"Lemain. Carl Lemain."

"His relationship to the man you wish to see?"

"His younger brother."

The officer leaned back, his eyes enigmatic. "You have no objection to giving him this message in my presence?"

"No," said Dumarest. "None at all."

Chapter Three

THE MEETING had been like all the other meetings they had held since the trouble began. Individuals each seeking to gain an advantage, none ready to yield to the common good. And though he could see the force of Colton's reasoning, Quendis wasn't going to be the first to give money and manpower without seeing a chance of immediate return. It was all very well for the chairman to rail and threaten but he held no lands and he refused to understand the motivations of those who did. The land was everything; to tend it was a man's reason for existence. To work together was one thing; to make sacrifices so that another would gain was something else. The agent was asking too much with his talk of pooled resources and shared labor.

Outside the meeting hall Quendis looked at the sun, well past zenith, and wondered what to do now that he was in town with time to spare. Visit the field? A vessel had arrived and old hopes refused to die. Sternly he repressed them. There would be officers at the gate and their curiosity must not be aroused. It was not in his pattern of behavior to visit the field-to break that pattern was to invite interrogation.

He started as a hand touched his arm from behind, feeling the sudden acceleration of his heart as he saw the hated red and black.

The soldier was curt. "Is your name Lemain?"

"I am Grower Lemain." Quendis stressed the title. "What do you want?"

"You will accompany me to the gate." The soldier ignored the question. "Immediately."

Perplexed, he followed the soldier, conscious of the wondering stares of others, the growers who had attended the meeting, the workers lounging around. Too many workers; at this time of year they should be in the fields tending the crops and readying for harvest. They must be some of the dispossessed, he thought. Men and women from the overrun farms who had not been able to attach themselves to another house. Now they hung around the field, eager to work at any degrading task, some even taking Low passage from the planet, their strength and the strength of their children forever lost to the soil of Loame.

"Wait here." The soldier moved on without waiting to see if he was obeyed and again Quendis felt a surge of irritation at his aggression. Give a man a uniform, he thought, give him a gun and you create a monster. He stiffened as an officer beckoned to him from the gate.

"You are Lemain?"

"I am Grower Lemain."

"There is a man here with a message for you." Like the soldier, the officer was curt. He turned to Dumarest. "Give it to him."

Quendis drew in his breath as he looked at the stranger. He wore a high collared tunic with full sleeves, pants thrust into knee boots, all of a neutral gray plastic. The lines and hollows of his face were hard, the mouth firm, the jaw determined. The face of a man, he thought, who had early learned to live without the protection of Guild, House or Organization. And he had come bearing a message. God grant that he be discreet!

"It's from your brother," said Dumarest, "I am sorry to tell you that he is dead."

Carl dead! Quendis felt his shoulders sag and did not have to counterfeit an expression of grief. He had loved his younger brother. But what message had he sent? He cleared his throat, not daring to look at the inspector, knowing that he drank in every word, watched every change of feature.

"You bring bad news," he said to Dumarest. "The message?"

"He asked you to forgive him. He said that he had been a boy and had felt a boy's anger at Susan's choice. He said for me to tell you that he loved you both and that she had picked the better man."

Relief washed over Quendis like a cooling sea. Quietly he said, "It was good of you to bring me his last words. As you may have guessed we had a bitter quarrel and parted in anger. I would appreciate it if you would tell my wife and me the circumstances of his death. I would be happy if you would be my guest."

"You may accept," said the inspector curtly. "I will permit entry. You will report back to the gate in seven days." He looked at Quendis. "I hold you responsible for his appearance."

He turned and moved back to his table and his busy machine. Quendis followed him with his eyes then looked at Dumarest. "I have a raft. If you will please follow me, we can soon be on our way."

The raft was a commercial affair, a well three feet deep, six wide and twenty long, a weatherproofed cab at one end holding the controls and large enough for three persons. Quendis didn't speak again until they were flying high and fast, the drone of air a muted drumming against the cab, the details of the fields below lost in a blur of motion. "Your name?"

Dumarest gave it and added, "Your brother died on Clovis. Do you want the truth or shall I tell a pretty lie?"

"To me the truth." Quendis listened, his hands tight on the controls. "A sad end. It would be better, perhaps, for you to add a little gloss when you come to give the details to my wife. She was fond of Carl." He paused and then said softly, "And now you can give me the real message. The one Carl sent."

"He told me to tell you that there is no answer on Shem, Delph and Clovis. To me the words have no sense."

"And yet you lied before the inspector," said Quendis quickly. "Why did you do that?"

"I had my reasons," said Dumarest. He had seen fields ringed by high fences before, manned by men with guns and wearing uniforms who asked endless questions and who watched as they were answered. And he had sensed the other's fear, the inward cringing at what he might say. It had seemed safer to lie, ambiguous messages could carry hidden meanings and he had no desire to become involved in planetary politics.

He sat back, eyes somber as he thought of the officer, his computer, the messages it could send and the information it could hold. The man had been too intent, too concerned with detail, and all he had learned had been transmitted to the machine. Dumarest had the uneasy feeling that somehow he had walked into a trap. He moved, a ray of sunlight catching the gem of his ring, the red, flat stone glowing likely freshly spilled blood on the third finger of his left hand.

Quendis said, "You traveled far to bring me Carl's message. I owe you much. You must tell me what I can do to repay you for your trouble."

"You can help me to find a man. He is a collector of antiquities and his name is Delmayer. Will you take me to his place?"

"At once," said Quendis. "But I do not think that you will like what you see."

* * *

From the summit of a ridge Dumarest looked down at an undulating sea of greenish yellow vegetation. Massed vines, inextricably interwoven, rioted in savage fecundity in an unbroken carpet toward the northern horizon, the sickly color blotched with the scarlet of blooms, the puffing white of fruiting pods, the whole bristling with thorns.

"You would never think it. Earl," said Quendis heavily, "but all this was once a prosperous orchard and farm."

"Delmayer's?"

"That's right. You can just make out the whereabouts of his mansion." The grower lifted his arm. "Over there, see?"

Dumarest followed the pointing arm. In the near distance the vines rose in a gentle hummock, massed blooms glowing like fire in the light of the setting sun.

"A fine place," said Quendis regretfully. "It held the continuous improvements of a dozen generations. I visited it often. Delmayer was a hospitable man and loved to give feasts. They were events to remember. Five kinds of wine, ten of meat and fish, a score of fruits and a dozen types of vegetable. We would start at dusk and continue until dawn. He had the finest regurgitorium I have ever seen." He sighed. "Well, that's all over now."