The Chalice of Death (40 page)

Fourday, 13th Fifthmonth, 3806. The office of Governor-General Mellis announced today that plans are continuing for construction of the Gerd River Dam, despite Sirian objections that the proposed power plant project would interfere with the power rights granted them under the Treaty of 3804. The Governor-General declared
—

Ewing did not care what the Governor-General had declared. His sole purpose in turning on the telestat had been to find out the date.

Fourday, the thirteenth of Fifthmonth. He calculated backward. He had had his interview with Mellis the previous Fiveday evening; that had been the seventh of Fifthmonth. On Fiveday night—Sixday morning, actually—he had been kidnapped by Firnik.

Two days later, on Oneday, he had awakened and the torture began. Oneday, Twoday, Threeday—and this was Fourday. The torture had lasted no more than two days, then. The stranger had rescued him either on Twoday or Threeday, and he had slept through until today.

He remembered something else: he had made his appointment with Myreck for Fournight. Tonight.

The house phone chimed.

Ewing debated answering it for a moment; it chimed again more insistently, and he switched it on. The robotic voice said, “There is a call for you, Mr. Ewing. Shall we put it through?”

“Who's it from?” he asked cautiously.

“The party did not say.”

He considered. “Okay,” he said finally. “Put whoever it is on.”

Moments later the screen brightened and Ewing saw the hairless image of Scholar Myreck staring solicitously at him. “Have I disturbed you?” Myreck asked.

“Not at all,” Ewing said. “I was just thinking about you. We had an appointment for tonight, didn't we?”

“Ah—yes. But I have just received an anonymous call telling me you have had a rather unfortunate experience. I was just wondering if I could be of any service to you in alleviating your pain.”

Ewing remembered the miraculous massage Myreck had given him earlier. He also considered the fact that the hotel he was in belonged to Firnik, and no doubt the Sirian would be fully recuperated from his stunning soon and out looking for him. It was unwise to remain in the hotel any longer.

He smiled. “I'd be very grateful if you would be. You said you'd arrange to pick me up, didn't you?”

“Yes. We will be there in a few minutes.”

Chapter Nine

It took only eleven minutes from the time Ewing broke contact to the moment when Myreck rang up from the hotel lobby to announce that he had arrived. Ewing took the rear liftshaft down, and moved cautiously through the vast lobby toward the energitron concession, which was where the Scholar had arranged to meet him.

A group of Earthers waited there for him. He recognized Myreck, and also the uniped he had seen the first morning at the terminal. The other two were equally grotesque in appearance. In a pitiful quest for individuality, they had given themselves up to the surgeon's knife. One had a row of emerald-cut diamonds mounted crest-fashion in a bare swath cut down the center of his scalp; the inset jewels extended past his forehead, ending with one small gem at the bridge of his nose. The fourth had no lips, and a series of blue cicatrices incised in parallel lines on his jaws. For the first time Ewing felt no distaste at the sight of these altered Earthmen, partly because he was so exhausted physically and partly because he was growing accustomed to the sight of them.

Myreck said, “The car is outside.”

It was a stubby three-color model which seemed not to have any windows whatever. Ewing wondered whether it was robocontrolled, or whether the driver drove by guesswork. He found out quickly enough when he got in, and discovered that the dome of green plastic that roofed the car was actually a sheet of some one-way viewing material; far from having no access to the outside world, the driver and passengers had a totally unobstructed view in all directions, and unlimited privacy as well.

Myreck drove; or rather, he put the car in motion, and then guided it by deft occasional wrist-flicks on the directional control. They turned south, away from the spaceport, and glided along a broad highway for nearly eight miles, turning eastward sharply into what seemed like a surburban district. Ewing slumped tiredly in his corner of the car, now and then peering out at the neat, even rows of houses, each one surmounted by its own glittering privacy shield.

At last they pulled up at the side of the road. Ewing was startled to see nothing before them but an empty lot. There were some houses further down the street, and plenty of parking space in front of them; why had Myreck chosen to park here?

