He turned, remembering that he had a guest, conscious of the rule of hospitality.
"Come," he said, leading the way to the raft. "You must not allow me to bore you with our problems. It is time I welcomed you to my house."
* * *
It was a big place with massive walls of mortared stone, beamed with foot-thick timbers, many-storied and strewn with a clutter of outhouses, workshops, stores and barns. The center of a compact village which, as far as Dumarest could see, was entirely self-supporting.
Sitting at one end of the table, close to his host, he looked over the assembly as they ate their evening meal. The food was good, heaped plates accompanied by jugs of wine and beer, perfectly cooked and dispensed with a lavish hand. The people bore the stamp of similarity, olive skinned, liquid eyed, happy in an unsophisticated way. Inbred, he guessed, content to live close to nature, eating well, working hard when the occasion demanded but unreliable if it came to hardship. A soft and protected people embraced by a feudal system, serfs in fact if not in name.
But not Quendis. He sat, a king in his castle, his wife at his side and next to her a young man who could only have been his son. His eldest son, Dumarest guessed, the likeness was unmistakable.
"A toast!" Quendis rose, goblet in hand. "To the guest within my walls!"
To the guest!"
The toast signaled the end of the meal. As the empty goblets rattled on the table the assembly headed from the room, leaving Quendis, his wife and son, and Dumarest alone. As servants bustled forward to clear away the debris the grower leaned toward his guest.
"If it is your pleasure we will adjourn to a smaller chamber. My wife and son are eager to hear the story you bring."
The room was pleasant; a bowl of assorted fruit stood on a table together with a decanter of some thick, yellow fluid. Susan poured, handing around the glasses, smiling at Dumarest as she lifted her own.
"To you, many thanks for your trouble," she said. "Carl was close to my heart. Now tell us, how did he die?"
"Bravely, my lady." Dumarest sipped at the liqueur. It was astringently cool, kind to throat and stomach, bearing the scent of flowers. He settled back as he told his lies, padding what he had said to the inspector, giving the dead man the aura of a hero who had given his life to save that of his friend. He ended, "He was a good man. I shall never forget him."
"You knew him long?" Cleon leaned forward, his drink forgotten.
"Not long, but when you work with a man you know him well."
"He always wanted to travel. I remember him talking about it when I was young and again before he left. The galaxy is full of worlds, he told me, new planets filled with waiting adventure. Have you traveled far?"
"Yes," said Dumarest.
"And for long?"
Too long. Riding High with the magic of quick time compressing hours into minutes, riding Low doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, gambling each time that the fifteen percent death rate would hit other targets. Drifting from world to world, working, moving on, looking, always looking.
"Yes," he said flatly. "For a long time."
"I wish I could travel," said Cleon. "I-" He broke off. "Well, it's too late now. My first journey will be my last."
"Cleon has been chosen," said the woman quietly, breaking the awkward silence. "He is to go with the next batch of tribute." She turned to the young man. "You had better retire now. You were up all last night and out most of the day."
"But-"
"Go!" snapped Quendis. He looked at Dumarest as Cleon left the room. "I must apologize for my son. Not usually is he so disobedient."
"He must have a lot on his mind," said Dumarest. "What happens to those who are chosen?"
"They go to Technos," said Quendis bitterly. "After that we simply don't know. No word has ever been received from any of those taken. They could be put to work as servants or used as guards on other worlds. They might even be bred and their children used as janissaries, such as those you saw at the gate. They could be killed, slaughtered for sport, used to provide regrafts for the local population. We simply don't know."
"Don't think about it, husband." The woman was quick to change the subject, "Did you have a productive meeting?"
"No, everything went as usual. It was a waste of time attending. Colton had some idea of us all pooling our labor, concentrating on essential foods, and all working together to clear an individual farm. I left shortly after it began."
"So early? But you did not arrive home until late."
"We called at Delmayer's place," explained the grower. "Earl wanted to see him. He hoped that he could learn something from his collection. It's all ruined now, of course, and Delmayer is dead. Now he will never know if the man had the information he wanted."
"He might," said Susan. "Elaine might know."
"His daughter?" Quendis frowned. "But how-" He broke off, snapping his fingers. "Of course! Her talent! She can remember everything she has ever seen or heard," he explained to Dumarest. "A truly phenomenal memory. She was close to Delmayer, his wife died shortly after she was born and he never remarried, and he took delight in showing her the old things. Books and charts, ancient records, things like that. She used to play with them. I wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't read every word in his library."
An eidetic memory? It was possible. It was a common talent among the scattered peoples of the galaxy, minor to some found among the sensitives, and there was no reason to doubt what Quendis had said. Dumarest glanced at the woman. She, too, was revealing nothing but truth.
He said, "This woman. Where can I find her?"
Quendis slumped. "I'm sorry, Earl, I had forgotten. She moved to Technos years ago. Before the trouble started. She could still be there, but I don't know how you can reach her. You need special clearance from the planet itself before they will permit you to land and there is a complete ban on arrivals from Loame."
Dumarest remembered the interest of the officer at the gate, the details he had taken and recorded. He looked at his hands, at the glow of the ring as it caught the light.
"I can reach her," he said quietly. "If you will help me."
"Help you?" Quendis was puzzled. "How?"
"By letting me take Cleon's place."
He saw the look, the sudden understanding in the man's eyes, the flare of hope on the woman's face as she leaned toward him. It died as Quendis shook his head.
"No, Earl. It can't be done. I won't allow it."
But he would, Dumarest knew. He would permit it because it was the thing he wanted, what both he and his wife wanted. He pressed the point as if the objection hadn't been made.
"They go by numbers not faces. They won't care who goes as long as the total is filled, but it isn't just a matter of my taking his place, he will have to take mine. I'm recorded at the gate," he explained. "They know that I am with you and they expect me to report back. Now, if Cleon pretends to be me, no one will ask any questions. He must wear my clothes and it would be best for him to catch a ship when that particular inspector is off duty. He could go tonight; the man must sleep, and, in any case, it will be dark. The ship leaves at dawn. Have you money? The cost of a High passage?"
"Yes," said the woman. "Oh, yes."
"And he must wear a ring. A red stone in a band of gold. Can you obtain such a ring?"