The Chalice of Death (36 page)

There had been an immediate explosive outward push to the stars. Sirius had been the first to be colonized, in 2,573: sixty-two brave men and women. The other colonies had followed fast, frantically. The overcrowded Earth was shipping her sons and daughters to the stars in wholesale batches.

All through the second half of the Third Millennium the prevailing historical tone was one of frenzied excitement. The annals listed colony after colony.

The sky was full of worlds. The seventeen-planet system of Aldebaran yielded eight Earth-type planets suitable for Colonization. The double system of Albireo had four. Ewing passed hastily over the name-weighted pages, seeing with a little quiver of recognition the name of Blade Corwin, who seeded a colony on Epsilon Ursae Majoris XII in the year 2856.

Outward.
By the opening of the thirtieth century
, said the book,
human life had been planted on more than a thousand worlds of the universe
.

The great outward push was over. On Earth, the long-over-due establishment of population controls had ended forever the threat of overexpansion, and with it some of the impetus for colonization died. Earth's population stabilized itself at an unvarying five and a half billion; three centuries before, nearly eleven billion had jostled for room on the crowded little planet.

With population stabilization came cultural stabilization, the end of the flamboyant pioneer personality, the development of a new kind of Earthman who lacked the drive and intense ambition of his ancestors. The colonies had skimmed off the men with outward drive; the ones who remained on Earth gave rise to a culture of esthetes, of debaters and musicians and mathematicians. A subclass of menials at first sprang up to insure the continued maintenance of the machinery of civilization, but even these became unnecessary with the development of ambulatory robots.

The history of the Fourth Millennium was a predictable one; Ewing had already extrapolated it from the data given him, and it was little surprise to come across confirmation. There had been retrenchment. The robot-served culture of Earth became self-sufficient, a closed system. Births and deaths were carefully equalized.

With stability came isolation. The wild men on the colony worlds no longer had need for the mother world, nor Earth for them. Contacts withered.

In the year 3800
, said the text,
only Sirius IV of all Earth's colonies still retained regular communication with the parent planet. Representatives of the thousand other colonies were so rare on Earth as to be virtually nonexistent there
.

Only Sirius IV. It was odd, thought Ewing, that of all the colonies the harsh people of Sirius IV should alone be solicitous of the mother world. There was little in common between Rollun Firnik and the Scholar.

The more Ewing read, the less confident he became that he would find any aid for Corwin here. Earth had become a planet of gentle scholiasts, it seemed; was there anything here that could serve in the struggle against the advancing Klodni?

Possibly not. But Ewing did not intend to abandon his quest at its very beginning.

He read on, well into the afternoon, until he felt hunger. Rising, he disconnected the viewer and rewound the reels, slipping them back into their containers. His eyes were tired. Some of the physical fatigue Myreck had taken from him had begun to steal back into his body.

There was a restaurant on the sixty-third level of the hotel, according to the printed information sheet enameled on the inside of his door. He showered and dressed formally, in his second-best doublet and lace. He checked the chambers of his ceremonial blaster, found them all functioning, and strapped the weapon to his hip. Satisfied at last, he reached for the house-phone, and when the subservient roboperator answered said, “I'm going to eat dinner now. Will you notify the hotel dining room to reserve a table for one for me?”

“Of course, Mr. Ewing.”

He broke the contact and glanced once again in the mirror above his dresser to make sure his lace was in order. He felt in his pocket for his wallet; it bulged with Terrestrial paper money, enough to last him the length of his stay.

He opened the door. Just outside the door was an opaque plastic receptacle which was used for depositing messages and to Ewing's surprise the red light atop it was glowing, indicating the presence of a message within.

Pressing his thumb to the identiplate, he lifted the top of the box and drew out the note. It was neatly typed in blue capital letters. It said:

COLONIST EWING: IF YOU WANT TO STAY IN GOOD HEALTH, KEEP AWAY FROM MYRECK AND HIS FRIENDS.