Puzzled, he got out. Myreck stared cautiously in all directions, then took a key made of some luminous yellow metal from his pocket and advanced toward the empty lot, saying, “Welcome to the home of the College of Abstract Science.”

“Where?”

Myreck pointed to the lot. “Here, of course.”

Ewing squinted; something was wrong about the air above the lot. It had a curious pinkish tinge, and seemed to be shimmering, as if heat-waves were rising from the neatly tended grass.

Myreck held his key in front of him, stepped into the lot and groped briefly in mid-air, as if searching for an invisible keyhole. And indeed he seemed to find it; the key vanished for three-quarters of its length.

A building appeared.

It was a glistening pink dome, much like the other houses in the neighborhood; but it had a curious impermanence about it. It seemed to be fashioned of dream-stuff. The lipless Earther grasped him firmly by the arm and pushed him forward, into the house. The street outside disappeared.

“That's a neat trick,” Ewing said. “How do you work it?”

Myreck smiled. “The house is three microseconds out of phase with the rest of the street. It always exists just a fraction of an instant in Absolute Past, not enough to cause serious temporal disturbance but enough to conceal it from our many enemies.”

Goggle-eyed, Ewing said, “You have temporal control?”

The Earther nodded. “The least abstract of our sciences. A necessary defense.”

Ewing felt stunned. Gazing at the diminutive Earther with new-found respect, he thought,
This is incredible
! Temporal control had long been deemed theoretically possible, ever since the publication of Blackmuir's equations more than a thousand years before. But Corwin had had little opportunity for temporal research, and such that had been done had seemed to imply that Blackmuir's figures were either incorrect or else technologically un-implementable. And for these overdecorated Earthers to have developed them! Unbelievable!

He stared through a window at the quiet street outside. In Absolute Time, he knew, the scene he was observing was three microseconds in the future, but the interval was so minute that for all practical purposes it made no difference to the occupants of the house. It made a great difference to anyone outside who wanted to enter illegally, though; there was no way to enter a house that did not exist in present time.

“This must involve an enormous power-drain,” Ewing said.

“On the contrary. The entire operation needs no more than a thousand watts to sustain itself. Our generator supplies fifteen-amp current. It's astonishingly inexpensive, though we never could have met the power demands had we tried to project the house an equivalent distance into the
future
. But there's time to talk of all this later. You must be exhausted. Come.”

Ewing was led into a comfortably-furnished salon lined with microreels and music disks. Plans were pinwheeling in his head, nearly enough to make him forget the fatigue that overwhelmed his body.
If these Earthers have temporal control
, he thought,
and if I can induce them to part with their device or its plans
…

It's pretty far-fetched. But we need something far-fetched to save us now. It might work
.

Myreck said, “Will you sit here?”

Ewing climbed into a relaxing lounger. The Earther dialed him a drink and slipped a music disk into the player. Vigorous music filled the room: foursquare harmonics, simple and yet ruggedly powerful. He liked the sort of sound it made—a direct emotional appeal.

“What music is that?”

“Beethoven,” Myreck said. “One of our ancients. Would you like me to relax you?”

“Please.”

Ewing felt Myreck's hands at the base of his skull once again. He waited. Myreck's hands probed the sides of his neck, lifted, jabbed down sharply. For one brief moment Ewing felt all sensation leave his body; then physical awareness returned, but without consciousness of the pain.

“That feels wonderful,” he said. “It's as if Firnik never worked me over at all, except for these bruises I have as souvenirs.”

“They'll vanish shortly. Somatic manifestations usually do once the pain-source is removed.”

He leaned back, exulting in the sensation of feeling no pain as if he had spent all his life, and not merely the past three of four days, in a state of hellish physical discomfort. The music was fascinating, and the drink he held warmed him. It was comforting to know that somewhere in the city of Valloin was a sanctuary where he was free from Firnik for as long as he chose.

