The Star Virus

For a moment Rodrone wondered whether this man, or one of his colleagues, might be a more suitable recruit than Sinnt for the investigation of the lens. But he rejected the idea. If the old man had once possessed the right qualities, he no longer did so. He lacked the necessary spark of creative imagination. His power was spent, his mind wandering in disappointment and endless recriminations.

Rodrone bought him another saucer of syrup. "But you knew Mard Sinnt."

"Don't speak that name to me," the other said bleakly. "He is dead, gone, useless. Ten years I spent drawing up the plan for him to follow, and he rejected it."

"Plan?"

He hesitated. "The plan for a lifetime's research, already mapped out. If it had been followed, it might…" His fist clenched and unclenched. "One lifetime is not enough for some things."

"So you do know him?" Clave was becoming exasperated.

"He is my nephew. His father entrusted him to me and charged me to see that he carried out the task. But he was more rebellious than a sea dragon." He smiled, shaking his head. "The dragon that destroys itself, devouring its own body and drinking its own blood…"

He gave a deep sigh, then seemed to come out of his mood somewhat. With yellowed eyes he glanced sharply at the three.

"Why do you want him?"

Rodrone decided to be rash. "We have a Streall artifact. We need him to help us examine it."

"Indeed? What kind of artifact?"

"A very sophisticated one. We know little about it yet."

"Hmmm… The Streall do have some interesting gimmicks. Perhaps we could…" His eyebrows rose speculatively.

"If you want to know more about it, ask Sinnt," Redace said harshly. "If we ever find him, of course."

"Well, I suppose young Mard has ability, given to him by his father and myself. Wasted, of course, utterly wasted." Shipping his syrup, he laid the saucer down again and waited expectantly.

With bad grace, Rodrone ordered more drinks.

The night was well advanced by the time they left the tavern and drove to a run-down district on the south quarter of the city.

The house of Mard Sinnt was old and decrepit, fronted with Kelever's black wood which, however, had begun to rot and looked like rusted iron. The building had an indeterminate number of stories, perhaps four or five, and gave the appearance of being endlessly ramified within.

Rodrone climbed stone steps and placed his hand on an arrival signal plate. After some seconds a voice whispered from a speaker in the door.

"Who is it?"

He was aware of a television eye scanning the three of them. "You don't know us," he answered. "We have something of interest to Mard Sinnt."

"Who sent you?"

Redace stepped forward. "Your fame has traveled far and wide, honorable one. At any rate, it has traveled as far as Cantilever City, that's on what they call the Broken Planet—nothing but cliffs and chasms and other vertigo-inducing phenomena. A chap there by the name of Diron Mactire told me of you, and since we are looking for an expert, you naturally came to mind."

"I never heard of the Broken Planet, but I know Diron Mactire. Follow the lights."

The door swung open. Within, the passageway was gloomy, almost dark. Along the walls arrow-shaped lights began to stream away, leading them along the corridor and down a long flight of stairs.

Mard Sinnt, sitting at a large table strewn with papers, rose to meet them as they entered a long corridor-like room. At first they could see very little except the papers and books on the table, which were illuminated by a reddish lamp. Sinnt himself was no more than a humped shadow in a strange, purple darkness.

"You prefer normal light, perhaps?" the figure said in a hollow voice. An arm moved, and lights sprang to life.

Now they could see Sinnt clearly. He was not young, as the old man in the tavern had led them to believe, but approaching fifty. He was short, and slightly bowed, but his shoulders were broad and looked strong.

The face was startling, horrifying. Its expression was sharp and alert, but it was the expression that might be seen on a statue: there was no life in it. And the eyes were blind, completely blank and unpupiled, just like the dead eyes of a statue.

This last puzzled Rodrone for a second. Blindness was usually remediable, if the eyes were useless, either by eye transplants or the fitting of artificial eyes which looked only slightly different from the real thing. But Sinnt had chosen to fill his eye sockets with steel balls. His sight came from a camera apparatus fixed to his right shoulder. As Rodrone stepped forward to meet him, the camera turned to keep him in view, its two lenses glowing slightly. He noted the cable that joined Sinnt's skull two inches behind his ear, connected no doubt directly to the optic nerve.