And who had originally built it?

And why?

He heard the soft movement of Yalung's body as the man shifted his feet. Lallia was breathing quietly, hands and cheek pressed against the mound, eyes closed as if she were making a secret wish. Entering into the spirit of the thing, perhaps. Acting as if she were a genuine pilgrim seek shy;ing a miracle. And, if one came, just what would the effect be?

Dumarest thought he knew. Faith healing was nothing unusual. Many had the gift and could heal with a touch, it was merely another facet of the paraphysical sciences re shy;vealed in the talents of various sensitives. In effect they were simply catalysts directing the body to repair itself from the blueprint inherent in every molecule of D.N.A. If a machine could be developed to do the same thing then every city would have its Shrine. Its holy spot. Its Place.

He smiled and closed his eyes, willing to play the game to the full, trying to feel as a genuine pilgrim would feel. If he had been sick or crippled he would have concentrated on his infirmity.

Instead he could only think of Earth.

Earth, the planet which had become lost to him, the need to find which had become an aching obsession. Could a man be whole without a home? And could a man who was not whole be considered other than as a cripple? Deformities were not always of the flesh and bone. And what was loss but a deformity of the mind?

A moment of peculiar, subconscious strain and then abrupt shy;ly, Dumarest saw a picture in his mind.

It was shining with bright splendor, a flattened disc with vaguely spiral arms, a pattern composed of a myriad of glow shy;ing points, hazes, somber patches of ebon and traces of luminous cloud. Instinctively he knew what it was. The galactic lens as seen from above and to one side.

In it one tiny fleck shone with blazing ruby fire.

It was well from the Center, lying in a distant arm of the spiral, a lonely place among few and scattered stars but he knew exactly what it was.

Home.

The planet for which he had been searching for too long. The world which had given him birth. Earth.

And he knew now almost exactly where to look for it.

Almost, for the galaxy was vast and the stars innumerable and no one brain can hold the complexity of an island uni shy;verse. But the sector was there, the approximate position, the direction from the Center. It would be enough.

Dumarest jerked as the picture vanished, an eerie tension of his nerves, a something in his brain as if fingers of mist had drawn themselves across the naked cortex and with the touch had taken something of himself. Opening his eyes he stared at the material before him. It looked exactly the same, but as he watched he saw a fragile glow of light, a vague sparkle of quickly vanished luminescence.

To one side Yalung groaned, falling to sit upright blinking and shaking his head.

"Strange," he said thickly. "So strange. And I feel now now discomfort. My thirst has gone, my hunger. But how?"

Dumarest frowned, flexing his back and shoulders. The nagging discomfort of his barely healed wounds had total shy;ly vanished and he too felt neither hunger or thirst. Lallia?

She lay sprawled on the grass, hands touching the mound, her face a strained mask of torment. As Dumarest watched, it contorted and writhed, adopting a snarling mask of hide shy;ous aspect. Then it relaxed to reveal the familiar planes and contours.

"Lallia!" He knelt at her side, touching her skin, the pulse in her throat. Her muscles were like iron.

"No!" she screamed as he tried to pull her hands from the mound. "No!" and then, quieter, "Dear God, how long, how old!"

Yalung rose, a yellow shadow to kneel at her far side. "She is ill," he said. "A fit perhaps?"

It was no fit, not unless psychic shock could be called that. Too late Dumarest remembered her wild talent, the ability to remember the past of any object she touched. The ancient book should have warned him but he had been engrossed in the possibility that it could help in his search. He had not thought of the possibility that the mound could hold a similar danger. Not even when he had recognized it as an artifact.

And now it was too late for regret.

"Earl!" She writhed again, sensing an agonizing past, the dusty span of painful years. "Three suns," she whispered. "A fault in the engines. Suspended animation and millennia of travel. Such darkness and chill and then the dust and the wakening. Too late. The crash and the waiting, the endless waiting." She twisted and moaned, midnight hair wreathed on the grass. "It's alive, Earl. Still alive. Waiting and hoping. Such forlorn longing, Earl!"

She stiffened, and from the very pores of her skin seeped a lambent effulgence, a mist of luminescence which flowed down her arms to the material of the ancient wreck and, as it finally separated from her body, she sighed and totally relaxed.

"Is she dead?" Yalung's face was a yellow mask in the shadows.

Dumarest examined her body, heart pounding with the fear of what he might find. Relieved he sat back and looked at the other man.

"Not dead," he said. "Exhausted by tremendous psychic shock. You understand?"

"Yes," said Yalung. "I understand."

"All of it?" Dumarest glanced at the mound. "It is a wrecked spaceship. It came from God alone knows where, but I will guess that it was never made in our galaxy. And, somehow, something within it is still alive."

Crippled, perhaps, hurt, but still aware. For unguessed millennia it had lain within the vessel tended only by the repair mechanisms the ship had contained-and by the enigmatic guardians if there were more than one? It was possible, they could have bred the birds and the protoplas shy;mic machines which tended the field and the Place itself. Or perhaps they were extensions of the entity within the ship, prosthetic devices governed by its intelligence. Who could begin to guess at the mental structure of an alien race?

And, by means of her talent, Lallia had contacted it. She had sent a part of her mentality back down through the ages, barely understanding, capable only of feeling the terrible shock and despair, the age-long time it had traversed the endless dark, the indescribable alienness of its emotions as it waited and waited for years without end.

For rescue, perhaps? For death? For someone to come who would know and understand?

Dumarest looked at the mound and then back at the girl. She was not dead and that was the important thing. She would lie in a coma for a while and then wake as she had back on the Moray, alive and sane and well. They would still have a future.

Stooping he lifted her in his arms.

"Where are you taking her?" Yalung glanced around the clearing then down the length of the avenue to the gate and high fence at the end. "Perhaps close to the landing field would be best. Anywhere away from this mound which seems to have distressed her."

Away from the ancient vessel, the enigmatic guardian who stood, still immobile, dancing flickers gleaming from the shadow of its cowl. Away from the brooding stillness of the Place, the psychic influences which seemed to pervade the very grass and trees.

Dumarest began to walk down the wide avenue.

He staggered and frowned. The girl was not that heavy and he felt strong enough. Strong but suddenly weary as if he had suffered some tremendous strain and fatigue was the natural aftermath. Yalung tripped and almost fell, shaking his head as he recovered his balance.

"I am fatigued," he said. "Filled with the desire to sleep. At the end of the avenue, perhaps? There is open space between the trees."

He led the way, falling to sprawl on the grass as Dumarest gently set down the body of the girl. For a long moment he stared at her, drinking in the smooth beauty of her face, the lustrous waterfall of her hair. She stirred a little sighing like a child in a pleasant dream, full lips parted to breathe his name.