A door stood at the end of the area. He opened it, saw a narrow passage running beyond, and led the way down a gentle slope illuminated with softly glowing crimson bulbs. A second door stood at the end. It was thick, heavily padded, reluctant to move. He tugged it open, to reveal the chamber beyond. A small place, snug, the walls covered with plaited mats of local manufacture, a shelf of books, a projector, wafers of condensed information, a revolving globe which threw swaths of kaleidoscopic light, reds, blues, greens, yellows, merging, rippling like rainbows.

On a narrow cot a man lay supine.

He wore a robe knotted with a cord around the waist, the cowl raised to shield an emaciated face, both hands lying on his stomach, the fingers wasted, skin tight over prominent bone. In the ruby light streaming through the open door he looked corpselike, horribly familiar.

Dumarest stared at him, the face, the rifle lifting in his hands, aiming, his finger closing on the trigger.

Captain Hamshard smashed the barrel upward as he fired.

"Sir! For God's sake!"

Dumarest spun, dropping the rifle, hand lifted, palm stiffened to strike. He saw the startled face, the thread of dried blood on the cheek, and turned, staring at the figure on the bed. It had risen, legs drawn back, face ghastly beneath the cowl. The revolving globe threw a swath of emerald over the bed, turning the robe from crimson into a dull brown. A supporting strut stood beneath a shelf. Dumarest gripped it with both hands.

Harshly he said, "Get him away from me. Keep him clear."

"Sir?"

"Do it!"

Beneath his hands Dumarest felt the wood yield and tear.

* * *

The tisane was hot, pungent, dried herbs yielding their oils and flavors to form a tart, refreshing brew. Unarmed, seated at the far side of the table with his back against a wall, Dumarest watched as the captain set a cup before him.

He was dubious. "I don't know if you should drink this, sir."

"It isn't poisoned."

"Maybe not." The captain wasn't convinced. "I don't think I should have stopped you, sir. But you did say that you wanted him alive."

"You did right." Dumarest leaned back, feeling the quiver of his muscles, the aftermath of strain. The urge to kill had gone now, but the tension remained, joining the ache in his temples. It had faded a little as the tisane had been made, but the liquid shook as he lifted the cup to his lips.

To the cowled figure he said, "You are known as Amil Kulov." It wasn't a question. "Before that your name was Salek Parect. The son of Aihult Chan Parect."

"Yes."

"Why did you help the Ayutha?"

"Someone had to." Salek put down his cup and rested his arms across his chest. He sat on the edge of the cot at the full distance of the room. Within the cowl his face was drawn, bone prominent on his cheeks beneath the upward-slanting eyes. "Could you ever begin to understand? They are unspoiled, innocent. When first attacked they didn't know what to do. They were numbed, incapable of resistance, children faced with something they couldn't understand. That attack was brutal, savage, a vicious, wanton, unthinking crime. So I helped them as best I could."

"With weapons," said Dumarest. "Advice. Flame bombs and launchers. What other things did you have in mind?"

"Does it matter now? The truce-"

"You are not a part of it. In any case, your guards broke it."

"They were young," said Salek quietly. "And foolish. I told them not to resist, but they obviously refused to listen. I would have stopped them had I known, but I was tired, working beyond my strength. And I didn't think that you would come so soon."

Closed in his room, lost in exhausted sleep, he would not have heard the shots and screams. Dumarest studied him sipping the tisane. An idealist, and dangerous, as all such men were. Single-minded in his pursuit of what he considered to be right. And the technical knowledge he possessed gave him more power than others of his kind.

Hamshard said, "The men, sir?"

"Have them remain outside. If any of the Ayutha try to enter, warn them away. If they insist, then shoot them down."

"Like dogs," said Salek bitterly. "Is that what you think of them? Animals to be destroyed."

"No. How long have you lived among them?"

"Over ten years now. A long time. Long enough for me to appreciate what they have to offer, what they can teach. Mental peace, tolerance, understanding, an affinity one to each other. And they have a history, tales handed down from generation to generation, a legend of an old time, when things were not as they are now. Perhaps I should explain that I am interested in ancient myths."

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I know. Your father told me."

"My father!" Something, hate or contempt, twisted the emaciated features. "How could he ever begin to understand? His mind is closed to new concepts. To him only the house of the serpent is important. The welfare of the Aihult. He could never admit that Paiyar is only one small world among billions, and that there have been others against whom we are as children."

"Legends," said Dumarest.

"But each one holding a kernel of truth. I have spent my life trying to find those truths. Here, on Chard, I have found something, a clue. The Ayutha know more than is guessed, more perhaps than they realize. A race which came to this world eons ago. From where? And how did they travel?"

And why hadn't they progressed? Dumarest could guess the answer to that. Once, perhaps, their telepathic ability had been stronger than it was now, and that trait was no friend to a race struggling to survive. The price was too high. Violence had no place when all fear and terror was shared, when a beast which could provide food was allowed to run free, an enemy avoided instead of being destroyed.

The Ayutha were not a growing, viable culture but a decaying one. An off-shoot of the human race, something tried by nature and found unsuitable, to be discarded by a more efficient form. They had fled into the hills, avoiding contact with aggressive types, dreaming, perhaps, around their fires, of vanished glories. Tales to amuse children, props for a vanished pride.

He said, "You can't help them, Salek. You must know that. In order to survive, they must change. No culture can remain isolated when others are so close."

"Their traditions-"

"Are distorted memories. You gave them weapons and taught them how to kill. Can you realize the price they must pay? Their guilt could destroy them. They could go insane."

"No!"

"Remember your guards. Young men eager to kill. Trying to kill without logic or reason. You turned them into beasts, to die like animals. The best thing you and the others like you can do is to leave them alone."

"To be exploited," said Salek bitterly. "To be used as simple, mindless workers in the fields. An old, proud race reduced to the status of beggars."

"They wouldn't be the first," said Dumarest. "And they won't be the last. Among races, like men, only the strong have the right to survive. But it won't be like that here. The farmers need them, and now that the war is over, arrangements can be made. Land grants given them so they can retain possession of the hills. Their children can be given schooling, taught trades, ways to use their talents. They can work if they wish, or sit and dream if they prefer. But you will not be among them."

"Revenge?"

"A precaution. The Chardians have no reason to trust you, and they would never allow you to remain. In any case, you have other duties. Your father needs you."

Salek frowned. "You mentioned him before," he murmured. "But how do you know him? Did he send you to find me?"

"Yes."

"And you are taking me to him?"

Dumarest looked at his hands. The tremors had stopped, his head now free of the nagging ache. It was, he thought, now safe to move.