land about, focus on
it through the stones. Make it as real as you can.”
She was afraid, afraid of the city, of what might happen when
she did focus, afraid of being once more drawn back into the past.
Resolutely she made herself face that fear, acknowledge it, and set
it aside.
Pressing the Eyes against her forehead as D’Eyree had to
release their maximum energy, Ziantha opened her eyes. She was not
on a city street this time, rather in a garden, and before her was
the rise of a building that was not unlike the palace of the Lord
Commander, though she was sure this was not the same. There were
guards at the door; men came and went, as if this were a place in
which important affairs were conducted. Since she had not
Vintra’s memories now she could not identify this place. But
it was so real except for the silence that she could hardly believe
she had not been plunged once more into the past.
“Hold!” At this order she concentrated with all the
power she could summon on the scene, trying, where any detail was
hazy, to build more solidly.
What Lantee was doing, she could not guess. And Harath was still
a limp weight on her arm. But she held the scene with a fierce
intensity. Though it was getting harder to keep those details in
such clear relief.
There was a sudden fluttering of the whole landscape before her.
It became a painted curtain, torn across, and through those rents
Ziantha could see rocks and beyond them the ship standing like a
finger pointing to the freedom of space.
Then—the illusion was gone!
At the same time that sick feeling, born of the distort, also
vanished. She was free! Ziantha scrambled to her feet, Harath
stirring against her. Crouched still on his knees, his face in his
hands, was Lantee. When he did not move she took a step forward,
placed the hand still holding the Eyes on his shoulder.
He quivered under her touch, raised his head. His eyes were
shut, his skin beaded with moisture.
“Ris?” She made a question of his name.
He opened his eyes. At first she feared he was caught in just
such an illusion as the one which had held her for so long. Then he
blinked and knew her. But before she could speak there came a cry
from beyond. As one they turned to look.
From between two mounds of earth staggered Ogan, his hands to
his head. He uttered sharp, senseless cries as he ran, making
curious detours as if he swerved to avoid things which were not
there.
“Come.” Lantee held out his hand.
She held back. “He’ll see us—”
“He sees Singakok. But how long that will continue I do
not know. We must go before the illusion breaks.”
Ogan, still crying out, was running along beside the rocks
behind which they had taken refuge. Hand in hand they sprinted for
the ship, passing him, but he did not heed them. Lantee had a com
to his lips; he uttered into it the code to open the hatch, really
extend the ramp.
Panting, Ziantha drew herself up that boarding way as fast as
she could, Lantee serving as rear guard. She expected at any moment
to be struck again by the distort wave, yet she reached the hatch
and that attack did not come.
“Up!” The interior was cramped in comparison with
the two ships she had known. She climbed the ladder in the same
breathless haste as she had taken the ramp. Behind Lantee the hatch
clanged shut.
The control cabin at last and Lantee pushed her into one of the
webbing seats, pressed the button to weave the take-off binding
over her and Harath together. He was in the pilot’s place,
his fingers busy with the controls.
She felt the shock of lift-off and blacked out.
A trickle of moisture down her chin. Lantee bent over her,
forcing the spout of a revi-tube into her mouth. As that instant
energy flowed into her, Ziantha straightened within the
webbing.
“Where—?”
“Where are we going? To X One.”
“And Ogan?”
“Can wait for the Patrol.”
“He will talk.” She was sure of that. Perhaps Lantee
had given her a breathing space, but he could not stand against the
Patrol. Sooner or later they would be after her.
She had forgotten her mind-barrier was down; now she saw him
shake his head.
“If they come—that is not going to do them any good.
The Zacathans do not often take a hand in human affairs, but when
they do, it is to some purpose.”
“Why would they protect me?”
“Because, Ziantha-Vintra-D’Eyree, you are about the
most important find, as far as they are concerned, of this age. You
opened a new doorway, and they are going to bend every effort to
keep it open. Do you suppose they would let your gift be
erased?”
He seemed so sure; he believed in what he said. She wished she
could, too.
Again he knew her thoughts.
“Just try to—try to believe one impossible thing a
day, and you will find it the truth. What you did down
there”—Lantee waved to the visa-screen, where the world
of Singakok was fast growing smaller—“was impossible,
was it not? You died twice, I died once, but can you deny we are
alive? Knowing that, why can you not think that the future is
brighter than your fear?”
