But this was a man with a talent akin to hers, equal, she believed. And she could not forget the actions on Turan’s time level that had endangered them both, that they had shared as comrades, though he was now the enemy. He made her feel self-conscious, wary in a way she had not experienced before.
Yet he was not in any way imposing; only a fraction perhaps over middle height, and so slender it made him seem less. She had been right about the hue of his skin: that was a warm dark brown, which she was sure was natural, and not induced by long exposure to space. And his hair, in the sun, shown in tight black curls. Of Terran descent she was sure, but he could be a mutation, as so many of the First Wave colonists now were, tens and hundreds of generations later.
He settled down beside her, watching her thoughtfully as if she presented some type of equation he must solve. And because she found that silence between them frightening, she asked a question:
“What ship lifted then?”
“The Jacks’. They tangled with some of their own, at least it looked so. Beat the attackers off, then lifted. But there was not much left of the opposition. I think a couple, three at the most, made it out of range when the ship blasted.”
“Ogan! He will be after—“ she said eagerly and then could have bitten her tongue in anger at that self-betrayal.
“After you? No—he cannot trace us even if he wants to. We have a shield up no one can break.”
“So what are you going to do now?” Ziantha came directly to the point, unwillingly conceding that he might be truthful. No one should underrate the Patrol.
“For a time we wait. And while we do so, this is a good time to make you understand that I do not want to hold you like this.” He pointed to the tangle cords which restrained her so completely.
“Do you expect me to promise no attempts to escape, with erasure awaiting me?”
“What would you escape to? This is not exactly a welcoming world.” There was a reasonableness in his words that awoke irritation in her. “Food, water—and those others”—now he waved to the cliff—“wandering around. You are far safer here. Safer than you might be in Singakok that was.” For the first time he gave indication that he remembered their shared past. “At least the High Consort is not setting her hounds to our trail.”
He took a packet of smoke sticks from a seal pocket, snapped the end of one alight, and inhaled thoughtfully the sweet scent. By all appearances he was as much at ease as he would be in some pleasure palace on Korwar, and his placidity fed her irritation.
“What are we waiting for?” Ziantha demanded, determined to know the worst as soon as possible.
“For a chance to get back to my ship. I do not intend to carry you all the way there. In fact, since I may have to fight for the privilege of seeing it again, I could not if I would. There is an alarm broadcast going out; the Patrol ship in this region must already have picked it up. We can expect company, and we can wait for it here. Unless you are reasonable and agree to make no trouble. Then we shall make for the scout and be, I assure you, far more comfortable.”
“Comfortable for you—not for me. When I know what is before me!”
He sighed. “I wish you would listen and not believe that you already know all the answers.”
“With the Patrol I do—as far as I am concerned!” she flared.
“And who said,” he returned calmly, “that I represent the Patrol?”
17
For a moment Ziantha did not understand. When she did she smiled derisively. What a fool he must believe her to think she would accept that. When he sat before her wearing a Patrol uniform. When—
“Clothes,” he continued, “do not necessarily denote status. Yes, I have been working with the Patrol. But on my own account, and I do this only for a space because my case seemed to match one of theirs. You see, I have been hunting the Eyes—without knowing just what I sought—for a long time.”
The Eyes! Where were they now—in his keeping? Ziantha wriggled her shoulders in an abortive struggle against the cords and desisted at once when they tightened warningly about her with a pressure sharp enough to teach a lesson.
“They are still yours.” He might have been reading her thoughts, though she was unaware of any probe.
“If you are not Patrol—then who are you—wearing that insignia?” She made that a challenge, refusing to believe that he was more than trying to lull her for his own purposes.
“I am a sensitive associated with the Hist-Techneer Zorbjac, leader of a Zacathan expedition to X One. And for your information X One is the sister planet of this in the Yaka system.” He inhaled from the scented stick again. Harath clawed his way up over the rocks behind, as if he had been on a scouting expedition, and settled down by the stranger’s knee.
“Ogan there.” The alien’s thoughts were open. “One other—hurt. The rest are dead.”
He snapped out his tentacles and took to smoothing his body down with the same unconcern the stranger displayed.
“A year ago,” the other continued, “finds made on X One were plundered by a Jack force. I was asked to trace down the stolen objects, since my field is archaeological psychometry. I followed the trail to Korwar. We recovered seven pieces there; that is when I joined forces with the Patrol. The eighth was the Eye you apported from Jucundus’s place. The backlash of that apport was what set me on your track—that and Harath.” He dropped one hand to the alien’s head in a caress to which Harath responded with a broadcast of content.
“Then—was it you at Waystar, too?”
“Yes. When the apport was made I was certain that a sensitive would know what it was, try to trace it. We have our people on Waystar; they alert us as to unusual finds that come in as loot. During the past seasons we have built up a loose accord with a couple of the Jack captains, offering them more than they can get from fences to sell us pieces or information.”
“How did you get Harath to join you?”
He laughed. “Ask him that. He came to me on Korwar of his own. I gathered that he had not been too happy at the use Ogan made of him. And I knew that he could serve as a link with you when I might need one. I was right, as you were willing to link with him at once—though I did not bargain for that linkage to be so tight as to pull me into Turan.” He grimaced. “That was a challenge I would not want to face again.”
“You knew about the Eyes all the time!” She had an odd feeling of being cheated, as if she had performed a difficult task to no purpose at all.
“Not so! I knew that that ugly little lump Jucundus bought was something more powerful than it looked to be. One could sense that easily. But the Eyes—no, I had no idea of their existence. What they are seems to be infinitely greater than any discovery the Zacathans have made in centuries.”
“But,” Ziantha came directly back to the part of his story that shadowed her future, “you joined with the Patrol to run us down. You wear their uniform.”
He sighed. “It was necessary for me to take rank for a while. I am not Patrol.”
“Then who are you?”
Again he laughed. “I see that I have been backward in the ordinary courtesies of life, gentle fem. My name is Ris Lantee, and I am Wyvern trained if that means anything—“
“It means,” she flashed, “that you are a liar! Everyone knows that the Wyverns do not deal with males!”
“That is so,” he agreed readily. “Most males. But I was born on their world; my parents are mind-linked liaison officers, both of whom the Wyvern council have accepted. When I was born with the power, they bowed to the fact I possessed it, and they gave me training. Can one sensitive lie to another?”
Though he invited her probe with that, Ziantha was reluctant to let her own barrier down. To hold it against him was her defense. He waited, and when she did not try to test his response, he frowned slightly.
“We waste time with your suspicions,” he commented. “Though I suppose they are to be expected. But would I open my mind if I were trying to conceal anything from you? You know that is impossible.”
“So far I have thought it impossible. But you say you are Wyvern trained, and the Wyverns deal with hallucinations—“