Joe shook his head. «I'm not driving. In fact I'm not going.»
The sense of his words failed to penetrate at once. Then Elfane and Manaolo together turned their heads. Elfane was surprised with a lack of comprehension on her face rather than anger. Manaolo stood expressionless, his eyes dull, opaque.
Elfane said in a sharper voice, as if Joe had not understood her, «Go on out–you will drive.»
Joe casually slid his hand inside his blouse, where the little weapon rested. Manaolo's eyes flickered, the only movement of his face, but Joe knew his mind was agile and reckless.
«I don't intend driving you,» sail Joe. «You can easily ditch that corpse without me. I don't know where you're going or why. I know I'm not going with you.»
«I order you!» exclaimed Elfane. This was fantastic, insane–contrary to the axioms of her existence.
Joe shook his head, watching warily. «Sorry.»
Elfane dismissed the paradox from her mind. She turned to Manaolo. «Kill him here then. His corpse, at least, will provoke no speculation.»
Manaolo grinned regretfully. «I'm afraid the clobber-claw is aiming a gun at us. He will refuse to let me kill him.»
Elfane tightened her lips. «This is ridiculous.» She whirled. Joe brought out the gun. Elfane halted stock-still, words failing in her mouth.
«Very well,» she said in a subdued voice. «I'll give you money to be silent. Will that satisfy you?»
«Very much,» said Joe, smiling crookedly. Pride? What was pride? If it weren't for Margaret he'd enjoy... But no, she was plainly running off with this brilliant and dangerous Manaolo. Who would want a woman after his handling of her?
«How much?» asked Manaolo idly.
Joe calculated rapidly. He had four hundred stiples in his room, about a thousand he had taken from the corpse. He dismissed his calculations. Make it big. «Five thousand stiples and I've forgotten everything I've seen today.»
The figure apparently did not seem exorbitant to either of them. Manaolo felt in one pocket, then another, found a money-flap, riffled out a number of notes, tossed them to the floor.
«There's your money.»
Without a backward glance Elfane ran out on the plat, jumped into the Kelt. Manaolo strolled after her.
The Kelt jerked up, swung off into the clean air of Kyril. Joe was alone in the tall chamber.
He picked up the notes. Five thousand stiples! He went to the window, watched the air-car dwindle to a dot.
There was a small throb in his throat, a pang. Elfane was a wonderful creature. On Earth, had it not been for Margaret, he would have been entranced. But this was Kyril, where Earth was a fable. And Margaret, supple, soft, blonde as a field full of jonquils, was waiting for him to return. Or at least knew that he was expecting her to wait. With Margaret, Joe thought ruefully, the idea might not mean the same thing. Damn Harry Creath!
He became uneasily aware of his surroundings. Any one of a dozen persons might enter and find him. There would be difficulty explaining his presence. Somehow he had to return to his own quarters. He froze in his tracks. The sound of a door sliding brought an instant quickening of the pulse, a flush of sweat. He backed against the tapestry. Steps, slow, unhurried, came down the passageway.
The door scraped back. A man entered the room–a short yellow-skinned man in a blue velvet cloak–Hableyat.
III
HABLEYAT glanced briefly around the room, shook his head dolefully. «A bad business. Risky for all concerned.»
Joe, standing stiffly at the wall, found ready assent. Hableyat took a couple steps forward, peered at the floor. «Careless. Still much blood.»
He looked up, became conscious of Joe's stance. «But by all means be at your ease. Indeed be at your ease.» For a moment he inspected Joe impersonally. «No doubt your mouth has been crammed with money. A marvel you still live.»
Joe said dryly, «I was summoned here by the Priestess Elfane, who drove off in the Kelt. Otherwise I disassociate myself from the entire affair.»
Hableyat shook his head wistfully. «If you are found here with the blood on the floor you will be questioned. And since every effort will be made to hush up Empoing's assassination you will undoubtedly be killed to insure your silence.»
Joe licked his lips. «But isn't it from whom they want to hide the killing?»
Hableyat nodded. «No doubt. I represent the Power and Reach of the Mangtse Dail–that is, the Bluewater Faction. Empoing was born to the Red-streams, who follow a different school of thought. They believe in a swift succession of events.»
A strange idea formed in Joe's mind and would not be dismissed. Hableyat noticed the shift of his features. His mouth, a short fleshy crevice between the two yellow jowls, drew in at the corners.
«Yes indeed. I killed him. It was necessary, believe me. Otherwise he would have slaughtered Manaolo, who is engaged on a very important mission. If Manaolo were deterred it would be–from one viewpoint–a tragedy.»
The ideas were coming too fast–they fled by Joe's mind like a school of fish past a dip-net. It was as if Hableyat were displaying a tray full of bright wares, waiting to see which Joe would select.
Joe said warily, «Why are you telling me all this?»
Hableyat shrugged his meaty shoulders. «Whoever you are you are no simple chauffeur.»
«Ah-but I am!»
«Who or what you are has not yet been established. These are complex times, when many people and many worlds want irreconcilable things and every man's origin and intentions must be closely analyzed. My information traces you to Thuban Nine, where you served as an instructor of civil engineering at the Technical Institute. From Thuban you came to Ardemizian, then to Panapol, then to Rosalinda, then to Jamivetta, finally to Kyril.
«On each planet you remained only long enough to earn transportation to the next. There is a pattern here and where there is a pattern there is a plan. Where there is a plan there is an intent and where there is an intent there are ends to be gained. And when ends are gained someone is the loser. But I see you are uneasy. Evidently you fear discovery. Am I right?»
«I do not care to be killed.»
«I suggest that we repair to my apartment, which is nearby, and then perhaps we will have a chat. I am always eager to learn and possibly in gratitude for a safe exit from this apartment–»
A chime cut him short. He started, moved rapidly to the window, looked up, down. From the window he ran to the door, listened. He motioned to Joe. «Stand aside.»
The chime sounded again–a heavy knuckle rapped at the door. Hableyat hissed under his breath. A scratch, a scrape. The door slid aside.
A tall man with a wide red face and a little beak of a nose strode into the room. He wore a flowing white robe with a cowl and a black-green-and-gold morion atop the cowl. Hableyat slid behind him, executed a complex gesture involving a kick at the back of the man's legs, a clip of the forearm, a wrench at the wrist– and the Druid fell face down on the floor.
Joe gasped, «It's the Thearch himself! We'll be flayed.»
«Come,» said Hableyat, once more a benevolent man of business. They stepped swiftly down the hall. Hableyat slid back his door. « In.»
Hableyat's suite was larger than the chambers of the Priestess Elfane. The sitting room was dominated by a long rectangular table, the top cut from a single slab of polished dark wood inlaid with arabesque copper leaves.
Two Mang warriors sat stiffly on each side of the door–short stocky men, craggy of feature. Hableyat paid them no heed, passed them as if they were inanimate. Noting Joe's inquiring glance, he appeared to observe them for the first time.