“I guess because it never has been,” Ziantha
answered slowly. But he was right. Death was said to be the end,
but twice she had passed that end. So—she drew a deep breath.
Maybe this was all illusion, like the one they had left Ogan
trapped in. If so—let it hold.
Lantee was smiling, and in her arms Harath gave a soft click of
beak.
“You will see—it shall!” Somehow both their
thoughts came at once with bright promise to warm her mind, just as
the Eyes waited warmly in her hand. Waiting for the next
illusion—the next adventure?
For a moment Ziantha did not understand. When
she did she smiled derisively. What a fool he must believe her to
think she would accept that. When he sat before her wearing a
Patrol uniform. When—
“Clothes,” he continued, “do not necessarily
denote status. Yes, I have been working with the Patrol. But on my
own account, and I do this only for a space because my case seemed
to match one of theirs. You see, I have been hunting the
Eyes—without knowing just what I sought—for a long
time.”
The Eyes! Where were they now—in his keeping? Ziantha
wriggled her shoulders in an abortive struggle against the cords
and desisted at once when they tightened warningly about her with a
pressure sharp enough to teach a lesson.
“They are still yours.” He might have been reading
her thoughts, though she was unaware of any probe.
“If you are not Patrol—then who are
you—wearing that insignia?” She made that a challenge,
refusing to believe that he was more than trying to lull her for
his own purposes.
“I am a sensitive associated with the Hist-Techneer
Zorbjac, leader of a Zacathan expedition to X One. And for your
information X One is the sister planet of this in the Yaka
system.” He inhaled from the scented stick again. Harath
clawed his way up over the rocks behind, as if he had been on a
scouting expedition, and settled down by the stranger’s
knee.
“Ogan there.” The alien’s thoughts were open.
“One other—hurt. The rest are dead.”
He snapped out his tentacles and took to smoothing his body down
with the same unconcern the stranger displayed.
“A year ago,” the other continued, “finds made
on X One were plundered by a Jack force. I was asked to trace down
the stolen objects, since my field is archaeological psychometry. I
followed the trail to Korwar. We recovered seven pieces there; that
is when I joined forces with the Patrol. The eighth was the Eye you
apported from Jucundus’s place. The backlash of that apport
was what set me on your track—that and Harath.” He
dropped one hand to the alien’s head in a caress to which
Harath responded with a broadcast of content.
“Then—was it you at Waystar, too?”
“Yes. When the apport was made I was certain that a
sensitive would know what it was, try to trace it. We have our
people on Waystar; they alert us as to unusual finds that come in
as loot. During the past seasons we have built up a loose accord
with a couple of the Jack captains, offering them more than they
can get from fences to sell us pieces or information.”
“How did you get Harath to join you?”
He laughed. “Ask him that. He came to me on Korwar of his
own. I gathered that he had not been too happy at the use Ogan made
of him. And I knew that he could serve as a link with you when I
might need one. I was right, as you were willing to link with him
at once—though I did not bargain for that linkage to be so
tight as to pull me into Turan.” He grimaced. “That was
a challenge I would not want to face again.”
“You knew about the Eyes all the time!” She had an
odd feeling of being cheated, as if she had performed a difficult
task to no purpose at all.
“Not so! I knew that that ugly little lump Jucundus bought
was something more powerful than it looked to be. One could sense
that easily. But the Eyes—no, I had no idea of their
existence. What they are seems to be infinitely greater than any
discovery the Zacathans have made in centuries.”
“But,” Ziantha came directly back to the part of his
story that shadowed her future, “you joined with the Patrol
to run us down. You wear their uniform.”
He sighed. “It was necessary for me to take rank for a
while. I am not Patrol.”
“Then who are you?”
Again he laughed. “I see that I have been backward in the
ordinary courtesies of life, gentle fem. My name is Ris Lantee, and
I am Wyvern trained if that means anything—”
“It means,” she flashed, “that you are a liar!
Everyone knows that the Wyverns do not deal with males!”
“That is so,” he agreed readily. “Most males.
But I was born on their world; my parents are mind-linked liaison
officers, both of whom the Wyvern council have accepted. When I was
born with the power, they bowed to the fact I possessed it, and
they gave me training. Can one sensitive lie to another?”
