Olga Larionova

CHAKRA CENTAURI

Part One

IASPER'S DAUGHTER

I. THE THIRD PARTNER - FATE

The voice, unsolicited and inevitable, came into being in the rows of
evening chambers arranged one after the other like an array of
interconnecting boxes. No sooner had it resounded and the guardian
creepers hanging from the cool Gothic arches of the exquisite rooms, 
had already sensed the presence of a stranger and had rolled their
cobweb-like stems into tough spirals. Outlandish flowers and grasses,
filigree ornaments on walls and ceilings... Everything here was as it
had been in the lifetime of Tarita-Moore - the powerful and lonely
lady of these chambers who had loved spending the twilight hours
pondering in the lonesome quietness of her conservatory.

Now Earl Ashmoore, her son, that powerful vassal of the king of
verdant and once happy Iasper, was the sole and sovereign landlord of
all the vast castle. Brandishing their segmented manipulators, only the
serfs disappeared upon his approach: not a single living shadow
appeared behind the ancient ancestral walls except this nondescript
sycophantic army.

Suddenly, the air in the room grew denser and started shimmering - a
sure sign that the intangible was taking place.

"I am listening to you, who has entered unbidden!" Ashmoore spoke up,
intentionally restraining his voice and concealing his inborn
haughtiness. Whoever his visitor was, he was inevitably inferior in
rank and descent since there was no evading this conversation it was
at least necessary to put an end to it as quickly as possible.

"Earl Ashmoore..." A high-pitched, youthful voice too loud for this box
of a room spoke up then faltered. "Noble Earl, we have gathered at
our spaceships as the ancestral laws ordain; there are nine of us and
we each have on our glove the one who awaits the fulfillment of the
Contract."

The lad spoke civilly yet self-importantly: on this particular day he
had the right to speak without invitation, because the tenth ship was
to be Ashmoore's. He was the one to lead the armada, they were to
obey him. The one who now spoke to him was the youngest, and, while
all through the journey the nine would be equal, the right to report
their readiness to the commander belonged, by ancient tradition, to
the youngest.

Traditions, customs, pledges... Soon these would outnumber the
inhabitants of Iasper. Ashmoore leaned back listlessly in his mother's
narrow. The black-feathered creature, which seemed to be dozing on
his shoulders, twirled its bill in disapproval. The face of the powerful
earl assumed a nonchalant expression which carefully hid the anxiety
in his soul, clutched as it was by numerous cares - from minute daily
troubles to sad, hopeless thoughts about the fate of the entire Iasper.

"State your name!" He gave this order to his invisible companion in an
even, relaxed voice which, despite his wish, betrayed excessive
sternness.

The rituals of the Contract permitted him to invite the lad over. This
it had even become something of a tradition in recent years, but
Ashmoore, the last of the royal line of the Moores, could afford to
breach a newly-hatched custom in order to remain alone for a few
more hours on his last night on Iasper.

They would be together from tomorrow onwards anyway, and for quite
some time at that. As for tonight, he would spend it as he saw fit.

It was not by chance that Lady Senia had saucily told him, casting
down her long lashes: "You have the soul of a crake..."

"Noble Earl, I am the seventh son of the noble Elle and my name is
Garrel."

Strange, but in the voice of the seventh son there should have been
more pride, even conceit. After all, it was the youngest, those not
entitled to an inheritance, who received all the glory and respect.
That was how it had been ordained in the Black Age. Yet, something
akin to an inferiority complex, a vulnerability which had obviously
turned into a second nature, had crept into the lad's voice. Where had
it come from?

Maybe he...

Ashmoore abruptly veered from this train of thought. The structures
of new traditions made it almost imperative to invite Garrel to the
castle of the Moores in person, and if he did so it would immediately
become clear what was wrong with the youngest sapling of the large
Elle family. He chose not to observe this tradition, therefore there
was nothing to speculate about. Tomorrow it would all clear up of
itself. Tomorrow.

