Paul hesitated, thinking about Hendrikson just outside. Then his eyes went back to the gun. It was small and black, with a bulbous muzzle and a large cylinder just above the handle grip that might have been the power supply. Paul wasn't familiar with the style, but the gun looked capable enough in the man's hand to make him decide against the idea that had half formed in his head. He pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the room to 21
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touch the thermal dimple beside the door. The lock slid home with a soft whir.
After Paul returned to his chair, the man's eyes went back to Dorland.
'My name is Selmer Ogram. Maybe you remember me.' He spoke Basic with an accent that favored lilting vowels and light consonants. When Dorland didn't respond, he shrugged. 'Or maybe not. I was just a kid when you left Clarion. My father was John Ogram.' He paused again as if he expected the name to have an impact. 'He was killed at the Troy Three interchange a few months after he took you out. Deacon Krause got him.' Still Dorland remained silent. He stood stiffly near the open window, staring at Ogram, his face drawn with lines of tension. Ogram's statements meant nothing to Paul. He had worked for Dorland Avery for nearly five years and had never heard him mention the name Ogram or a place called Clarion. But it was clear that Ogram's words were touching something inside Dorland.
'It would help if you told us what this is all about,' Paul said.
Ogram shifted his hooded eyes. 'Who are you?'
'Paul Jurick. I'm Mr. Avery's business manager.' Ogram chuckled.
'Something funny about that?'
'Dorland Avery, the great psi-player.' Ogram shook his head. 'Coming here was a waste of time as far as I'm concerned.'
'Feel free to leave,' Paul suggested. Ogram grinned crookedly. 'Can't. Not till I've done my duty.'
'You still haven't told us what that is. Your friend nearly killed Mr. Avery back there in the auditorium.'
'Deacon Bekman is no friend of mine,' Ogram
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said. 'But my business isn't with you. Keep quiet while I have a chat with the great psi-player.' The mocking tone infuriated Paul, but there was little he could do while Ogram held the black gun. He throttled his anger and leaned back in the chair.
'We need your help,' Ogram went on, his eyes going back to Dorland. 'The situation at home has gone from bad to impossible. Sabastian wants you to come back.'
Another statement that made no sense to Paul. He and Dorland had left their homeworld of
Farrady three weeks ago to begin the tour, but he had been in daily contact with Trisha. She would have told him if any 'situation' had developed that involved Dorland.
'High Elder Brill is turning out to be even worse than we thought,' Ogram went on. 'He's more destructive than all the other High Elders together. He's using Lord Tern's revelations as an excuse to commit the worst atrocities you can imagine. Sabastian says we have to stop him.' Ogram paused, his eyes remaining fixed on Dorland. 'We sent a man into the sacred chamber. Cleve
Quinton.' He nodded. 'Yes, I thought you would remember Cleve. He was a good friend of mine.' Dorland spoke for the first time, his voice low and flat. 'Cleve went to the chamber?'
'Like I said, we're desperate. Cleve saw something in the chamber that made him lose his mind. Then the deacons killed him.'
A long silence drew out. Paul waited, gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes on Dorland. Lord Tern. High Elder Alban Brill. The religious implications were obvious enough, but Paul was sure he had never heard the names before.
When Dorland spoke again, his voice was
strained, the words hesitant. 'Sabastian—he is well?'
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