"The climates vary, yes." It was a relief to be able to tell unadorned truth.

"Many climates?"

"From freezing to baking." The conditions to be found on most worlds but, born and raised in the confines of Zabul, Medwin found them hard to understand. "The sky changes too," continued Dumarest. "Sometimes it's blue and then there could be cloud."

"Blue cloud?"

"White through to a dull gray. And there is snow and hail as well as rain. The sunsets and dawns are of scarlet and gold, and, after a rainfall, you can see rainbows arching from horizon to horizon."

"And a silver moon?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to see that," said the young man. "Really see it, I mean. Land on it so as to observe Earth from space. What does it look like?" He gave Dumarest no time to answer. "And the soaring towers of crystal! The Shining Ones! The places where you can go to make a wish come true!"

Embellishments added by Kusche, who, while chafing at the prison Dumarest had closed about him, worked with his undeniable skill. Selling a glittering illusion of Earth and bolstering the conviction that the Event was close at hand.

"What is this place?" Dumarest paused to look at massive doors. "The power source?"

"No, the Archives." Medwin gestured toward the far end of another passage which ran from a nearby junction. "The power generators are down there. Some of them-we have dispersed all essential units."

An obvious precaution; Dumarest had learned enough to respect those who had fabricated the basic heart of Zabul.

No world could be safe for the Terridae. Always there would be the danger of storm and quake, or fire and rebellion, of cosmic hazard and man-made destruction. Only on a small world which they could keep free of all other forms of life and all other warring threats could they feel safe. Space was the natural haven.

Zabul had been built on a nub of rock which had been gouged out to receive machines to generate power and heat, water and air. One covered with a layer of obsolete vessels, their hulls strengthened, communicating passages established, chambers widened and sealed against the void. A nucleus which had grown with later additions until now it reflected light from a thousand points and spires and curved surfaces. A bizarre fabrication which drifted in a void.

Dumarest looked again at the massive doors. The Archives. The sacred repository of knowledge-and where he would find the location of Earth if it was known. And it had to be known. Had to be!

"Earl?" Medwin was waiting, his face puckered in a frown. "Something wrong?"

"No." Dumarest drew in his breath, conscious of the thudding beat of his heart. To be so near! To have the answer almost in his hand! Yet, for now, he still had to be patient. "Can anyone consult the Archives?"

"Only with Council permission. Did you want to see the reclamation plant?"

A mass of pipes and tubes and the soft hum of leashed power as machines took waste and recycled it into usable material. After that came the chemical refinery, the workshops, the mills. Glass walls protected the creche. The hydroponic gardens were a riot of controlled vegetation.

At one end a lamp flashed in irregular pulses and Medwin went to talk into a phone. When he returned he said, "A summons from the Council, Earl. They want to see you." Laughing, he added, "I guess they want you to tell them about Earth."

He'd guessed wrong and Dumarest knew it as soon as he entered the chamber. The faces of those who sat at the table were too hard, too cold, the eyes too watchful. They stripped and assessed him as he crossed the floor to take the designated chair. A calculated move; standing he would have dominated the assembly. A fact Althea noted as she glanced toward him, noting the set of his mouth, the thin ridge of muscle at his jaw. The face of a man who scented danger and had prepared himself to fight.

Gouzh broke the silence. "You were offered a choice," he said. "One we understood you had accepted." He glanced at Althea. "To work with us and to become one of us." He paused as if waiting for a comment. When none came he added, "It seems we were mistaken."

Dumarest remained silent.

"You have caused trouble," snapped Vole. "Spread rumor and lies. Created unrest and thrown our authority into question."

"You have proof of this?"

"Proof?" Logan bared her teeth in anger. "We are the Council of Zabul! Dare you say we lie?"

"I am saying you should be prepared to substantiate your charges," said Dumarest evenly. "Rumor and lies, you say, but refuse to be specific. What have I said or done you do not hold to be true?"

"You claim to be from Earth!"

"A backward planet," he reminded her. "One seeking greatness by the local use of a hallowed name. Your own words. As to the rest of the charge, what can I say? If to answer questions is to create unrest then I am guilty. But how else should I have acted toward my colleagues? I understood that I was to be one of you and a part of your society. That was the choice I was given."

Demich said, "That is true."

"Be silent!"

"Now wait a moment, Lelia Logan!" The mask had gone, the air of amused and cynical detachment, and the real man blazed with a cold anger. "I am of the Council and your equal. An Elder of Zabul. Am I to grovel at your feet?"

"You-" She broke off, fighting to master her anger. "We are faced with a threat to our society. It is hardly the time to argue on points of protocol."

"I disagree." Gouzh, jealous of his pride, was quick to Demich's defense. "You demand respect but seem unwilling to give it. An apology is in order."

"That will not be necessary," said Dumarest. "I appreciate the sentiment but I did not take offense at the charges." He added blandly, "Mistakes are common among the old."

A clever man, thought Volodya in the shocked silence. One who knew how to exploit a weakness and how to seize an opportunity. He looked at Dumarest with new respect, knowing there had been no mistake, that his assumption had been made with calculated intent. To the casual he had been insolent, to the more discerning he had thrown oil on troubled waters, to those who could see below the surface he had illustrated the unfitness of some of the Council to rule.

One Logan compounded as she spluttered in her rage.

"How dare you! Your defiance goes too far! You will be punished… Guards!"

She screamed the summons and looked at Volodya as men failed to jump at her bidding. For she was old, contaminated with dreams of grandeur while locked in her casket, carrying vestiges of a false greatness into the Council chamber. She and how many others?

"Volodya! Do your duty!"

Vole for one, and Gouzh? He sat, frowning, blinking as if doubting what he saw. Demich was relaxed, sitting back with a faint smile. Rhion looked puzzled. The others, Tilsey, Cade, Kern, sat and said nothing, content to let others make the decisions.

"Volodya!"

He rose, knowing that the impasse had to be broken. He would take Dumarest to a safe place, then return and say what needed to be stated. Changes would be made-Logan for one must relinquish her place.

To Dumarest he said, "Come with me. You will not be harmed, that I promise, but you can accomplish nothing more by staying." He added, "Please do not make me use force."

A man who meant what he said-but how long would he remain in power? And even if he were to ride the storm and reach greater heights, how to ensure he would not weaken to the demands of expediency? Dumarest glanced at the Council, at Althea, who looked at him with pleading eyes. To fight? To run? To yield?

Questions negated by a sudden flood of intense, ruby light.

It filled the chamber, to fade, to return in a crimson haze, to fade and return again. A pulse which could be only one thing.