Though he invited her probe with that, Ziantha was reluctant to
let her own barrier down. To hold it against him was her defense.
He waited, and when she did not try to test his response, he
frowned slightly.
“We waste time with your suspicions,” he commented.
“Though I suppose they are to be expected. But would I open
my mind if I were trying to conceal anything from you? You know
that is impossible.”
“So far I have thought it impossible. But you say you are
Wyvern trained, and the Wyverns deal with
hallucinations—”
“You are well schooled.”
“Ogan gathered information on every variation of the power
known—and some only the Guild know,” she answered.
“I was given every warning.”
“That, too, is to be expected.”
“If you are not Patrol”—she pushed aside
everything now but what was most important to her—“what
do you intend to do with me? Turn me over for erasure when their
ship planets in? You know the law.”
“It all depends—”
“Upon what—or whom?” Ziantha continued to
press.
“Mainly upon you. Give me your word you will not try to
escape. Let us go back to my scout.”
Ziantha tried to weigh her chances without emotion. Ogan was
free; she had no reason to doubt Harath’s report. He had said
he had hidden a detect-safe L-B connected by a timer to a ship.
Therefore he had a way of escape. The Jack ship had lifted, she
could not depend on any assistance from Yasa. In fact she was sure
she had already been discarded as far as the Salarika veep was
concerned. Yasa was never one to hesitate cutting losses.
And somehow, between Ogan and this Ris Lantee, she inclined to
trust the latter, even though he admitted connection with the
Patrol. At least with freedom she might have a better chance for
the future.
“As you have said,” she spoke sullenly, trying to
let him believe she surrendered because there was no other choice,
“where could I escape to? For now, I promise.”
“Fair enough.” He touched the tangler cords in two
places with the point of his belt knife, and they withered
away.
Ziantha sat up, rubbing her wrists. Hands fell on her shoulders,
drawing her to her feet, steadying her as she moved on stiff
limbs.
“Do the Zacathans know about Singakok?” she asked as
they went.
Harath had climbed up Lantee, was settled on his shoulder. But
the man’s hand was under her arm, ready with support when she
needed, and they made their way down a steep slope.
“About Singakok—no. But there are ruins on X One
that are in a fair state of preservation. Perhaps those who peopled
this world—the survivors—fled there after whatever
catastrophe turned Singakok into this. As Turan, I recognized a
kinship between the buildings of the past and those ruins. And with
the aid of the Eyes what will we not be able to discover!”
There was excitement in his voice.
“You—you would be willing to evoke the past
again—after what happened?” Ziantha was surprised at
this. Had she been the one lost in that awful limbo that he entered
when he could no longer fight off Turan’s
“death,” she would have fled full speed from such a
trip again.
“This time one could go prepared.” His confidence
was firmly assured. “There would be safeguards, as there are
for deep trances. Yes, I would be willing to evoke the past again.
Would you?”
To admit her fear was difficult. Yet he would learn it at once
if she ever relaxed the barrier between them.
“I do not know.”
“I think that you could not deny your own desire to learn
if you were given free choice—”
He was interrupted by a wild clicking of Harath’s beak.
Lantee’s arm swung up, formed a barrier against her
advance.
“Ogan is near.”
“You said you have what can safeguard us.”
“Against mental invasion, yes. Just as you hold a barrier
for me now. But if Ogan has some means of stepping up power it may
be that we must unite against him, the three of us. I do not
underestimate this man; he cannot be taken lightly even when he is
on the run.”
This was her chance. But, no, the word she had given was as
tangible a bond as the tangler cords had been. Nor was she sure,
even if that promise did not exist, that she would have left these
two, sought out Ogan.
“What can he bring against us?” Lantee
continued.
“I do not know,” she was forced to confess. What
equipment was small enough to be packed personally Ziantha could
not tell. The Guild was notorious for its gathering of unusual
devices. Ogan might even have the equivalent of the Eyes.
“I—” she was beginning when the world around
her blurred. The rocks, the withered-looking vegetation, rippled as
if all were painted on a curtain stirred by the wind. The change
was such to frighten, passing from desolation to land alive.
She stood on a street between two lines of buildings. Before her
stretched the length of a city, towering against the brilliances of
sunlit sky. People moved, afoot, in vehicles—yet about them
was something unreal.
