had of gaining the information he wanted.
He looked up, conscious of watching eyes, the tension coiled in the air.
'You are courteous,' he said to Dorf. 'And I thank you for the opportunity to demonstrate the skills I hope to teach. I drink to your continued good health.'
As he lifted the glass someone chuckled, an expression of mirth quickly silenced, but it was enough to tell Dumarest his guess had been right. Dorf was testing him, trying to make him display anger, a fighting rage. He was unaware of the danger he stood in, the risk he ran.
Now he said, 'You must be as mad as the rest. What do you mean-a demonstration? Are you going to kill me to close my mouth? To avenge some imagined slight to your pride? To prove the superiority of brawn over brain? Is that all you have to offer?'
'No.' Dumarest lowered the glass, feeling the burn of brandy in his mouth. 'Now let me ask you a question. You take people, youths, men, women and girls of all kinds, and you teach them and give them a paper saying they have reached a certain standard and then send them away to live as best they might. But what good are your degrees if they need to survive on worlds hostile to learning? On worlds which have no place for the skills they possess?'
'You claim to be able to give them the ability to survive?'
'I teach martial arts.'
'Warfare.' Dorf shook his head. 'The trick of murder.'
'No!' Dumarest was sharp. 'I talk of art not assassination. Of protection not persecution.'
'Protection?' Dorf looked around, enjoying his moment of triumph. 'Words. What the hell could you do if I came at you with a gun?'
'Came at me?' Dumarest shrugged, it was his turn to act the academic. 'Exactly what do you mean? If you came running toward me carrying a gun? If you wanted to hit me with one? If you wanted to give me one? How can I answer unless you are precise?'
'I mean this!' Dorf snatched a roll from a plate; bread fashioned in the shape of a bone, his fingers closing around it as he swung to point it at Dumarest as if it were a gun. 'Now, tell-'
He broke off, staggering back to hit the edge of a table, to fall in a shower of comestibles, as Dumarest, taking two steps forward, snatched the roll from his hand as he sent the heel of his other palm up and against Dorf's jaw. A blow hard enough to shock, to throw the other off-balance, but restrained enough to do no damage other than minor bruising.
'I'd do that.' Dumarest threw aside the broken crust. 'And that is one lesson you may have without cost: never give your opponent the luxury of choice. If he has a gun pointed at you then assume he intends to use it. Act as if he will and act without delay. Of course,' he added, dryly, 'it's best never to get into that position in the first place.'
Ragin said wonderingly, 'You could have killed him. Even if he'd been holding a real gun you could have taken his life. Damn it, man, I didn't even see you move.'
'Training.'
'Just that?'
'Add anticipation and execution. If you want to know more then join my course if and when it starts.' Dumarest looked at Dorf who rose, hugging his jaw. 'That goes for you, too, youngster. In the meantime remember not to start what you can't finish.'
The advice stung more than the blow but was accepted where physical argument was not. As he moved away a woman who had been watching said, 'You've made an enemy, Earl. Dorf has powerful connections and won't hesitate to use them.'
'It was a game,' said a man at her side. 'Surely he accepts that?'
'It started as a game,' she agreed. 'It ended with his being shamed. Well, Earl, you've been warned.'
She moved away, the man with her, others following to leave Dumarest in a cleared space with only Ragin at his side.
'So much for popularity, Earl, but Enid was right. A pity. You would have livened things up.'
'I haven't gone yet.'
'But you will.' Ragin was shrewd. 'I've a feeling about you, Earl. The academic life isn't for you. It's too petty, too limited. There's too much spite and too much fear. Take Enid, now. If her contract were terminated where could she find other employment? Look around-they're all in the same position.'
And all from the same mold-students who had graduated to stay on and take post-graduate studies and then to become assistants and gain doctorates and gain a professorial chair; prisoners in a system which fed on itself to create more; academics lacking the spirit or courage to break free of the surrogate womb and blinding themselves to the reality beyond the university walls.
Yet at least one had managed to break free.
Ragin frowned when Dumarest mentioned him. 'Rudi? Rudi Boulaye? You knew him?'
'Did you?'
'To my cost I admit it. I donated a hundred veil to his crazy enterprise. Well, I wasn't alone. Tomlin had a share and Seligmann-he's dead now. Collett put in a thousand but he could read the writing on the wall and it was his only hope. Dying,' he explained. 'Rotting inside. All his money could buy him was drugs to ease the pain so he gave all to Rudi and went into freeze. That was a long time ago and when they tried to revive him it was wasted effort.'
'Cucciolla?'
'He was against it and with reason but I have a suspicion he chipped in just the same. Another romantic who wanted to believe the impossible could be true and that legend needn't be all lies. But Rudi made it all sound so logical. He always was a persuasive bastard as Myra could tell you, but, on second thought, you'd better not ask. You knew him, you say?'
'He's dead.' He added, 'Isobel too.'
'A pity.' Ragin looked around and found glasses filled with streaked amber fluid. Emptying a couple, he refilled them from a flask he took from his pocket. 'A toast,' he said, handing one to Dumarest. 'To the last journey.'
It was the same brandy that he had tasted before and Dumarest took enough in his mouth to perfume his breath.
'A dreamer,' mused Ragin. 'A fool in many ways but show me an idealist who isn't. Weak too, but does that matter if you're lucky? Rudi had a way with women and Isobel was an angel.' He sniffed and poured himself more brandy. Lifting his glass he said, 'Well, Earl, let's drink to the death of a dream.'
'It wasn't a dream,' said Dumarest. 'Rudi found his mine.'
'Mine? Who the hell is talking about a mine?' Ragin shook his head. 'I'm talking about the search he made before he left to make his fortune. The thing I and Tomlin and Cucciolla and all the others had shares in. The search for Earth,' he explained. 'Rudi swore he knew how to find it.'
They had called it the Forlorn Endeavor and of them all only a handful were still alive.
'Time,' said Cucciolla. 'The years take their toll and many of us were old at the instigation. You've heard of Seligmann?' He glanced at Ragin as he nodded. 'I see Carl has told you. He was dying at the time and the only real difference was he knew it. Consciously knew it, I mean, others refused to admit the possibility. Pantoock, Klugarft, Kepes, Bond-the list is long, my friend. Gone now. All dead and dust and ashes. Sometimes I think I hear their voices in the wind.'
Calling him to join them, perhaps, for Cucciolla, too, was old. He moved slowly about the room, taking care as he brewed a pungent tisane, lacing it as if the act of adding the spirit were of momentous importance. Taking his cup Dumarest examined the chamber, noting the small, telltale signs of poverty. Dust lay thick on the row of books standing on a shelf, each volume protected by transparent plastic. More durable were the cassettes and recordings, the models and spools which added their litter to the home of a man who had spent his life in the halls of wisdom. A man who now waited to die, glad of the company, the opportunity to talk, to relive old dreams.
'Tomlin should have been here,' he mourned. 'A pity he left two months ago for the eastern peninsula. His health,' he explained. 'The sea air will do him good and he is lucky enough to have a son willing to share his home.'
'And the rest?'
'Zara's teaching at a small school to the north. Nyoka is on a sabbatical-and he'd be a fool to return. Luccia-'
