Earthblood (33 page)

But there was no need for talk. He was suddenly aware of the music, swelling louder now. There was a deep, booming throb that matched the cadence of the human heart, and a dazzling interplay of horns that repeated the rhythms of the human nervous system, and an intricate melody that echoed forgotten human dreams. Stellaraire had taught Roan how to dance, long ago; he had not forgotten. All around, the Terrans had drawn back, and now they stood, watching, as Roan responded with a lifetime's pent-up emotion to the call of the music and the girl and the strong wine of Terra.

And then the music ended on a fading susurration of cymbals and the high wail of brass. Roan swept Desiranne almost to the floor, and for a moment he held her there, looking into her perfect, half-frightened, half-enraptured face.

"I think I know now why I came here," he said. "I think I knew I'd find you. Now I don't think I'll ever let you go."

There were sudden tears in her eyes as Roan set her on her feet. "Roan," she whispered. "Why . . . why didn't you come sooner . . ." Then she turned and fled.

Suddenly, there was deafening applause. Shouts of bravo! and splendid!

rang out. Everyone seemed to be staring at him with eyes that were bright with . . . fear? They came toward him almost cautiously, as though approaching a tame beast, led by a small, lithe brunette with long hair done into such a complex system of plaits and curls that her head looked too heavy for her small body. She had a sinuous, elongated walk, and her dress was the color of . . . of air with sunshine in it.

"Mistress Alouicia," Sostelle whispered to Roan, "a dancer, and a very clever woman."

"Marvelous," she said. "Such a spectacle of primitive savagery! For a moment I thought you were going to . . . to lose control and kill her, tear her throat out with those great strong teeth." She shuddered, showing Roan a smile that was just a little long in the tooth.

"I'd never understood ancient music before," a Man said. "Now I think I do .

. ."

"The way he sprang at her," someone else offered. "And then putting his hands on her that way. It was intended to represent a tiger seizing his prey, wasn't it?"

"No, it was just a dance," Roan said; and turned to Sostelle and asked in a loud voice, "It's all right, isn't it, to say what you mean instead of making people guess?"

Sostelle, knowing this wasn't to be answered, kept a discreet silence and straightened the folds in Roan's chiton.

"Does everyone dance in that way in your homeland?" Alouicia asked, smiling a bit stiffly now.

"On every world there are different dances. Once I was with a circus and my girl did erotic dances in several different cultures."

"Erotic? How interesting . . ."

Roan was glad to have found a subject of interest. He was feeling the wine, wanting to put everyone at ease, and then go find Desiranne.

"It frequently led to public copulation," he added.

"To . . . to . . . what did you say?" Alouicia's eyes widened.

"What does it mean?" a high voice whispered loudly. Someone tittered. "Like Dogs. Imagine!"

"Really! What sort of . . . animal . . . would perform such a dance?"

"She was beautiful," Roan said, remembering Stellaraire, and feeling that something should be said out of loyalty. "I loved her."

"He's not merely a savage," a voice said loudly behind him. "I do believe he's a Lower."

Roan turned. A tall, wide-shouldered Terran stood looking at him with an expression of distaste. He was deep-chested, well-muscled.

"Master Hugh, the famous athlete," Sostelle murmured.

"Hugh!" Alouicia said, her voice carrying the faintest edge of shrillness.

"What an exciting confrontation: The strongest man on Terra, with your interest in the ancient athletic arts—and this . . . elemental man from—wherever he's from!"

"Please," Daryl said, putting a hand on Roan's arm. "I think—"

"Never mind," Roan said. "I'm not very good at remembering all the things that are too ugly for you pretty people to talk about. I'm a Man; I sweat and bleed and eat and excrete—"

"Roan!" Daryl said. Alouicia drew away with a small cry. Sostelle gasped.

"Go away," Hugh said. "I don't know who brought you here. You're not fit for the society of civilized people—"

"There's nothing civilized about the ITN," Roan said. "What would you do if they showed up? If they came storming across those pretty gardens and in through the pretty door; what would you do?"