Ziantha gasped, tried to leap aside as a landcar bore straight
for her. But she was not allowed to escape; a grasp held her firmly
in spite of her cries, her struggles. Then, the car was upon her
but there was no impact, nothing! Another came the other way,
scraped by her. She shut her eyes against those terrors and went on
fighting what held her helpless in the Singakok returned—for
this was Singakok.
The Eyes—they had done this! Yet she had not focused upon
them. And if they were able to do this without her willing—!
She raised her free hand to her breast. Unsealing her pocket slit,
she snatched forth the Eyes, hurled them from her.
But she was still in Singakok! Locked in Singakok! Ziantha
screamed. With a last surge of strength, backed by panic, she beat
with her free hand against that thing which held her, fighting with
fist, both feet, in any way she could, to break the hold. While
around her—through her—the people and cars of
the long-dead city went their way.
“Ziantha!”
She had closed her eyes to Singakok. Now she realized that, for
all the seeming reality of the city, there had been no sound. Her
name called in that demand for attention was real. But she dared
not open her eyes.
“Ziantha!” Hands held her in spite of her fierce
struggles. And the hands were as real as the voice.
“What do you see?” The demand came clearly, to
compel her answer.
“I—I stand in Singakok—” And because her
fear was so great she released the barrier against mind-probe.
Instantly touch flowed in, that same strong sense of comradeship
she had known with Turan. She no longer fought, but rather stood
trembling, allowing the confidence he radiated to still her panic,
bring stability. And—she had been a fool not to allow this
before—he did not mean her ill! As they had fought together
in Singakok, as he had given of his last strength to aid her out of
Nornoch, so was he prepared to stand with her now.
Ziantha opened her eyes. The city was still there; it made her
giddy to see the cars, the pedestrians, and know that this was
hallucination. But who induced it? Not the Wyvern-trained
Lantee—he could not have done so and responded to her mental
contact as he was now doing. Harath? The Eyes? But those she had
thrown away.
“The Eyes! I threw them away, but still I see
Singakok!” She quavered.
“You see a memory someone is replaying for you.
Ogan—” Lantee’s voice from close beside her, even
as she could hold on to him. But she could not see
him—only Singakok.
“Do not look, use your mind sense,” Lantee ordered.
“Do you pick up any thoughts?”
She tested. There was Lantee—Harath—nothing of those
alien patterns she had known before. Just as the city had no sounds
to make it real to one sense, so it had no mind-pattern to make it
real to another.
“It is sight—my sight—”
“Well enough.” Lantee’s voice was as even as
if he fully understood what was happening. “The hallucination
is only for one sense. It worked in that it made you throw away the
Eyes.”
Sent to force her to discard the Eyes? Then it had
succeeded.
“I did. I threw them—”
“Not very far. Harath has retrieved them. Now listen, this
was meant to engulf us all. But because I am Wyvern trained, and
because Harath is alien, we were not caught. But if we stay here to
fight for your freedom we may be courting another and stronger
attack. Therefore we must push on. You must discount what you see,
depend upon mind-send and your other senses, so we can reach my
scout. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Ziantha kept her eyes tightly closed. Could
she walk so blind, even with them leading her?
“We can do it.” Lantee was confident. “Keep
your eyes closed if you must, but follow our directions. Harath
will work directly with you. I am now putting him on your
shoulder.”
She felt the weight, the painfully strong clutch of
Harath’s claws.
“Keep your eyes closed. Harath wishes to try
something.”
She felt the touch of the alien’s tentacles about her
head; then their tips were lightly touched to her eyelids.
It—it was like seeing and yet unlike—the sensation was
strange. But through Harath she could visualize the scene as it had
been before the illusion entrapped her. And, with her hand in
Lantee’s, as he drew her on, with Harath’s shared
sight, Ziantha started ahead. She went with only a shaky belief
that this could be done, but her confidence grew.
They were following one of the small stream trickles now, and,
remembering the poisonous lizard, she projected a warning. Lantee
reassured her.
“We are sending warn-off vibrations. You need not worry
about the native life.”
“This is the long way round,” he added a moment
later. “Ogan may have more weapons. We have the shield; but
since he has been able to pierce that in your case, we cannot be
sure he will not try more direct methods of attack.”
