Would he give her a child?

The thought was like the thrust of a knife into his guts, a blade which turned and dragged and spilled his life so that he doubled and felt the vomit rise in his throat.

Not that! Dear God, not that!

Because that would be the end and the death of all hope that she would come back to him, to rest at his side as she had done so often before, to let his hands rove over her soft and tender body, touching, fondling, caressing, lingering on the swell of breasts and the curve of thighs, the softness between them, the moist wonder which had once been his.

Madness. The whine of a child. He knew it, and knowing it, could do nothing about it, for what else was a man obsessed but a crying child? One who wanted more than could be given-and yet he asked so little. The opportunity to love, to worship, to share.

A hope which had died even as he voiced it.

Leaning back, he saw her face painted against the screens, the incredible splendor of the universe they portrayed; the stars and clouds, the sheets of luminescence and curtains of radiance. The fuzz of distant nebulae, the splinters and pulses and flares. Loveliness to match her own. A coldness she shared.

"No, Jumoke." He had cringed to the iron resolve of her tone. "No."

"But, Dilys, where's the harm? We've known each other for so long and you know I love you. Why let a stranger ruin what we have between us?"

"Had," she corrected. "We've nothing now, Jumoke."

"I-we, for God's sake, Dilys! Must I beg? All right, I'm begging. I need you. Please!"

"No." Then, looking at him, she had softened a little. "We shared something, yes, but that was all. It was a physical thing, a convenience, if you like. We both needed release and each could give it to the other. But now you ask too much."

"Dilys-"

"I'm not a whore!"

"Did I say you were? But on Aclyte and Nyard women take multiple husbands. They are shared by the men. Do I ask for so much?"

"You ask too much."

"But-" He had sought for words with which to win her. A phrase to buy happiness. "Dumarest is just a man, as I am. What makes him so different?"

"I love him." She had reached out then, and touched his cheek, her fingers burning even as they felt like ice. "I love him, Jumoke. I love him!"

The face vanished and he sank into hell.

He would never win her back. Never again feel the pride he had known. Never again the happiness. She had taken them from him and given them to another. Dumarest. Jumoke lifted his hands and looked at them, clenched, the skin taut over the knuckles. Dumarest, Dumarest and Dilys- he wished both were dead.

"Now!" Gale Andrei turned a switch and the salon bloomed with light. "The Garden of Emdale," she said. "It is one of my favorites."

Which was why she carried the recording with her-much of what she did and said was obvious, a trait Bochner had noted and assessed as a part of her facade. One of apparent childish exuberance, probably adopted to match her innocent face. But there was nothing innocent about her as he now knew. Within the slight figure burned a mature passion but both it and her body had left him curiously unsatisfied. A trophy won, a symbolical kill made, yet there had been small joy in the victory. Like swatting a fly, it had been too easy. An act performed from boredom, and as an aid to his assumed character. A prop he wished he had done without.

But, in other ways, the woman had skill.

"It's beautiful!" The dancer was entranced. She spun, arms extended, the transformation of the salon giving her an elfin grace. "Beautiful!"

Even Charl Zeda had to agree, his voice gruff as he added to her praise. "It's fantastic! My dear, allow me to congratulate you. To honor you in the accustomed manner."

She turned her lips from his kiss, allowing him only to touch her cheek and, watching, Bochner could sense her tension, the repugnance she felt towards the old mercenary. Would she have reacted the same if Dumarest had offered his salutation?

Bochner glanced to where he stood behind the table, his back to the wall. The sight pleased him; the stance was that of a cautious man. Only when he had marked his prey did the hunter allow himself to study the hologram which had been created by the projector and the woman's art.

Gale had chosen well. On all sides stood a profusion of flowers touched with a multitude of hues, reds and greens and blues merging with violets and scarlets and purples and all degrees of the shades between. Alone, that would have been impressive, but the blooms were in motion, kissed by an unfelt breeze, their cups the targets for wide-winged insects which flashed and shimmered, to hang poised to flash again in metallic gleams which entranced the eye as their drone excited the ear.

And, almost, he could smell the flowers.

They filled his vision, numbing his eyes with their form and brilliance, a poem in color augmented by the insects so that it was hard not just to sit and stare and let the tide of beauty roll over him and become one with the moment. He became aware that the salon was silent aside from the thin hum of the insects. Almost, it could have been filled with the dead. Then he saw the historian, the man's eyes enormous in his pallid face, a creature stunned and enamored by loveliness beyond all his previous experience.

Quietly, Bochner moved from the salon, heading down the passage, past the cabin he occupied, past the one shared by the mercenary and historian, the one in which Andrei slept when she chose to rest alone, the one hired by the dancer, that which formed the steward's office to halt at the door which gave onto Dumarest's quarters. It swung open as he manipulated the lock, and he stepped inside to stand as his eyes searched the compartment.

Here? Would it be here? The thing Dumarest owned which made him so valuable to the Cyclan that they had hired him to hunt him down.

He saw nothing but the usual furnishings; the bed, the cabinet, the washbowl with its spray faucet. A chair stood against the bulkhead and a small boxlike container rested to the side of the bed, close to the head. It held a door, which he opened. Behind lay gray plastic clothing, neatly folded, high boots of matching color, a knife.

Bochner lifted it and straightened as he examined the weapon.

It was a tool designed for service, the blade nine-inches long, curved, the reverse side sweeping in a sharper curve so as to form a vicious, needle-point. The guard was smooth on the inside, rough on the outside with a pattern of engraved lines, a means of catching an opposed blade. The hilt was shaped, wrapped with plastic, topped with a rounded pommel. Bochner examined it, twisting it, finding it firm and noting the thin line of weld lying in the junction of pommel and hilt. He balanced it in his palm, feeling the distribution of weight, the heft. A good blade, he decided. One deadly in an experienced hand. Along the edge, the light splintered to form a cloudlike haze-the sign of sharpness, of keenness so well achieved that it equaled that of a surgeon's scalpel.

"You! What are you doing here?" The woman was sharp. Bochner turned as she entered the cabin, the knife poised in his hand. "That isn't yours," Dilys accused. "What are you doing with it?"

"I was curious."

"Curious enough to break into another's cabin?"

"The door was open," he lied. "I glanced in as I passed and saw this knife. I am a hunter and have an interest in weapons. An interest which overcame my discretion, I'm afraid. I couldn't resist examining it. Earl's?"

"Yes."

"As I thought. Dumarest is the kind of man who would know how to use it. The kind of man I have a need of." He saw the flicker of interest in her eyes and, replacing the knife, he closed the door of the boxlike cabinet. Now, if he could get them both out of the cabin, the door relocked and Dilys so intrigued that she would fail to mention the incident to her lover, he would have won. "After you, my dear."