The Quillian Sector

"Very good. As I told you, we are expanding and there is room for a good man to climb high and reach the top. Frankly, I'd like Earl to be that man, but I guess to hope for that is to hope for too much. Well, that's the way it goes." Then, casually, he added, "Of course, he would need to be married before we could consider him for the position."

"Married?"

"It makes for stability. A man with a wife and children is more likely to stay than one who hasn't. You can see our point of view? To furnish a large house, to make all the arrangements and then, because of some passing fancy, to be let down-" His shrug was eloquent. "You are close?"

He would have been a fool not to have known it but she could appreciate his delicacy.

"We are friends, yes."

"He is a lucky man. Shall we join the others?"

Bochner took her arm, aware of her presence as he had never felt the presence of another of her sex. Not simply because of her femininity, which was strong, or her size, which was unusual, but because of something to do with his own conditioning. The natural reaction of a man who had felt superior, both in height and ability, to all others for the majority of his life. It did not please him to feel dwarfed.

Yet, he maintained his smile. The woman was just another game, another hunt. To bend her to his will, to manipulate, to delude, to misguide, to dangle the lure of golden promises-all were part of the sport.

As they walked down the passage, he said, "One thing, my dear, a matter of confidence. I would not like Earl to know how eager I am to obtain his services. A business precaution, you understand. It would be best if he knew nothing of what I told you." Than, casually, he added, "Has he ever spoken of leaving the Entil?."

"No."

"But he surely doesn't intend to remain for long?"

"I-I don't know."

He caught the note of doubt, the inner worry which she must strive to conceal, and felt increased amusement. How simple some people were. How transparent was a woman in love.

"It must be in his mind," said Bochner. "A world he would like to make his home. One he may have mentioned to you. Aaras, perhaps, or Vien." Both were on the edge of the Sector, though still within the Rift. Logical places for a man like Dumarest to make a change. "Swenna, perhaps?"

"No," she said, a little too quickly. "The only world he's mentioned is Earth."

"Earth?"

"He was joking, of course."

"Of course." Bochner yielded precedence as they reached the door leading to the salon. "After you, my dear."

Allain came toward her as she stepped inside. He looked like a ghost in a living garden; walking through the tumult of flowers, the glint of metallic wings adding extra eyes to the tension of his face. He caught her arm and drew her from the salon.

"Jumoke-have you seen him?"

"No." She sensed his urgency. "Is something wrong?"

"Yarn wants him. The instruments are acting all to hell, and he's worried. Jumoke could be responsible. He-"

"Jumoke commit sabotage? That's impossible!"

"Once, yes, but now I'm not so sure." The steward was bitter. "He's been eating smoke and God alone knows what other things. The man's half-crazed and not even seeing straight. I've tried to cover for him, but now he's gone too far. Have you seen him? I've checked the salon but he isn't there. His cabin?"

"Maybe." She made her decision. "I'll look-he'll answer for me."

Answer, if he was inside and read more into her call than was intended, but that was a problem to be settled later. Now, with the ship in potential risk, there was no time for worry about personal commitments. As a crew, all had to stick and operate together.

But he wasn't inside. The door remained closed and, when she opened it with the master key, the cabin was empty aside from the acrid taint of drugged vapors.

"Smoke," said Allain, grimly. "He must have hidden some away. I thought I'd found every can."

"The instruments," she said. "Just what is the situation?"

"Bad. Yarn's doing his best, but Jumoke is the navigator. We're off course as it is, and surrounded by trouble. At the best, days have been added to the journey. The worst-" He didn't need to complete the sentence. "Where the hell is he?"

A jerk gave the answer. A slight movement of the deck beneath their feet, a twitch of the hull, a movement of the fabric itself, as if the ship had shrugged within its skin.

Yarn Egulus felt it and reared in his chair, his face ghastly in the subdued light of the telltales. The historian felt it and shrugged, happy in his ignorance. Gale Andrei pursed her lips as the hologram shook a little, then steadied to its former beauty. Bochner felt it and guessed. Dumarest felt it and knew.

As did the dancer who halted the undulating movements of her arms, the complex pattern she wove among the blaze of flowers to stand, mouth open, the scarlet smear of a bloom casting the semblance of blood over her throat and chest, a blotch which quivered as she screamed.

"The ship! My God, the ship! The field is down!"

Chapter Seven