It was unsigned. Ewing smiled coldly; the intrigue was beginning already, the jockeying back and forth. He had expected it. The arrival of a strange colonial on Earth was a novel enough event; it was sure to have its consequences and repercussions as his presence became more widely known.

“Open,” he said shortly to his door.

The door slid back. He reentered his room and snatched up the house phone.

The desk robot said, “How may we serve you, Mr. Ewing?”

“There seems to be a spy vent in my room some place,” Ewing said. “Send someone up to check the room over, will you?”

“I assure you, sir that no such thing could—”

“I tell you there's a concealed camera or microphone someplace in my room. Either find it or I'll check into some other hotel.”

“Yes, Mr. Ewing. We'll send an investigator up immediately.”

“Good. I'm going to the dining room, now. If anything turns up, contact me there.”

Chapter Four

The hotel dining room was gaudily, even garishly decorated. Glowing spheres of imprisoned radiant energy drifted at random near the vaulted ceiling, occasionally bobbing down to eye level. The tables themselves were banked steeply toward the outside edge, and in the very center of the room, where the floor level was lowest, a panchromaticon swiveled slowly, casting multicolored light over the diners.

A burnished, bullet-headed robot waited at the door.

“I have a reservation,” Ewing said. “Baird Ewing. Room 4113.”

“Of course, sir. Come this way, please.”

Ewing followed the robot into the main concourse of the dining room, up a sort of ramp that led to the outermost rim of the great hall, where a few empty tables were visible. The robot came to a halt in front of a table at which someone was already sitting: a Sirian girl, Ewing guessed, from her brawny appearance.

The robot pulled out the chair facing her. Ewing shook his head. “There's been some mistake made. I don't know this lady at all. I requested a table for one.”

“We ask indulgence, sir. There are no tables for one available at this hour. We consulted with the person occupying this table and were told that there was no objection to your sharing it, if you were willing to do so.”

Ewing frowned and glanced at the girl. She met his glance evenly, and smiled. She seemed to be inviting him to sit down.

He shrugged. “All right. I'll sit here.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ewing slipped into the seat and let the robot nudge it toward the table for him. He looked at the girl. She had bright red hair, trimmed in what on Corwin would be considered an extremely mannish style. She was dressed in a tailored suit of some clinging purple material; it flared sharply at the shoulders and neck. Her eyes were dark black. Her face was broad and muscular looking, with upjutting cheekbones that gave her features an oddly slant-eyed cast.

“I'm sorry if I caused you any inconvenience,” Ewing said. “I had no idea they'd place me at your table—or at any occupied table.”

“I requested it,” she said. Her voice was dark of timbre and resonant. “You're the Corwinite Ewing, I understand. I'm Byra Clork. We have something in common. We were both born on colonies of Earth.”

Ewing found himself liking her blunt, forthright approach, even though in her countryman Firnik it had been offensive. He said, “So I understand. You're a Sirian, aren't you?”

“That's right. How did you know?”

“I guessed,” Ewing said evasively. He directed his attention to the liquor panel set against the wall. “Drink?” he asked her.

“I've had one. But I don't mind if you do.”

Ewing inserted a coin and punched out a cocktail. The drink emerged from a revolving slot in the wall. The Corwinite picked it up and tasted it. It was sweet, with a disturbing undertaste of acridity.

“You said you requested my presence at your table,” Ewing remarked. “And you knew me by name. How come?”

“It isn't every day that a stranger comes to Earth,” she said, in that impossibly deep, husky, almost-masculine voice. “I was curious.”

“Many people seem to be curious about me,” Ewing said.

A robowaiter hovered at his shoulder. Ewing frowned; he said, “I don't have any idea what the speciality of the house is. Miss Clork, would you care to recommend something for my dinner?”

She said to the robot, “Give him the same thing I ordered. Venison, creamed potatoes, green beans.”

“Certainly,” murmured the robot. As it scuttled away Ewing said, “Is that the tastiest dish they have?”

“Probably. I know it's the most expensive.”

Ewing grinned. “You don't spare my pocketbook, do you?”

