The Shadow and Night (48 page)

Merral felt his mind reel at the prospect. This was not a game of Cross the Assembly; this was the real thing. They were talking about his journey.

“Where are we sleeping?” he asked. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed with tiredness, he had a desperate need to lie down.

Perena patted his shoulder. “There is a spare room in the pilots' quarters for you and Vero. I'll get you another set of spare clothes each too.”

Perena drove Merral and Vero to the quarters at the edge of the complex of landing strips and showed them to the spare room at the far end of the building. It was small and its basic furnishings gave it the air of a room that was only used as a place for people to sleep; yet it was, they agreed, quite adequate.

After Perena left, Vero sat on his bed and put his head in his hands.

“Are you all right?” Merral asked, conscious that his ankle was still hurting.

“That meeting . . . I wasn't sure I could manage to lead it. I knew I had to, but it was not easy. Thanks for your support.” He rubbed his face. “I am out of my depth, Merral. Making decisions; giving orders. All that sort of thing. I am an ideas person.”

“You did well.”

“If I did, it was by the grace of God. But we will see what happens. You nearly threw me twice, you know.”

“How? I didn't mean to.”

“You sprung two new surprises. That you had seen a man and that there was evidence of a ship.”

“I apologize.”

“No, no, it wasn't your fault. In fact, I am sure that they will help to resolve things. But I need to think about them.” And with that he fell silent.

17

W
hen Merral awoke after a troubled sleep, it was midmorning. Vero had gone and there was a handwritten message on the table.
Gone to see Brenito. Back around midday. Suggest you stay out of sight and don't make diary calls. Vero.
Merral rose, showered, and dressed his ankle again. There was food on the table and he made himself some coffee. He looked out of the window, but the quarters were at the end of a side runway and there was little to see other than bare rock baking in the warm spring sunshine. In the end, Merral went and lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Just after midday, Vero returned with food, drink, some more clothes, and a replacement diary. After checking that Merral's ankle was healing, he announced that if Merral felt he could manage it, Brenito would like to see him.

“I would be fascinated to meet him,” Merral said. “His summons for help set so much in motion. And if I don't have to walk far, my ankle will be fine. How was your meeting with him?”

An odd expression slid across Vero's face. He frowned. “He listened. He was very disturbed about almost every aspect of our trip north. A number of things particularly alarmed him: Jorgio's vision, the creatures—of course, the imitation buzzard, the manipulation of the Gate and diary transmissions. Especially the bird. When I told him it wasn't a robot but was actually based on a dead bird, his eyebrows nearly flew off his head. And it was the first he had heard of Barrand's alteration of a re-created voice too. So, there was plenty for him to think about.”

“Any answers?”

Vero seemed to stare at the wall.

“No, not really. He thought a lot, but he is a very cautious man. He said he was going to sleep on it when I left. He sleeps a lot. But no blinding answers. Maybe this afternoon will be better.”

“You seem disappointed.”

“Hmm. Oh, I suppose I had built my hopes up too much. Frankly, Brenito was far less help than I expected. I'm glad we will be at Earth in a few days; I need some answers and I think they may be able to give them to us. Incidentally, he took a special interest in my account of your exploits. ‘Oh,' he said, ‘I'm glad you found yourself a warrior. That's something, at least.' ”

Merral shook his head. “I reject that title. I'm still very unhappy about what I did.”

“I—as you know—have a different opinion,” Vero answered, tilting his head. “As does Brenito.”

Merral shook his head. “Nothing pleases me more about this trip to Ancient Earth than the prospect of handing over responsibility for all this. Vero, I want to turn the clock back. I want to go back to my trees.”

“Indeed. I have decided I want to write and teach. May it be soon, for both of us. But in the meantime, let us eat.”

After they had eaten lunch and Vero had restored his data to his new diary, they drove over to Brenito's cottage in a small four-seater that Vero had borrowed from Space Affairs. They had the windows open, and Merral, reveling in the smell of blossom and spring, found himself wondering whether Ancient Earth would smell the same. As they drove, Vero began to tell Merral more about Brenito.

“He was very distinguished in his day as an academic historian. On Ancient Earth he wrote several studies of early sentinel history under his full name of Brenito Camsar. He was a bit of a collector of things too, as you will see. Then in retirement, he felt he wanted to spend his last years doing something else. So he came out to replace Lars Mantell, who was sentinel here.”

“I see. I just call him ‘Brenito'? Not ‘Sentinel Camsar' or something?”

“No, he's informal enough. I call him ‘sir' out of deference. You need not.”

They drove toward the headland on the southwestern side of Isterrane, and every so often there were glimpses of a cornflower blue sea down valleys or over fields. Then abruptly they turned off down a pale white track between silver-skinned poplars whose new leaves rustled in the breeze. At the end of the track, nestled between two low hills, was a wooden house painted white with faded yellow shutters.

