"My lady?"

Halting, she turned and looked down at him from where she stood high on the sloping path. Soft shadows deepened the blue of her lips and hair, turned the tint of her skin into misty smoke.

Dumarest said, "Where are you taking me?"

"To my house-where else?"

"And?"

"And then, Earl, you will entertain me."

A word which held several connotations but he said nothing as, turning, she continued to climb. A journey which carried them high, the path running between clumps, of trees and flowering shrubs, vague figures half seen in the shadows. Figures which vanished when he tried to distinguish them, blending with the deepening gloom as darkness came to grip the painted sky.

The house was like the woman.

There was blue in it and silver and arches which spanned chambers and made opposing colonnades of smoothed and polished stone. There were tables which bore enigmas; vases of disquieting proportions, bowls of odd configurations, blocks of crystal in which elusive creatures were held in a deceptive immobility. The floor held elaborate patterns in geometrical mosaics. Lights shimmered from hidden sources and shadows moved in unrelated ways.

Dumarest paused as they crossed a room, halting before a bench littered with various tools. A mass of clay-like material rested beside a potter's wheel.

"Your hobby, my lady?"

"My name is Ursula, Earl. You will please me by using it. A guest should not be formal." The tips of her fingers rested on the wheel. "Yes, a hobby. One which bored me."

And so had been left to gather dust. But there was no dust and even the clay-like material looked as if ready for immediate use. Dumarest touched it, kneaded it, smoothed it again before following his hostess. How many other hobbies had she tried and abandoned and yet were kept in a condition of immediate readiness?

And where were the servants?

There had to be servants in a house like this. The windows were wide, winds blew and dust was inevitable. Dirt would gather and would be removed. Yet he had seen no sign of neglect and, aside from the half-glimpsed figures in the bushes outside, no sign of those who could be retainers.

"You swim, Earl?"

"Yes."

"And dance?" She smiled as he shook his head. "Fight then? You can fight?"

"Is that the duty of a guest?"

"A guest has no duty on this world, Earl. Only an obligation to entertain. Once I had a musician who played to me and once there was a woman who talked for hours of the men she had known. Both were boring. I need to hear things which are novel. But I am remiss! First you must be shown your room and, naturally, you would like to bathe."

The room was too large, too cold in its furnishings of blue and silver, the ceiling high and flecked with small but elaborate designs. The bathroom, in contrast, was warm and cozy with glinting mirrors and a deep, sunken tub which quickly filled with steaming water when he operated the taps.

Stripped, he soaked and thought of the house and his strange hostess.

An enigma, the house apparently had no servants and the woman apparently had no man. Neither made sense. She would have both even if only as a matter of comfort and yet seemed to prefer to live alone. Why pay so high for his presence? Why so desperate a need to be entertained?

Hot air blasted him dry and, dressed, Dumarest returned to the room with the wide, double bed. It was soft, the covers of fine weave, the sheets and pillows tinted the familiar blue. To either side of the bed, panels had been set into the walls, glowing at a touch, the light brightening and dying to the wave of a hand. A blue light. A blue-tinted woman. Blue sheets.

Why blue?

Dumarest turned to the window. It was a narrow arch, high, the panes small and set in thick bars which barely allowed the passage of his head and shoulders. Below he saw a sheer wall crusted with a vine thick with fretted leaves. To either side the wall was set with tinted bricks closely mortared. Above, the night had come into its own.

As yet it was not wholly dark but still it was dark enough for stars to have appeared and to be reflected in the waters of the lake below. Stars which burned like distant furnaces, hot, close, brighter than they would have been if this world had been Earth.

"Earl?" He heard the slight movement of the door, the rustle of garments as she crossed the room toward him on silent feet. Earl?"

He said, "I was thinking."

"Of the woman? Of Sardia del Naeem? You see, I know her name."

"No, not the woman."

"Of what then?" Impatience sharpened her tone. "Of the city? Of what is expected of you? Must I tell you again you have nothing to fear?"

"Nothing to fear but fear itself," he murmured. "Yet fear itself can kill."

"Earl?"

"A fragment of poetry I heard once," he explained. "I forget the rest. It was chanted by a wandering entertainer. He had a drum and with him was a boy who played a flute."

And there had been a fire with a dancing flame which had painted the scene with a ruby light. The smell of sweat had hung in the air together with that of dust and leather, oil and the warm, natural stink of animals and their ordure. A moment spent on a distant world and remembered for the scrap of poetry and the food which had warmed his belly. How long ago now?

He felt the touch of her fingers on his arm. "Hasel Ingram," she said. "He is usually credited with the poem though there is reason to believe it stems from a much older source. If you are interested I could quote you the accepted text."

"No, thank you." The past was dead and it was best to let it lie. "Is poetry another hobby of yours?"

"No." Her fingers closed on his arm. "Talk to me, Earl. We have time before dinner. Entertain me."

"Dinner?"

"Of course. On Ath we are not savages. Later we shall dine and I shall display you and there will be others you know. The woman, the captain, his navigator perhaps." Her shoulders lifted in the gloom. "Or perhaps not. We have seen too much of him and he can tell nothing that is new."

"And Tuvey?"

Again the shrug. "The captain is special. Now, Earl, why did you come to Ath?"

"I was looking for something," he said flatly. "A world with a similar name. One called Earth."

"Earth?" He saw the frown and tensed himself for the expected reply, the usual disappointment but, incredibly, this time it didn't come. "Earth," she said again. "How odd that you should know it. How so very odd."

He felt the tension of his stomach, the sudden hope which blazed through him to dampen his palms with sweat. With an effort he controlled his voice.

"You know it?"

"Earth?" In the shadows, the gloom of the night, her teeth shone with a pale luminescence between her parted lips. "Perhaps."

"Do you?"

She smiled at his insistence then looked thoughtful.

"Earth," she mused. "Its astronomical sign is that of a cross set within a circle. It is the third planet of its sun. The length of its equator is 24,901.55 miles. The equatorial diameter is 7,926.41 miles. The atmosphere is composed of several gases, the principal ones being nitrogen, oxygen and argon in amounts of about 78, 21 and 1 percent by volume." She blinked. "That is enough. Figures bore me. But yes, Earl, I know of Earth."

The room held the scent of oil and spirit, of paint and pigment, of bases and primers, of wooden stretchers and new canvas. A chamber which held all the evidence of long hours spent in painstaking creation. An artist who betrayed those even longer hours spent in the contemplation of despair.

"It's hard," said Cornelius. "So very hard. You get an idea, a concept, and you work on it until, within your mind, it is there in its final accomplishment. A work complete in every detail. Then comes the need to communicate and so the necessity of taking that image from the mind and setting it down on canvas. Of holding it with oils and colors. Of giving life to dead, unfeeling matter."