The Earthers were filing in now—eleven or twelve of them, shy little men with curious artificial deformities of diverse sorts. Myreck said, “There are the members of the College currently in residence. Others are doing research elsewhere. I don't know what sort of colleges you have on Corwin, but ours is one only in the most ancient sense of the word. We draw no distinctions between master and pupil here. We all learn equally, from one another.”

“I see. And which of you developed the temporal control system?”

“Oh, none of us did that. Powlis was responsible, a hundred years ago. We've simply maintained the apparatus and modified it.”

“
A hundred years
?” Ewing was appalled. “It's a hundred years since the art was discovered and you're still lurking in holes and corners, letting the Sirians push you out of control of your own planet?”

Ewing realized he had spoken too strongly. The Earthers looked abashed; some of them were almost at the verge of tears.
They're like children
, he thought wonderingly.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

A slim Earther with surgically-augmented shoulders said, “Is it true that your world is under attack by alien beings from a far galaxy?”

“Yes. We expect attack in ten years.”

“And will you be able to defeat them?”

Ewing shrugged. “We'll try. They've conquered the first four worlds they've attacked, including two that were considerably stronger than we are. We don't have much hope of winning. But we'll try.”

Sadly Myreck said, “We had been wondering if it would be possible for us to leave Earth and emigrate to your world soon. But if you face destruction …” He let his voice trail off.

“Emigrate to Corwin? Why would you do that?”

“The Sirians soon will rule here. They will put us to work for them, or else kill us. We're safe as long as we remain in this building—but we must go out from time to time.”

“You have temporal control. You could duck back into yesterday to avoid pursuit.”

Myreck shook his head. “Paradoxes are caused. Multiplication of personality. We fear these things, and we would hesitate to bring them about.”

Shrugging, Ewing said, “You have to take chances. Caution is healthy only when not carried to excess.”

“We had hoped,” said a dreamy-eyed Earther sitting in the corner, “that we could arrange with you for a passage to Corwin. On the ship you came on, possibly.”

“It was a one-man ship.”

Disappointment was evident. “In that case, perhaps you could send a larger ship for us. We have none, you see. Earth stopped building ships two centuries ago, and gradually most of the ones we had were either sold or fell into disuse. The Sirians now control such industries on Earth, and refuse to let us have ships. So the galaxy we once roamed is closed to us.”

Ewing wished there were some way he could help these futile, likable little dreamers. But no solutions presented themselves. “Corwin has very few ships itself,” he said. “Less than a dozen capable of making an interstellar journey with any reasonable number of passengers. And any ships we might have would certainly be requisitioned by the military for use in the coming war against the Klodni. I don't see any way we could manage it. Besides,” he added, “even if I left Earth tomorrow, I wouldn't be back on Corwin for nearly a year. And it would take another year for me to return to Earth with a ship for you. Do you think you could hold out against the Sirians that long?”

“Possibly,” Myreck said, but he sounded doubtful. There was silence a moment. Then the Scholar said, “Please understand that we would be prepared to pay for our passage. Not in money, perhaps, but in service. Possibly we are in command of certain scientific techniques not yet developed on your world. In that case you might find our emigration quite valuable.”

Ewing considered that. Certainly the Earthers had plenty to offer—the temporal-control device, foremost among them. But he could easily picture the scene upon his return to Corwin, as he tried to get the Council to approve use of a major interstellar freighter to bring refugee scientists from the Earth that had failed to help them. It would never work. If they only had some super-weapon—

But, of course, if they had a super-weapon they would have no need of fleeing the Sirians. Round and round, with no solution.

He moistened his lips. “Perhaps I can think of something,” he said. “The cause isn't quite hopeless yet. But meanwhile—”

Myreck's eyes brightened. “Yes?”

“I'm quite curious about your temporal-displacement equipment. Would it be possible for me to examine it?”

Myreck exchanged what seemed like a dubious glance with several of his comrades. After a moment's hesitation he returned his attention to Ewing and said, in a slightly shaky voice, “I don't see why not.”