climate wet and windy, its oceans perpetually tossed by storms.
The point apparently hadn’t occurred to Vix. He glanced at Tiorin. “Is this something you had from Bucyon’s assassin?”
Tiorin nodded. “But I did confirm the story by checking with the crews of ships that had recently passed within—well—earshot, so to speak, of Asconel. There’s a spaceman’s slang term for that; what is it?”
“Rumor-range,” Spartak answered shortly. “Four kinds of news: standing there, landing there, rumor-range and rubbish.”
Vix gave a humorless chuckle. “I’m surprised at you knowing that, not ever having been a spaceman yourself.”
Spartak made a gesture of dismissal, dropping into a seat “Speaking of Bucyon’s assassin reminded me. Your tracksmay be fairly well covered on Delcadoré, Tiorin—though after meeting Rochard, I’m not so sure of that. Ours certainly are not; the most casual inquiry on Annanworld would give a lead to Vix and me. And Bucyon is hardly likely to rest content with the triple frustration of his attempts at wiping us out. Indeed, I’m amazed he relied on lone agents—in his position, I’d stop at nothing to get rid of all of us.”
Tiorin nodded, his face grave. “The impression I had from the interrogation of the man sent to kill me was that fanatics deluded by the cult of Belizuek acquire the illusion of being invincible, capable of undertaking any mission single-handed. But I grant that this isn’t an impression apt to survive a succession of setbacks like the ones luck has brought us up to now.”
“Fanatics are tricky to handle,” Spartak muttered. “If you catch them on their blind side—say by doing something they define as impossible—you can cope with them easily. If you stand in their way as we must stand in Bucyon’s … Or do we?”
“What do you mean?” Vix snapped. Then a light seemed to dawn on him. “Oh! Do you mean that this errand to dump the mutant girl is something of Bucyon’s doing?”
“A means of getting us out of the way? I doubt it. Even Bucyon could hardly organize a chain of coincidences like that. No, what I mean is this: if he’s managed to inspire dupes like Korisu and the man sent to kill Tiorin, if he’s reduced the citizens to a state of blind adoration, he may feel secure without disposing of us. He may wait for us to come home, frantic with rage, and then pick us off at his own convenience.”
Vix’s face darkened. “By the moons of Argus, I’d like to test that idea! I’d like to set course now for Asconel and pitch Bucyon and his woman Lydis from the top of the Dragon’s Fangs—
ach
!”
The last sound was not a word, but a gasp of agony, and he doubled over. Alarmed, Spartak jolted up from his seat, but Vix waved him back.
“Second time that’s happened,” the redhead wheezed. “If I so much as think about going straight to Asconel, I get a gripping in the guts, but if I speak it out loud, it’s like molten metal being poured into my belly.”
“It’s the conditioning,” Tiorin said. “It must be.”
Spartak nodded. “Think about Nylock,” he urged Vix. “Think about going to Asconel after we’ve left the mutant girl behind. It’ll calm you and you’ll be eased.
“Go on talking on those lines,” Vix whispered. The whole of his face had paled to the whiteness of his long scar.
“Uh—yes.” Spartak turned to Tiorin. “Well, the simple plan is to link up with Tigrid Zen. By the way, though: who is he? Vix assumed that I’d know him, but I don’t recall the name.”
“He was Vix’s senior aide when they were putting down the revolt in the northern islands,” Tiorin said. “A former sea-sailor who entered government service because of the rebellion.”
Spartak nodded. He remembered very vaguely a man with a bushy black moustache and a roaring voice—that would be Tigrid Zen.
“But he’s been closer than we have, he’s had a long time—and we don’t hear news of any progress
The point apparently hadn’t occurred to Vix. He glanced at Tiorin. “Is this something you had from Bucyon’s assassin?”
Tiorin nodded. “But I did confirm the story by checking with the crews of ships that had recently passed within—well—earshot, so to speak, of Asconel. There’s a spaceman’s slang term for that; what is it?”
“Rumor-range,” Spartak answered shortly. “Four kinds of news: standing there, landing there, rumor-range and rubbish.”
Vix gave a humorless chuckle. “I’m surprised at you knowing that, not ever having been a spaceman yourself.”
Spartak made a gesture of dismissal, dropping into a seat “Speaking of Bucyon’s assassin reminded me. Your tracksmay be fairly well covered on Delcadoré, Tiorin—though after meeting Rochard, I’m not so sure of that. Ours certainly are not; the most casual inquiry on Annanworld would give a lead to Vix and me. And Bucyon is hardly likely to rest content with the triple frustration of his attempts at wiping us out. Indeed, I’m amazed he relied on lone agents—in his position, I’d stop at nothing to get rid of all of us.”
Tiorin nodded, his face grave. “The impression I had from the interrogation of the man sent to kill me was that fanatics deluded by the cult of Belizuek acquire the illusion of being invincible, capable of undertaking any mission single-handed. But I grant that this isn’t an impression apt to survive a succession of setbacks like the ones luck has brought us up to now.”
“Fanatics are tricky to handle,” Spartak muttered. “If you catch them on their blind side—say by doing something they define as impossible—you can cope with them easily. If you stand in their way as we must stand in Bucyon’s … Or do we?”
“What do you mean?” Vix snapped. Then a light seemed to dawn on him. “Oh! Do you mean that this errand to dump the mutant girl is something of Bucyon’s doing?”
“A means of getting us out of the way? I doubt it. Even Bucyon could hardly organize a chain of coincidences like that. No, what I mean is this: if he’s managed to inspire dupes like Korisu and the man sent to kill Tiorin, if he’s reduced the citizens to a state of blind adoration, he may feel secure without disposing of us. He may wait for us to come home, frantic with rage, and then pick us off at his own convenience.”
Vix’s face darkened. “By the moons of Argus, I’d like to test that idea! I’d like to set course now for Asconel and pitch Bucyon and his woman Lydis from the top of the Dragon’s Fangs—
ach
!”
The last sound was not a word, but a gasp of agony, and he doubled over. Alarmed, Spartak jolted up from his seat, but Vix waved him back.
“Second time that’s happened,” the redhead wheezed. “If I so much as think about going straight to Asconel, I get a gripping in the guts, but if I speak it out loud, it’s like molten metal being poured into my belly.”
“It’s the conditioning,” Tiorin said. “It must be.”
Spartak nodded. “Think about Nylock,” he urged Vix. “Think about going to Asconel after we’ve left the mutant girl behind. It’ll calm you and you’ll be eased.
“Go on talking on those lines,” Vix whispered. The whole of his face had paled to the whiteness of his long scar.
“Uh—yes.” Spartak turned to Tiorin. “Well, the simple plan is to link up with Tigrid Zen. By the way, though: who is he? Vix assumed that I’d know him, but I don’t recall the name.”
“He was Vix’s senior aide when they were putting down the revolt in the northern islands,” Tiorin said. “A former sea-sailor who entered government service because of the rebellion.”
Spartak nodded. He remembered very vaguely a man with a bushy black moustache and a roaring voice—that would be Tigrid Zen.
“But he’s been closer than we have, he’s had a long time—and we don’t hear news of any progress
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