After she left he prowled restlessly around the underground rooms,
looking, touching, exploring. He tried to find the controls for the
illuminated walls, and there were none. Every square inch of the smooth
plastic seemed exactly like every other. The other devices--even the
uses of some he could not determine--were the same. There were no
switches or other controls. It was all very puzzling.
He spent most of his time in the main room where Krasna had left the
walls lighted, for the unfamiliar darkness of the others gave him
the eerie feeling that something was watching him from behind. Some
of the fittings seemed unaccountably familiar, although operating
on principles he was unable to understand. The sense of familiarity
amid strangeness gave him a schizophrenic sensation, as though two
personalities struggled for control, two personalities with different
life-patterns and experiences. A most unsettling feeling.
He thought of Margaret, longingly, and then of Victor. His fist
clenched and his lips tightened. If Schenley were still alive, some
day there would be a reckoning. Schenley had been sure of himself and
had boasted. And now, he was sure, Margaret knew just what sort of rat
Victor really was.
His thoughts turned to his anomalous position with the red-haired girl.
Krasna had brought him out of the perilous forest purely because she
thought he was this wonderful El-ve-don. And now he was living in her
home, entirely dependent upon her sense of pity. It was galling.
He found a large rack containing scrolls mounted on cleverly designed
double rollers, and after the first few minutes of puzzling out the
writing letter by letter he found himself reading with growing fluency.
Part of the same hypnotic and telepathic process, he reflected,
through which Krasna had taught him her spoken language. At first he
read mainly to escape his own unpleasant thoughts and keep occupied,
but then he grew interested. Brief, undetailed references began to
make pictures--the Gateway--the Fortress of Sin--the Forest People,
evidently the clan to which Krasna belonged--the Luvans--Sasso.
His mind squirmed away from that last impression. Gradually the
disconnected pictures began to form a sequence.
He was still reading hours later when Krasna emerged from the tunnel.
She gave a little sigh of fatigue, dropped her heavy weapon belt, and
started to undress. But the lemur-thing interrupted. It raced down the
tunnel, a furry streak that chattered for attention.
"Later, Tikta," Krasna told it, continuing to disrobe. "I'm too tired
to understand."
The sight of her loveliness as she stepped into the warm pool gave
Eldon no pleasure. If everything had been different.... Instead it
brought rankling resentment, of her, of his condition, of everything.
She looked at him just as impersonally as she did at her lemur. It was
evident she did not consider him a man, a person. He was just something
she had picked up by mistake and was too kind-hearted to dispose of.
Under the circumstances it would have been ridiculous for him to turn
away.
"Now, Tikta," she said after her bath, sinking down on one of the
couches.
The little creature ran to her, leaped to her shoulder and placed its
tiny handlike front paws on opposite sides of her head. Krasna closed
her eyes.
To Eldon, observing closely, it was like watching someone who was
seeing an emotional movie. Hate, anger, hope, surprise, puzzlement, all
followed each other across her mobile, expressive features, ending in
disappointment and disgust. At last Tikta removed its paws and Krasna
opened her eyes.
"Your--friends--" she hesitated over the word. "They are in Varda.
Both."
"Is the girl all right? Where are they? How do you know? Did you see
them?" The questions tumbled from Eldon's lips.
Krasna smiled faintly. "No, I have not seen them. But Tikta can catch
the thoughts of all wild things that can not guard their minds, and
tell me. The wild things saw your--friends." Again she hesitated, and
this time made a grimace of angry distaste.
"Where is the girl? Can you take me to her?" he demanded excitedly.
"No. They are both beyond the Mountains that Move."
"So?"
"In the land of the Faith," she snapped.
"But couldn't you--?"
Pity was almost smothered in stern contempt as she looked at him. "We
do not go among the Faith except for a purpose. And that purpose is not
returning you to your--friends."
"But your people?"
"They would not help you if they could. For I am Krasna."
He did not grasp the significance of her words but the firmness of
her tone indicated there was no use arguing with this self-willed,
red-haired person. Nevertheless he resolved to try to find Margaret,
and as soon as possible.
Krasna's eyes widened with apprehension at his thought.
"You are a fool. And if you must try you had better read all the
scrolls first. Only El-ve-don could survive, and the death of the Faith
is not easy."
Eldon cursed silently. This damnable girl, although beautiful in her
own odd way, not only insulted him with her pity but invaded his mind.
"Well, shut your mind if you don't like it," she snapped angrily.
"You're odd, too, and far from beautiful."
* * * * *
Margaret Matson opened her eyes. A strange man stood over her, and what
a man! He was huge and hard looking, with dark, wind-toughened skin.
He was dressed in some sort of barbaric military uniform, colorful and
heavily decorated. And he was playing with a needle pointed dagger.
Her mouth opened. "Victor!" she screamed.
Her voice reverberated hollowly from the curved walls and roof of a
small metal room. The big man screwed up his face at the shrill noise.
"Victor! Help me!" she shouted again.
Victor failed to answer.
"Eldon!" she yelled.
The big warrior spun his dagger casually, the way a boy would play with
a stick. His lips curled back in a wolfish grin, emphasizing two of his
strong white teeth that projected beyond the others like fangs. His
whole appearance was brutal.
"Where am I? What do you want with me?" she gasped. Then her glance
followed the man's eyes. Her form-fitting evening gown was torn and
disarrayed. She snatched it down with a show of indignant modesty, and
the man grinned widely. One corner of his mouth twitched.
Margaret would have been even more frightened except that the big
soldier's reaction struck a familiar note that lent her confidence. He
spoke, but his words were gibberish.
Then from a wall locker he produced two helmet-like devices, metal
frames with pieces of some translucent material set to touch the
wearer's temples.
She started to draw away as he stooped to push one over her hair,
but submitted when he frowned and fingered the point of his knife. He
donned the other helmet.
"My name is Wor, _merta_ of the Forces and _torna_ to Great Sasso
Himself." She understood him now.
"You and I might be good friends--if Sin allows," he continued. "You
bear a great resemblance to Highness Sin, even though your color is
faded."
Despite her position Margaret bridled angrily. Wor laughed
uproariously. "Your temper is like Highness Sin's too," he declared
appreciatively.
"Who--who is this Sin?"
"You will find out," Wor replied evenly. Then his face sobered and
softened. "If you want a chance to be with me, take my advice and be
careful what you say and even what you think. Sin is all-powerful--and
jealous. She _knew_ when you appeared in our world."
"Where is Victor?" Margaret asked. "Is he--?"
"The one-armed one, or the other?"