"I'm sure that thirty thousand years of culture have prepared us to deal with whatever a barbarian might do," Daryl said uneasily. Roan doubled a fist and held it before him. "Do you know what this is?" Hugh eyed the doubled knuckles. His nose wrinkled. "Of course; the dawn-men—Romans, I think they were called—had a primitive sport in which they flailed one another with their hands held in that way. This was done in a coliseum called Madison Square Garden, and the winner was awarded a fig leaf, or something of the sort—"

Roan drew back his fist and hit Hugh square on the nose, taking care not to put too much power back of the blow. Hugh went down, blood streaming down across his lip and into his mouth. He cried out, dabbed at his face, stared at the crimsoned fingers. There were little shrieks all around.

"You—you brute!" Hugh said.

"All right," Roan heard himself shouting. "What do you do, with your thirty thousand years of culture?"

Hugh came to his feet; all around, people stared, eyes bright, lips parted. Roan stepped to Hugh and hit him solidly on the side of the jaw. Hugh fell down again, his mouth open and a look of utter amazement on his face.

"You're supposed to be an athlete," Roan said. "Get up and fight back." Hugh got to his feet; he folded his fingers over his palms and held them in front of him; then he stepped up to Roan and struck out with an overhand blow; Roan casually brushed Hugh's arm aside and hit him in the stomach; as Hugh doubled over, Roan planted a left and right to the face. Hugh sprawled on the floor and began to cry.

Roan reached, caught his garment by the shoulder, hauled him half erect, slapped him across the cheek.

"It may surprise you," he said. "But members of an attacking army don't stop when you cry. They just laugh at you. And they don't fight nicely, like I do; if you're on the floor"—he let Hugh drop—"they kick you—like this." And he planted a solid blow in Hugh's ribs with his toe. Hugh scrambled back, tears streaming down his face; he was sobbing loudly.

"Get up!" Roan said. "Get mad! That's the only thing that will stop me!" He followed Hugh, dragged him to his feet, hit him in the eye, then, holding him up, punched him in the mouth. Hugh's face was a bloody mask now.

"Fight!" Roan said. "Hit back!"

Hugh broke away, stumbled back against the watching crowd. They thrust him back toward Roan. He saw their faces then, for the first time. They were like hungry Charons, waiting for an old gracyl to die.

"Kill him, savage!" a man called; saliva ran out of his mouth and down into his perfumed, pale blue beard. Alouicia held out her hands, the gold-enameled nails like raking claws. "Bite his throat!" she shrilled. "Drink his blood!"

Roan dropped his hands, feeling a thrill of horror. Hugh broke through the ring and ran, sobbing.

"Master," Sostelle said. "Oh, Master . . ."

"Let's go," Roan said. "Where's my crew?" He staggered, feeling the room tilt under his feet. Terran wine was made for Terran nervous systems; it hit hard.

"Master—I don't know. I heard—but—"

"Find them!" Roan shouted. People scattered before him. He was out in the wide entry hall now. The polished black floor threw back reflections of chandeliers and of the stars above the glass-domed ceiling. Sostelle hurried ahead, bounding on all fours. Two tall, wide shapes stepped from the shadow of a slender supporting rib ahead, stood silhouetted against the sweep of glass front.

"Askor," Roan called. "Sidis!"

"Yeah, Boss." They came toward him. They were dressed in their soiled ship clothes. Sidis wore a pistol openly at his hip.

"Thought I said . . . no guns," Roan said blurrily.

"I had a hunch you might change your mind," Sidis said; his teeth gleamed in the gloom.

"You did, eh?" Roan felt an unreasoning anger rising in him. It was almost like joy. "Since when did you start doing my thinking for me?" He took a step, swung what should have been a smashing blow to the Minid's head, but he missed, almost fell. Sidis hadn't moved.

"Gee, Chief," Askor said admiringly. "You're drunk!"

"I'm not drunk, damn you!" Roan planted his feet, breathing hard. "And what are you doing here in those rags? Why haven't you washed your ugly faces? I can smell you from three yards away . . . !" He could feel his tongue slurring over the words, and this made him angrier than ever. "You trying . . .'sgrace me?" he roared. "Get out of here and don't come back . .

.'til you look like human beings!"

"That could be quite a while, Chief," Askor said. "Look, Cap'n, let's blow out of this place. It's creepy. And I can hardly keep my hands off these Terries of yours—"

"They're not mine," Roan yelled. "And I'll say when we leave—"

"He's right, Boss," Sidis cut in. "This world ain't good for us. Let's shove off, Cap'n. Just the three of us, like before—"

"I'm captain of the bloody menagerie," Roan yelled. "When I'm ready to lift ship, I'll tell you. Now get out of my sight! Get lost!"