“You gave me free reign. Besides, you must have some money in your pocket. I saw you converting a stack of bills at the desk this morning.”

“You saw me, then?” An idea struck him. “You didn't send me a note this afternoon, did you?”

“Note?” Her broad face showed seemingly, genuine confusion. “No, I didn't send you any note. Why?”

“Someone did,” Ewing said. “I just wondered who it might have been.”

He sipped his drink thoughtfully. A few minutes later a robot arrived with their dinners. The meat smelled pungent and good. Obviously it was no synthetic; that explained its high cost.

They ate in silence for a while. When Ewing had made substantial inroads on his plate, he paused, looking up, and said, “What do you do on Earth, Miss Clork?”

She smiled. “I'm with the Sirian Consulate. I look out for the interests of any of my people who happen to visit Earth. It's a very dull job.”

“There seem to be quite a few Sirians on Earth,” Ewing remarked casually. “It must be very popular among your people as a tourist attraction.”

She seemed momentarily disconcerted by Ewing's remark. Her voice hesitated slightly as she said, “Y-yes, it's very popular. Many Sirians like to vacation on Earth.”

“How many Sirians would you say there were on Earth right now?”

This time she stiffened visibly; Ewing realized he had accidently asked a question which touched on very delicate grounds. “Just why are you interested, Colonist Ewing?”

He smiled disarmingly. “A matter of curiosity, that's all. No ulterior motives.”

She pretended the question had never been asked. Music welled up about them, blending with the vague general hum of conversation. She finished her dinner quietly, and while starting on the dessert said, “I suppose you didn't think much of Firnik.”

“Of who?”

“You met him this morning,” she said. “The Sirian. He tends to be rather clumsy at times. He's my boss, actually. Sirian Vice-Consul in Valloin.”

“Did he tell you to wangle dinner with me?” Ewing asked suddenly.

A blaze flamed in the Sirian girl's eyes, but it died down quickly enough, though with reluctance. “You put things crudely.”

“But accurately?”

“Yes.”

Ewing smiled and reached into his doublet pocket; he drew forth the anonymous note he had received earlier, unfolded it, and shoved it across the table toward her. She read it without displaying any apparent reaction, and nudged it back toward him.

“Is this the note you suspected me of having sent you?” she asked.

Ewing nodded. “I had a visit from Scholar Myreck this afternoon. Several hours later I found this note outside my door. Perhaps Vice-Consul Firnik sent it, eh?”

She stared at him as if trying to read his mind. Ewing sensed that a chess game of sorts was going on, that he was rapidly becoming the center of a web of complications. While they stared silently at each other a robot glided up to them and said, “Mr. Ewing?”

“That's right.”

“I bear a message from the manager of the hotel.”

“Let's have it,” Ewing said.

“The message is: a spyvent outlet has been discovered in your room at the intersection of the wall and the ceiling. The outlet has been removed and a protective device planted in the room to prevent any future re-insertion of spying equipment. The manager extends his deep regrets and requests you to accept a week's rent as partial compensation for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”

Ewing grinned. “Tell him I accept the offer, and that he'd better be more careful about his rooms the next time.”

When the robot was gone, Ewing stared sharply at Byra Clork and said, “Somebody was listening and watching today when I had my visitor. Was it Firnik?”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

“Then so be it,” the girl said lightly. She rose from the table and said, “Do you mind putting my meal on your account? I'm a little short of cash just now.”

She started to leave. Ewing caught a robot's eye and quickly instructed, “Bill me for both dinners. Ewing, room 4113.”

He slid past the metal creature and caught up with the Sirian girl as she approached the exit to the dining room. The sphincter-door widened; she stepped through, and he followed her. They emerged in a luxurious salon hung with abstract paintings of startling texture and hue. Fierce atonal music came pulsing out of speakers concealed near the paintings.

She was ignoring him, pointedly. She moved at a rapid pace down the main corridor of the salon, and stopped just before an inlaid blue-and-gold door. As she started to enter, Ewing grasped her by the arm. Her biceps were remarkably sturdy.