More direct methods of attack—laser fire from ambush? No,
she must not let herself think of that, she must concentrate on the
journey. There were differences in Harath’s sight and her own
as she speedily discovered, a distortion that was a trial. But it
was far better than being led blindly.
They toiled up a rise where Ziantha found the going harder than
it had been before. And there was a second descent as both Harath
and Lantee cautioned her, taking so long on the passage down, she
felt they would never reach bottom.
But before them stood a ship. Far smaller than the Jack craft
that had once been a trader, this, she presumed—though
through Harath’s intermediacy its outlines were odd—was
the Patrol scout.
“Wait!” Lantee’s hand was now an anchor.
“What is the matter?” Through Harath Ziantha could
not see anything that might be amiss. But this perception could be
deceptive.
“The ship—it was left on persona-lock—with the
ramp in!”
“But the ramp”—with Harath’s aid she
could see that—“it is out!”
“Just so. Walk into a trap. Does he think he has panicked
us into being utter fools? If so he is
wrong—but—”
Ziantha stiffened. “It is not the ship. He wants
you to try for that—”
She could hear his heightened breathing, so still he was. Harath
had tensed in turn on her shoulder until his claws cut her flesh.
She welcomed that pain as a tie with reality.
“A distort! Can you not feel it?” Surely he was
aware of that stomach turning, that inner churning, as if mind and
body were swinging about.
It was growing so much stronger that she knew she could force
herself no nearer. Now she felt Harath’s tentacles slip from
their hold about her head, their touch gone from her eyelids. She
no longer had his sense as her guide, while that terrible feeling
of disorientation grew and grew.
Harath uttered a shrill cry, carrying the force of a human
scream. Apparently he was more susceptible to this attack than even
the other two. He lost his hold, and Ziantha caught him, felt the
shudders in his body. As she cradled him against her he went limp
and she lost his mind-touch.
“Back!” Lantee drew her with him. But the distort
centered on them, followed their retreat. Whatever defensive
barrier her companion trusted in had not held. And if they were
caught by the full force of a powerful distort they could lose all
coherent thought.
“I am stepping up barrier power.” Lantee’s
voice had not changed; he still seemed confident.
“But,” he continued, “that cannot hold too
long.”
“And when it blows—” she added what he had not
said, “we can be overcome.”
“There is one thing—” He pulled at her hand.
“Get down, behind these rocks.” Gently he forced her to
her knees. The distort broadcast lessened.
“You say there is something we can do?”
“You have the Eyes.”
“I threw them away back here. Harath—”
“Harath returned them to me. Here.” His hands on
hers, opening her fist, dropping on her flattened palm those two
pieces of mineral.
“Since you have used them, they will answer best to you.
Now, Ogan has plunged you into a visual hallucination. He is hiding
near here somewhere. He could not have forced entrance to the ship,
although he hallucinates for us that he has. We must reverse on him
his own illusion.”
“Can this be done?” She had heard of the master
illusionists of Warlock, those Wyverns who ruled with dreams and
could make anyone falling under their influence live in a world
they had created. Lantee was Wyvern trained, but she had never
heard of engulfing someone in his own hallucination.
“We cannot tell until we try. Singakok is your illusion.
If we can—we shall send him to Singakok!”
Ziantha gasped. She had never heard of such trial of power. But
then she had heard strange things of what the Wyverns
could do with their dream control. And—she was suddenly sure
of one thing—that Lantee could be depended upon in a way she
had never dared to depend upon anyone in the past. Yasa, Ogan, for
them she was a tool. Lantee sought to use her talent now, but as a
part of a combined action from which they might both benefit.
“I—I have never tried this.” She moistened her
lips, unwilling to let him think that she was more able than she
was.
“I have—a little. But this is a full test.
Now—open your eyes. Look upon Singakok, if we are still
within its boundaries. If not, look upon the land about, focus on
it through the stones. Make it as real as you can.”
She was afraid, afraid of the city, of what might happen when
she did focus, afraid of being once more drawn back into the past.
Resolutely she made herself face that fear, acknowledge it, and set
it aside.
Pressing the Eyes against her forehead as D’Eyree had to
release their maximum energy, Ziantha opened her eyes. She was not
on a city street this time, rather in a garden, and before her was
the rise of a building that was not unlike the palace of the Lord
Commander, though she was sure this was not the same. There were
guards at the door; men came and went, as if this were a place in
which important affairs were conducted. Since she had not
Vintra’s memories now she could not identify this place. But
it was so real except for the silence that she could hardly believe
she had not been plunged once more into the past.
