Vardoon looked at his wine, drank, stared at the little remaining in the goblet. It shimmered with the amplified vibrations received from the quiver of his hand.

"It makes sense," continued Dumarest. "A man on the run, scared, trying to build a stake to get back. It's something you can't live without once it gets into the blood. The excitement, the fever, the lure of the game. Gambling for life and fortune. Something bred into the bone if you were born here and of the Orres. How long has it been now? Twenty-five years? Moving from world to world, working, trying to build a fortune, losing it as you tried to make it larger. Hitting the bottom and trying again."

Trying and failing until, on Polis, he had met the one man who could provide the answer. A desperate gamble won at the cost of another's safety. Something he couldn't have known.

"You think I'm Emil Velen?"

Dumarest shrugged and sipped again at his wine. "I don't know. I don't care. But if Kalova thinks you are it could be the reason he wants to ruin Fiona. An old blood feud. A relative dead, a friend-what does it matter? You're here that's all that matters."

"But-" Vardoon broke off, shaking his head. "I could never prove it," he muttered. "God, what a mess! If Fiona loses-"

"Kalova moves in. He gets the holding and you with it. Still want to hold onto your share?"

Marc Bulem was old, stooped, his eyes suspicious beneath tufted brows. He received Dumarest in a chamber filled with the scent of age; books, tapestries, scrolls-decaying parchments and papers yielding their insidious effluvium. An atmosphere which suited his thin, scholastic face, his gnarled and blotched hands. A man lost in a world of the past, of speculation and legend, of great deeds done in remote times, of sagas and chants and litanies. Of forgotten crusades.

"Dumarest," he said. "Earl Dumarest. I don't know you but all visitors are welcome. Do you have books to sell? Some retrieved information? Facts as yet unknown to me?"

The wrong man but a natural mistake. Dumarest had asked for the head of the house; a title Marc must hold by courtesy. He blinked when Dumarest explained.

"You must want Melvin. My younger brother but far more clever than I. Our fortunes depend on him. A moment while I correct the error."

He moved away to leave Dumarest standing before the long windows at the far end of the chamber. Overhead the sky was dull with cloud and a mist of rain had wetted the panes with a scatter of droplets. To the north clouds were darker, roiling beneath the impact of high winds.

"He will be with us in a while," said Marc as he returned. "A matter of business, you understand. At times it never seems to end. Well, I've been done with that for years now. It was never my strength, you understand. I lack the quickness of mind, the skill, the killer instinct needed to survive. Which is why Melvin was voted Head at a Family Council. No disrespect, you understand, but even I could recognize the need."

One admitted too late, perhaps; Bulem was tottering on the edge of ruin. A fact Dumarest did not mention as he listened to the old man.

"My interest has always been in the past. Books, records, old artifacts, old legends. Did you know that Eden actually exists? The fabled world of comfort and luxury often mentioned in old stories?"

A common name; Dumarest had visited three worlds bearing it. "Is that a fact?"

"I could give you the coordinates. Bonanza, too, a world of incredible mineral wealth. One day, if things get too bad, I will arrange an expedition to go there and restore our fortunes."

A madman, or a man made mad by the pressure of life on Sacaweena. One living in a dream, finding comfort in false resources, strength in his supposed knowledge. Now he bustled about the room, lifting books, setting them down to handle a scroll, a file from which he blew dust.

"It's all in here; facts and coordinates and all the old legends sifted and turned into concrete fact. Did you know that, at one time, all men lived in a single world? They left it to reach out to form new settlements. Thousands of them! Millions! Small groups wanting to live as they decided, free from all restraint and compulsion. A long time ago now but such great events. See! Let me show you! I have the proof!"

Dust faded print on moldering pages. Stained lists and scrawled annotations. Insertions from other sources, references legible only to the old man, notes of complex ambiguity. The gossamer fabric of hope and fantasy.

"You see? They're all here. Worlds of wealth and promise. We have no need to worry. No need at all." He held out the book. "Jackpot, Avalon, Erce-they're all here!"

"Erce?" Dumarest reached for the book. "The old name of this world?"

"Yes, but it was borrowed from another. The mother planet, perhaps. The source of all life as we know it. The pure, original world." Pages fluttered in the thin hands. "Look! See this reference! This deposition! All life stemmed from the primordial egg. The fruit of cosmic forces which sparked off sentient awareness. One original race which later split into the factions we know. One original world which held that new and pristine life. A state of grace which lasted for millennia and then something happened. The race split and fragmented to leave the home they had known. They scattered and spread as if from a point of utter corruption. To fly in terror to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

The creed of the Original People. Could this man be one of them? The Orres itself be a part of the sect? The name itself held significance; the Original Residents-the Original People. Given their known love of secrecy such a change would be logical.

Did the coordinates of Earth lie in those moldering pages?

"No!" The old man snatched the book away from the reaching hand. "You are after my secrets!"

"You offered to show me the book."

"You tricked me." The suspicious eyes became cunning. "You are trying to steal my knowledge. Who sent you here? The Maximus? Helm? Ashen? Chargel? Enemies all of them. I am surrounded by enemies. They would ruin my House. Steal my fortune. Help! Help!"

He backed, the book clutched tight in mottled hands, pressed hard against the hollowed chest. A man terrified by the ghosts of his own distorted imagination. He spun as servants ran into the room, a tall, well-built man at their head. "Melvin! Be warned! The man is an enemy!"

The wine was sweet, touched with honey and roses, holding a golden warmth which added brightness to the musty chamber and helped to dispel a little of the external gloom.

Lifting his glass, Melvin Bulem said, "I am in your debt, Earl. I drink to your health." A sip. "To your fortune." Another sip. "To your success."

Dumarest followed the ritual as he studied the other man. He was younger than his brother, hard instead of soft, direct instead of devious, the eyes shrewd but free of the suspicious cunning. Even so he betrayed the signs of anxiety which had marked Fiona's face with premature lines, his own now a mask of studied courtesy.

He said, "I must apologize, Earl. Need I explain that my brother is not wholly as other men? His illusions, at times, threaten to overwhelm him. The talk of all men having lived on a single planet, for example. An apparent absurdity; how could such divergent types rise on a single world? A common environment must lead to a common race. And the talk of a cosmic egg and the babble he repeats about the need for men to expiate sin. Did you examine the book? No? A pity, if you had you would have seen it composed of rubbish. Even his talk varies at times; today it will be an expedition to Bonanza to restore our fortunes, tomorrow Avalon, the day after he will have wrested a secret from an old parchment and boast of immortality."