"Master," Sostelle whispered.

"You, too, you Freak." Roan staggered, wiped a hand across his face. It was hot, feverish. Everything seemed to be spinning around him; his mind seemed to be floating free of his body, like a captive balloon. Then sky rockets came shooting up in a fiery shower and when they shimmered away into darkness there was nothing . . . .

* * *

Roan sat up and looked around. Noise roared in his ears. A face swam mistily before him.

"Ah, he's awake," someone called. Someone else thrust a thin-stemmed glass into his hand. He drank thirstily, let the glass fall. Daryl was there, looking at him eagerly with painted eyes.

"Roan! You looked so lovely sleeping, with your mouth open and sweat on your face . . ."

"Where's Desiranne?" Roan said. His head ached but he could speak clearly now.

"Eh? Why she's preparing for her performance, later in the evening—but—"

"I want to see her." Roan stood and the table fell over. "Where is she?"

"Now, Roan." Daryl was at his side, patting his arm. "Just be patient. You'll see her." He laughed a high, tight laugh. "Oh, my, yes, you'll see her. You liked her, didn't you? You . . . you lusted after her?" Roan took Daryl by the shoulder, lifted him from the floor. "Keep away from me," he snarled, and threw the Terran from him. His vision seemed cloudy, as though the room were full of mist. There were other people around him, but their faces weren't clear. Sostelle was there, his face worried and homely and familiar and dependable.

"Where is she, Sostelle?" Roan said. "Where did she go?"

"Master, I don't know. This is not a matter for dogs." His voice was almost a moan.

"Sure, I liked her," Roan said loudly. "I loved her!" He kicked a chair from his path, started across the floor. "She liked me, too, didn't she?" He rounded on the dog. "Well, didn't she?"

Sostelle's face assumed an unreadable canine expression. "Her interest in you was unmistakable, Master."

"You think so?"

"Certainly. She is a lovely lady, Master. Worthy of you." But there was something about his tone; something Roan didn't understand.

"I've got to find her. Can't leave this madhouse until I find her." He started on. The people before him flitted backward, just out of reach, just out of vision. The noise was like an avalanche of sound—a wild, screaming sort of music that seemed to tell of great birds of prey swooping to a feast.

"I will help you, Master," Sostelle said. "I will help you all I can."

"You're a damned good dog, Sostelle. Hell, you're the only friend I've met here—"

"Sir!" Sostelle sounded shocked. "It's not done, sir, to call a dog a friend . .

."

Roan laughed harshly. "I guess I'll never learn the rules, Sostelle. I came too late—for all of us."

"Master—perhaps you should go now—and take me with you—"

"You, too? What is it, a conspiracy? I've told you, damn you, I'm not going until I find her!" There was a table in his path and he kicked it savagely aside.

"Roan, Roan," a quavering voice called. He stopped, steadied himself against a table, peered through the mist. Daryl darted up to him, his carefully coiffed hair awry. A smile flicked on and off like leaf shadows playing on water.

"It's Desiranne you want to see—and I promise you, you'll see her. Just wait. But now—come along with me. The party's just begun. We have wonderful things planned, and we must have you! It will be the greatest affair of the century—of a lifetime! And at the end of it—Desiranne!"

"Sostelle, is he lying?" Roan stared at the Terran, who was quivering with eagerness, like an Alphan slave awaiting a kick or the dregs of a wineglass, not knowing which it would be.

"Master," Sostelle whined, "Master Daryl speaks the truth . . ."

"Then I'll come."

"You'll be glad, Roan," Daryl gushed. "So glad. "And—"

"Never mind that. Where are we going?"

"First, we'll dine. After the dancing and the . . . excitement . . . we need to nourish ourselves, don't you think?" He giggled. "And then—but you'll see; there will be marvelous things—all the pleasures of Terra are waiting for you tonight!" He danced away, calling to others. Roan started after him, then turned back to Sostelle with a quick thought.

"Pleasure," he said, "is what you go after when there isn't anything else left."

The cold night air cleared Roan's head. He looked down from the open flyer in which he and Daryl and two women and their dogs sat on silken cushions, drinking from small, thin-necked bottles of spicy liquor. There were other airboats around them, darting in and out like a school of playful fish. Over the rush of air, thin cries of excitement mingled with the chatter of many voices talking at once.