After Vero parked, they walked through a neat vegetable garden set between trimmed hedges to a blue wooden door upon which Vero rapped his knuckles loudly.

There was the sound of movement in the house, and after a few moments, the door slowly opened to reveal a large, stooped man in an old gray suit with a faded sentinel badge on the left breast and a shirt that was open at the neck. Merral had seen images of Brenito before, but seeing him now in the flesh, nearly filling the doorway, he was surprised by how big a man Brenito actually was. Once, he must have been an imposing figure, but now any muscle had turned to fat. His face was a mass of creased flesh dominated by strangely pale gray eyes capped by faint white eyebrows, and his tightly cropped white hair was little more than a pale stubble.

Behind Brenito, Merral glimpsed a corridor filled almost up to the ceiling by glass cases, cabinets, framed images, and prints.

The old man looked from Merral to Vero, and then back again with hooded eyes. Then he leaned his jowled face toward Merral and smiled knowingly.

“Ah, welcome, Merral D'Avanos,” he said in a heavy, resonant voice with a hint of a non-Farholme accent and slowly extended a large, soft hand. Merral noticed that he wore open-toed sandals through which large toes protruded.

Merral bowed and took the hand. “Sentinel Brenito, it is my honor.”

A wry expression played across the heavy mouth. “Ah, come, let's not worry about honor, Forester. If we ever get to that, the Assembly is in a real mess.”

Merral felt that if the voice was that of a man who had lived for a century, the sharpness of the riposte indicated a mind that had no weaknesses in it.

“Now, Verofaza,” he added, “you come on in too. You look tired.”

“I am slightly, sir, but it will pass.”

“As do all things under heaven. I'm making tea. Excuse my clothes. But do take our hero through and give him a seat.”

Merral felt that the dry, humorous tone went some way to easing the burden of his being termed “hero.”

Vero led Merral to a long side room. Sunlight streamed in through the large glass windows at the far end, and Merral caught a glimpse of the sea, dazzling in its blueness. But his eye was drawn away by the extraordinary collection of mementos and antiques that dominated the room. A hundred items clamored for his attention: an ancient space helmet, fragments of exotic machinery, maps of strange worlds, signed images of men and women, and piles of old paper books. On one wall behind glass was a worn blue flag with the gold-encircled stone tower of the sentinel insignia in the middle.

“Take a seat,” Vero said, motioning to an armchair of such an age that Merral wondered if it was another heirloom.

“Why, it's almost like a museum,” Merral said, carefully moving his ankle past a plant pot mounted on a thruster nozzle and lowering himself gingerly onto the chair.

“History is part of sentinel culture,” Vero said. “The past must not be forgotten lest the future be lost too.”

“I can see that. But, for example, what is this?” Merral tapped a dusty, black metal box on a shelf.

From somewhere in the room a voice speaking in Communal rang out. “This is the navigation unit of the Assembly Seeder Ship
Vladimir Hengstra.
This ship seeded a total of thirty worlds from 2245–2585. Do you wish further information?”

Merral smiled. “No, thank you,” he said to the unseen responding machine.

He turned to Vero. “I see. Everything is labeled. That voice is familiar.”

“The younger Brenito. . . he recorded labels for all these things.”

The door opened and the old man came in ponderously, carrying a tray on which were cups, a teapot, and a sliced cake. As Vero helped him put it down on the table, Brenito stared at Merral.

“Interesting, isn't it?” he said slowly. “The past, that is. But now, ironically, at the end of my earthly life, I find it is the future that preoccupies me. Now help yourselves. I still do a little cooking, and I hope the cake is to your satisfaction.”

Then with sighs and gentle groans, Brenito seated himself in a massive wooden rocking chair that creaked under his weight. He turned to Merral. “First of all, thank you for coming. Increasingly, I have the belief that in summoning Vero here, I have played the part allotted to me. Now it is the task of Earth to deal with it and answer the questions. I have really, I suppose, asked you here to satisfy my own curiosity.” He paused. “And yet I also want to tell you both something of what I think is going on.”

“You know?” Vero asked with an urgent enthusiasm.

The big hands opened wide. “I have a hypothesis. No more than that. But as I thought about what you told me this morning, some ideas have come to me. And those tentative thoughts may give you something to think about as you travel. But first things first. Forester, shall I tell you why I summoned help?”

“Please.”

“It is easy to tell: I dreamed of a field of stars and of a great red dragon that walked across them, swallowing the stars up one by one.” The pale gray eyes gleamed at Merral. “The dream was repeated three nights running. It was a very powerful dream, like nothing I have ever had. And I knew that the stars were symbols of the Assembly worlds, and I knew that the first star to be swallowed up was Farholme. So I asked Earth for help. And so Verofaza came.”