"Earl?" Her hand closed in anticipation of his answer. "Will you go first?"

"No." He softened his refusal. "This isn't the time, Althea."

She misunderstood, the false explanation saving her from the hurt of rejection.

"Of course! You're worried about the verdict. But, Earl, you have no choice. To die or to work with us-how can you hesitate?"

The logic of a child; she hadn't even considered the other alternative. To die or to stay, she had said-what if he chose to leave?

A question he almost asked, then changed his mind as caution prickled its warning. As yet she was friendly, almost an ally; it would be madness to make her an enemy. And he could guess the answer: if he tried to leave they would kill him. At least they would try.

He stepped back, looking at her casket, memorizing the decorations, the small differences which distinguished it from the others. So many others. He counted them, added the number of rooms he had seen, guessed at others which must exist. When had it begun?

"A long time ago, Earl," she said when, later, he put the question. "A thousand years at least. Maybe two-I'm not sure."

"Who would know?"

"The Elders, perhaps. The Archives. Does it matter?"

She had taken him to a small park which rested beneath a domed roof flushed with the gold and amber of a summer's day. The place held the soft music of running water, the air heavy with the scent of flowers. Listening, Dumarest could hear the faint susurration of voices as some of the Terridae sat and conversed in private conference.

Men and women renewing their contact with reality, Althea had said, but for them this reality was no more substantial than a dream.

"So many questions, Earl," she whispered. "So many thoughts. I can see them crossing your mind. But why bother? Given time all will be clear. Why not just enjoy the moment? Don't you like it here?"

He said, "Do you like the shape of mountains? To climb up high among the snow and ice? To swim in tepid seas and to run in one straight line as if you were an arrow aimed at the horizon?"

"Of course! In dreams-"

"In reality," he interrupted. "To do these things not dream about them. To scratch a foot and feel the pain as you see the blood. To stand and fill your lungs with air so cold it hurts. To dive so deep your ears feel as if they must burst, then to rise and break surface and to see the sun gilding the waves. To feel. To know hate and love and fear. To know pain. To know happiness, to laugh and, yes, to cry also. Life, girl! I'm talking about life!"

Real life, not the stuff of dreams, the kind she had never experienced and so could never fully understand. But that, at least, she could change.

Chapter Ten

The room was a place of scents and dusty shadows; a pale illumination from concealed lights threw bizarre silhouettes against walls and ceiling-the shapes of monsters and beasts and watchful birds of prey all born from small ornaments and crumpled fabrics; the slender grace of a statuette, the squat form of a beaming idol. The things belonged to the woman as did most of the odors, and Dumarest caught the scent of the perfume of her body and hair. Caught too the natural exudations of consummated passion common to them both.

Beside him on the wide bed Althea stirred and moved to place a hand on his naked torso, her own resting with febrile softness against his arm. In the pale illumination she seemed fashioned of marble, the contours of her face veiled by the profusion of her hair.

A woman in love or one who had claimed to be. Certainly one of passion and savage demand. Now, satiated, she snuggled against him lost in a natural sleep.

Dumarest wondered if she dreamed.

For him there had been no dreams, no sleep either, though he had forced himself to rest. Now he glanced again at the room and its furnishings, assessing them, setting them against their owner. Althea's things, each a reflection of her personality. The statuette was that of a woman, arms uplifted, face upturned, her entire body shaped in an attitude of desperate yearning. The idol squatted and smiled. A flask held a temporary forgetfulness, and a transparent box held a dried flower together with a scatter of seeds.

Wanting, patience, the belief in resurrection. Death followed by rebirth-the symbolism of the flower and seeds was obvious. As was the wine-blood of the fruits of the earth.

Earth!

Rising from sleep, Althea felt the tension of his body. "Earl," she murmured. "Earl."

"It's all right." His hand touched her hair. "Go back to sleep."

She sighed, trying to obey, and his hand lingered on the thick, copper tresses. Her hair was like that of Earth or as close to the planet as anyone he had ever met and at least they had that in common. Yet the Earth she dreamed of was not the world he knew. The Terridae imagined a planet of endless splendors: or, a virtual paradise which would be theirs to enjoy once found. The Event which would terminate their present mode of existence.

"Earl?" She moved again, her hand sliding over his chest, the fingers following the tracery of thin scars which marred his torso, scars which were the medals won in early combats when, to survive, he had to deal death or be killed. "Earl?"

She snuggled closer as he caressed her hair, almost fully awake now, but content just to lie and remember the passion which had dominated her, the fury of biological need which had held them in an old and pleasant madness.

"What are you thinking of, darling?"

"You." A lie but not wholly so. "Earth."

"Not these?" Her fingers moved over the pattern of cicatrices. "How did you get them, darling? Some wild beast?"

More than one and they had been the most savage form of life ever created. Predators on two legs armed with razor-edged steel. Men determined to kill. He had been one of them, faster than the others, more intent on survival, just that little extra lucky. Facts proved by his continued existence.

"Earl?"

"Go to sleep."

She wouldn't obey but lay quietly as he stroked her hair, and against the ceiling he could see the reflected images her words had aroused. Memories which filled the chamber with the sight and sound of beasts; the stinks, the remembered tensions. Even as he watched, the bizarre shadows became a ring of staring faces blotched with avid eyes. Men and women, the rich and supposedly cultured, screaming as they demanded blood and pain. Taking a vicarious pleasure from the spectacle of two men fighting to the death with naked blades. Betting, cursing, touching hysteria as the madness gripped them.

The arena!

The means by which he had kept himself alive, and he thought again of the burning wounds, the blood, the fear, the pain of his younger days. The school in which he had refined hard-won skills and learned that to hesitate was to die. Learned too the necessity of relying on no one but himself.

The images dissolved and turned back into bizarre shadows and Dumarest realized he had slipped over the edge into sleep. The woman had gone but from the adjoining bathroom came the sound of gushing water. Althea entered the bedroom as he rose, smiling her pleasure at seeing him awake.

"You looked so peaceful, darling. I hadn't the heart to wake you."

"A kindness to match your beauty."

"Flatterer!" She turned from him, swirling her robe and the mane of fresh-washed copper hair, but the compliment had pleased her. "Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

"Ask your mirror."

"I don't care what my mirror thinks." She faced him, smiling, her eyes luminous. "But you, Earl, that's different. What you think matters."

"I think you are beautiful."

"Darling!"

He touched the hands she extended toward him and stood for a moment meeting the direct stare of her eyes. Then, without comment, he turned and headed toward the shower and the artificial rain which thundered down with heat and cold to lave the residue of passion from his body and the drifting vestiges of sleep from his mind.