E.C Tubb: Eye of the Zodiac

Dumarest examined it as he stood on the end of the upturned bed. Thick rafters were crossed by thinner members, supports for the tiles which closed the building against the sky. With his knife he eased one free, set it gently on the floor, climbed up to remove others which he set outside. Within minutes he had a hole large enough to pass his body through, one which he could seal again from within.

A weakness in his prison, but those accustomed to regarding only doors and windows as a means of egress would have overlooked the obvious. And any prisoners, held in this place, would provide their own mental chains.

He jumped from the roof, landing as lightly as a cat, freezing, crouching to spot the silhouette of any guard against the sky.

He saw nothing. Either there were no guards, or they were on the other side of the building facing the door.

Rising, he ran quickly towards the Alphanian Chamber. It rested as a somber bulk beneath the stars, a fitful gleam of yellow light showing through the cracks of shutters, the join of the great double door.

It was held by a simple lock which yielded to the point of Dumarest's knife and he pushed one of the leaves open, slipping inside to close it behind him.

Turning, he looked at a museum. A church. It held something of both.

There were alcoves in which were painted designs fashioned of gleaming points, joined and surrounded by a tracery of lines. The depiction of animals, a woman, scales, a scorpion. Twelve of them, each faced by a thin stream of incense rising from bowls of hammered brass.

There were cases in which rested ancient books, strange artifacts, rocks and scraps of fabric. There was what could only be an altar, a high place set to the rear of a low dais. A painting of a woman, weeping. Another of fiery destruction. A third of something bright and wonderful emerging from a shattered egg.

The wall behind the altar was covered. The curve continued as it rose to merge into a smooth dome, a hemisphere broken only by the main part of the chamber. Beneath it, set in precise relationship to the apex of the dome, rested a squat construction which gleamed with polish.

Dumarest gave the place one quick glance, found it deserted of life, and moved around the walls studying the designs. The figures matched the mnemonic he had learned so long ago, the Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins… the Crab, the Lion… The signs of the zodiac.

The thing for which he had been searching. And useless.

They were too abstract, the points which could only have been stars, too numerous and devoid of true relationship. He had hoped for set constellations easily remembered, signposts in the sky which would point the way to Earth. Instead, he looked at artistic impressions which could have no association with reality. Again he walked along the walls, looking, studying, trying to remember.

Had there been an archer in the skies? A man with the body of a horse drawing a bow? A woman emptying a pot of water? A pair of twins. A set of scales? A crab?

Not actual representations, but a pattern of stars, bright points which if followed with a marker would have left such designs. He remembered nothing, and such rudimentary portraits could not have been forgotten.

Impatiently, Dumarest moved to the books within the cases. The doors were closed and he forced one, leafing through a volume which smelt of mold. The pages were faded, stained. A record, as far as he could see, of names, births, deaths, matings. Another held details as to plantings, yields, types and varieties of vegetation. A third held rough designs of primitive, hand-operated machinery, grinders, scrapers, a potter's wheel.

He replaced it, closed the doors, moved towards the altar and the odd device it contained. Here, perhaps, he would find the answer. The lost but all important coordinates by which Earth could be found.

As he neared it he heard the sound of muffled voices, the creak of the opening doors. Dumarest looked upwards, searching for a place to hide, but the dome was unbroken.

To run was to fight. To fight at this time was to die. When Phal Vestaler entered the Alphanian Chamber attended by a score of guards, he found Dumarest kneeling before the altar, his head bowed, hands clasped in an attitude of supplication.

Chapter Thirteen

"Communing?" Aryan's voice held incredulity. "It isn't possible! He is unaware of the Mysteries." He sat at the table, annoyed, irritable at having been summoned so late. "It was a pretense, a ruse to save his life."

The truth, but Dumarest didn't like to hear it stated so dogmatically. He stood at the end of the table, uneasily aware of the guards at sides and rear. To them, he had committed an unpardonable crime. They would not hesitate to move in should the word be given. His life, he knew, hung on a thread.

And yet, he had an ally. From where he sat at the head of the table Vestaler said, quietly, "I told you what I had found. Nothing had been disturbed."

He had said nothing about the matter of the forced bookcase.

"And what if you hadn't sent for him? Discovered his escape?" Aryan flung the accusations like missiles. "And why did you send for him at all, Master?"

The question Vestaler had been expecting. Aryan would not take kindly to the intention of a private talk with Dumarest, but the man did not know what Zafra had reported. The hope her words had aroused.

A mistake, he thought, but one done now and impossible to ignore. Yet, if he hadn't sent for Dumarest, discovered him missing and gone with the anxiety of experience directly to the Alphanian Chamber-what then?

His rank and title, certainly. His position and all that went with it. Shame and punishment, reduced to menial labor, shunned and despised as if he had been a ghost.

All that, if the man had lied. If he could not convince the others that he had entered the chamber for reasons other than to rob.

"Kill him!" snapped Aryan. "Kill him and have done."

"Wait!" Usdon's hand slammed against the table. "At least, let us hear what he has to say."

"He will spill lies," sneered Croft. "He knows nothing and-"

"You are certain of that?" Dumarest's voice rose to fill the chamber as he stepped forward, halting as his thighs touched the edge of the table. A calculated move designed to demand attention. "Do you think you are alone in the universe? The only ones who hold the ancient beliefs?" His voice deepened, grew solemn. "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united." The words he had heard from Leon, words he had heard before.

He fell silent, looking from face to face. Aryan, Croft, Vestaler, Usdon, Barog who as yet had said nothing. An old man who watched and voted, but who rarely spoke.

Now he said, slowly, "Do you claim to be one of our number?"

"Of your number, no. Of your following, yes. Do you think you are the only ones with such a creed? There are others on a host of worlds. Do you regard it as impossible that I am one of them?"

Croft said, sharply, "We are the true Original People. Others may claim that, but they lie. They use machines."

"You have a forge using bellows," said Dumarest. "You grind corn with the aid of a millstone, weave with a loom, fashion pots with a wheel. These things are also machines."

"But they do not use the demon of power."

"And so you consider yourself justified. A peculiar interpretation of the creed. The cleansing mentioned has a deeper significance."

"You dare to condemn us? You?"

Aryan said, "You have still not told us why you entered the Alphanian Chamber."

To take the opportunity before it was too late. To learn what he could while he was able, but Dumarest couldn't tell him that.

"I am far from my people," he said quietly. "A stranger-and I know the rule. In my position, wouldn't you have done the same?"