“Hold!” At this order she concentrated with all the
power she could summon on the scene, trying, where any detail was
hazy, to build more solidly.
What Lantee was doing, she could not guess. And Harath was still
a limp weight on her arm. But she held the scene with a fierce
intensity. Though it was getting harder to keep those details in
such clear relief.
There was a sudden fluttering of the whole landscape before her.
It became a painted curtain, torn across, and through those rents
Ziantha could see rocks and beyond them the ship standing like a
finger pointing to the freedom of space.
Then—the illusion was gone!
At the same time that sick feeling, born of the distort, also
vanished. She was free! Ziantha scrambled to her feet, Harath
stirring against her. Crouched still on his knees, his face in his
hands, was Lantee. When he did not move she took a step forward,
placed the hand still holding the Eyes on his shoulder.
He quivered under her touch, raised his head. His eyes were
shut, his skin beaded with moisture.
“Ris?” She made a question of his name.
He opened his eyes. At first she feared he was caught in just
such an illusion as the one which had held her for so long. Then he
blinked and knew her. But before she could speak there came a cry
from beyond. As one they turned to look.
From between two mounds of earth staggered Ogan, his hands to
his head. He uttered sharp, senseless cries as he ran, making
curious detours as if he swerved to avoid things which were not
there.
“Come.” Lantee held out his hand.
She held back. “He’ll see us—”
“He sees Singakok. But how long that will continue I do
not know. We must go before the illusion breaks.”
Ogan, still crying out, was running along beside the rocks
behind which they had taken refuge. Hand in hand they sprinted for
the ship, passing him, but he did not heed them. Lantee had a com
to his lips; he uttered into it the code to open the hatch, really
extend the ramp.
Panting, Ziantha drew herself up that boarding way as fast as
she could, Lantee serving as rear guard. She expected at any moment
to be struck again by the distort wave, yet she reached the hatch
and that attack did not come.
“Up!” The interior was cramped in comparison with
the two ships she had known. She climbed the ladder in the same
breathless haste as she had taken the ramp. Behind Lantee the hatch
clanged shut.
The control cabin at last and Lantee pushed her into one of the
webbing seats, pressed the button to weave the take-off binding
over her and Harath together. He was in the pilot’s place,
his fingers busy with the controls.
She felt the shock of lift-off and blacked out.
A trickle of moisture down her chin. Lantee bent over her,
forcing the spout of a revi-tube into her mouth. As that instant
energy flowed into her, Ziantha straightened within the
webbing.
“Where—?”
“Where are we going? To X One.”
“And Ogan?”
“Can wait for the Patrol.”
“He will talk.” She was sure of that. Perhaps Lantee
had given her a breathing space, but he could not stand against the
Patrol. Sooner or later they would be after her.
She had forgotten her mind-barrier was down; now she saw him
shake his head.
“If they come—that is not going to do them any good.
The Zacathans do not often take a hand in human affairs, but when
they do, it is to some purpose.”
“Why would they protect me?”
“Because, Ziantha-Vintra-D’Eyree, you are about the
most important find, as far as they are concerned, of this age. You
opened a new doorway, and they are going to bend every effort to
keep it open. Do you suppose they would let your gift be
erased?”
He seemed so sure; he believed in what he said. She wished she
could, too.
Again he knew her thoughts.
“Just try to—try to believe one impossible thing a
day, and you will find it the truth. What you did down
there”—Lantee waved to the visa-screen, where the world
of Singakok was fast growing smaller—“was impossible,
was it not? You died twice, I died once, but can you deny we are
alive? Knowing that, why can you not think that the future is
brighter than your fear?”
“I guess because it never has been,” Ziantha
answered slowly. But he was right. Death was said to be the end,
but twice she had passed that end. So—she drew a deep breath.
Maybe this was all illusion, like the one they had left Ogan
trapped in. If so—let it hold.
Lantee was smiling, and in her arms Harath gave a soft click of
beak.
“You will see—it shall!” Somehow both their
thoughts came at once with bright promise to warm her mind, just as
the Eyes waited warmly in her hand. Waiting for the next
illusion—the next adventure?