Now he leaned forward, hands resting on the parapet of the balcony, head tilted a little as he looked at the sky.

"Odd how the stars look in the Rift. I'd guessed they would be less plentiful and there could have been the glow of opposed energies. Have you ever seen them? Certain areas seem to trap and enhance natural radiation and, if there should be a fluorescent dust in the vicinity a spectacle can be obtained which holds true majesty. There is one close to Zekiah and another, better, which can be seen from Schwitz. You should make the effort to visit it."

"No." Her voice held impatience. "We do not travel from Ath."

"Never?"

"No."

A thing which she had hinted at before when, eager for entertainment, she had pressed him for details of the worlds he had seen, the adventures he had known. Stories for children, tales to pass the time. Always he was conscious of the similarity-a city built as to a whim, stories garnered from passing strangers, hobbies tried and discarded, projects started and abandoned. And no sight of any servants as if the things which were done were best done in secret loneliness.

And yet she was not a child but a woman vibrant with a woman's need. A thing he sensed as she moved closer to him, to rest her hand on his own, to tighten her fingers and dig tiny crescents with the blue-stained nails.

"Earl, on these worlds you have known, have you met many women?"

"A few."

"And have they loved you?" She smiled as he made no answer. "You are discreet but the answer is plain. Tell me, were any of them like me?"

"No." He turned to face her, his hand falling from beneath her own. "You are unique."

As every woman was unique, every person ever born, for no two could be exactly alike and every individual was a thing alone. A fact disguised as flattery by the tone of his voice, the direction of his eyes. And, even when a boy, Dumarest had known that to lie was stupid when the truth would serve better.

"Unique, Earl? You mean that?"

"As far as I can tell, Ursula, you are the most unusual woman I have ever met." And then, for fear she might mistake his words for irony, he added, "And one of the most beautiful. On any of a dozen worlds you would be a queen. On any of a hundred you would be known and loved and hated in equal measure."

"By other women?"

"Of course." He lifted the hand which had rested on his own and touched it to his lips. The fingers were cool, scented, smooth to his caress. "And, perhaps, by some men."

Her laughter was rich, throaty, the peal of bells. A breaking of the momentary tension as she sought refuge in an appreciation of the incongruous.

"Earl! You are priceless!"

"Not quite, Ursula. It was fifteen thousand you paid?"

"Put into the common fund to be shared." The gesture she made diminished the sum. "A device invented by Garnar to add spice to certain moments. He is dead now but his work lingers on."

And would continue to do so as long as it provided entertainment. Dumarest said casually, "What are the Ohrm?"

"What!"

"You mentioned them." He gestured at the city. "When you spoke of achieving true harmony."

"The Ohrm," she said. "They are the ones who-the people who serve."

"A different race?"

"No. They are human. I-" She threw back her head, eyes misted. "The name is derived from Francis Ohrm who was elected spokesman for the passengers who traveled to Ath in the Choudhury. We are the Choud. The Ohrm are those who work and serve so that we can direct and control."

Servants or slaves?

"They serve," said Ursula. "They have always served. They tend the soil and grow the crops and do all things needing to be done under the direction of the Choud."

"For how long?"

"For always. No. Since the Choudhury landed on Ath. There was dissension and Francis Ohrm became more than just a spokesman. Punished, he died but his name lived on. Those who followed him became the Ohrm. They serve the Choud."

"Who do not travel?"

"No." Ursula blinked. "At least not to other worlds." Then, as a chime rose to hang quivering in the air,

"There is the dinner gong. It's time we joined the others."

They stood in a small cluster in a room graced with pendants of ice-like crystal all touched with an azure haze from lights shielded from direct view. A cold room with a floor of tessellated slabs all blue and silver. High arched windows framed the night, scalloped rims forming a surround for the stars. Natural pictures which would change as the hours passed to become flushed with the roseate light of dawn, the yellow blaze of day.

"Earl!" Sardia was among the assembly and came forward to greet him. "Earl, this is Cornelius. The artist we came to meet. Cornelius, this is Earl Dumarest. A friend."

If he noticed the slight hesitation he gave no sign but smiled and extended his hand and touched that which Dumarest had lifted. An old gesture and one common on worlds which had known strife; the empty palms visible proof of the lack of weapons. But when could Ath have known war?

"Earl. Sardia has told me about you. I hope that we, too, can be friends. Captain, I must thank you for my guest."

Tuvey had come to join them, his shoulder bare of his pet.

"Borol doesn't like too much company," he explained. "And festivities unsettle him."

"And that thing unsettles me." The woman Dumarest had seen before was at the captain's side and, while still revealing accumulated years, she no longer resembled a crone. Instead, metallic glints shone from lips and eyelids and darkness had hollowed her cheeks. Beneath her cunningly draped gown flesh swelled in enticing formations. "I'm willing to buy the man but not the beast. One day, perhaps, he'll agree to be bought for keeps."

"Maybe." Tuvey screwed up his eyes. "Who can tell, Etallia? If the price is right, who can tell?"

"Money!" The woman snorted her contempt. "That's all you think about. What is money against happiness? Stay with me and I'll give you more than you could hope to earn in the remainder of your life."

"And give me also what it could buy?" The captain smiled like a wrinkled gnome. "That, too, my sweet?"

"Greed! You lack blood, Lon Tuvey. In your veins is only money!"

"She's right," said Sardia as the couple moved away. "And the bastard isn't only greedy but cunning with it. I had a chance to speak with him about return passage. It's there if we can pay for it, Earl, but that's all. When I asked for the coordinates of Ath he laughed."

"Then ask your friend."

"Cornelius? He's an artist not a navigator."

"Someone must know." Dumarest stared at the woman, at her eyes. "There's something you've discovered. What is it?"

"I've found out how that cunning bastard tricked us, Earl. The passage and introduction, remember? Not one without the other. The long journey. The lack of coordinates. And Cornelius tells me that the Sivas is about the only ship that calls here. There's another, the Mbotia, but that hasn't called for months now. So it seems we travel with Tuvey or we don't travel at all." Her laugh was brittle. "He has us both ways. We get the paintings and pay through the nose to get them out Then we pay again to return to Ath for more."

"No." Why hadn't she seen the flaw in her argument? Then he remembered. "I see-Cornelius refuses to travel. We can't take him with us."

"No, Earl, we can't."

"But why not? Damn it, all he has to do is to get on the ship."

"He won't." She shook her head at his expression. "Don't ask me why. An artist is a delicate creature and, like a flower, needs a certain combination of associations in order to produce his best. Maybe he feels safe here. Maybe it's something else. But I'm trying to change his mind, Earl. I'm trying."

And might succeed, given time; using her charm, her femininity, spinning a web with the lure of her body as women had done since the beginning of time. The old, age-old magic which so rarely failed. The love which, once instilled, made a man helpless to refuse.