"Tomorrow," he said aloud in a haughty vooice, as befitted a
commander, "we shall depart at the appropriate time. We shall voice it
promptly, so that those who want to bid farewell to their close and
kin can do it in good time."

Ashmoore's voice was even and commanding - he himself would not be
called upon to leave a will. He was as lonely as a crake, and Garrel and
those surrounding him on the desolate launch pad knew it all too well.
He was the last in his family, yet everyone in his team was proud and
happy to be led by the noble Ashmoore.

He rose abruptly, pushing off the armrests of the engraved armchair.
The pale silvery claws, which usually stuck into his arm, just dug in
deeper: the crake had long grown accustomed to the abrupt movements
of his master. Bending under every arch so that the creepers which
hung from the ceiling would not disturb the sharp-beaked head now
resting upon his hair like a black hood, he passed through the row of
dimly lit rooms and stopped in front of a small black-bone altar,
inside which the onyx figure of the sacred crake was kept. He covered
the head of the figure with his left hand, and immediately a secret
niche opened at the base of the altar, and a hidden box slid out with
a melodious tingle.

Ashmoore raised his hand, releasing the tight grip of the claws, and
took out a small but very heavy pack of cards. He was overcome by a
strange feeling that the crake had started breathing heavily.
Nonsense, he thought. Crakes do not breathe, even the kids know that.

He cut the cards for a long time, although he was totally indifferent
to the game. Finally, he strengthened his resolve and turned up the
topmost card in the pack.

The deep purple contours of the Slithering Griffin stared at him.

Deep purple. Almost black.

He held his breath, trying to keep it regular and to hide the sudden
tension which had gripped him.

"Night trumps," he said in a completely normal voice.

Garrel's voice, which had followed him from his room to the secret
niche, betrayed nothing either. Night trumps foretold not only the
time of take-off, but that one of the crew would not return from this
expedition. One. Or maybe all.

"Here, take it." Ashmoore ordered, throwing the card into the
nothingness which he pinpointed at the level of the window.

He had never pondered over what that invisible NOTHINGNESS actually
was but there was no special need for any understanding either, as
everybody learned at a very early age that all one had to imagine was
a transparent vertical plain beyond which that boundless NOTHINGNESS
stretched. Perhaps it was an absolute void, more rarified than the
interstellar vacuum. through which it was inconceivable to transport
objects. It was alien to the material world of Iasper and promptly
hurled back any foreign body, but, as it became clear later on,
returning it not necessarily to the same spot from which it had been
sent. It was enough to imagine distinctly and in the minutest detail
the place to which you were sending the object and it would appear
there instantly.

In his youth Ashmoore had searched for an explanation to this
phenomenon in the ancient books, printed before the Black Age, when
there were institutes. universities, research labs... He had come
across many unintelligible words... hyper-spatial transgression,
sublimal continuum, immanent telekinesis. Their meaning had been
irreparably lost and he had had to give up his quest and remain
content with the fact that he and every other Iasperian had the
wonderful ability to teleport himself, another person or object or
even only his voice anywhere he wished, even to another planet.

He had sent the cards to the launch pad in just that manner.

The glossy rectangle flew to the window sill and vanished, which meant
that Garrel had stretched out a hand toward the nothingness and
received the missive at his ship. Ashmoore placed the second card in
front of himself. To save time he drew closer to the imaginary
boundary and hurled the next card without warning - it disappeared
almost immediately after leaving his hand. Good lad, he caught that
one as well, thought Ashmoore, and opening a multi-leaf fan, was
surprised to see the entire deep purple trump suit.

Funny thing, that he should at last run into good luck and should be
in this game where there is no winner. Because this was not a game
between him and Garrel, it was a triple one, and the third partner was
Fate. And no matter how the cards were dealt, she alone would win.

The glossy cards featured all the constellations of the known Universe
and the last drawn winning card would indicate their destination.

"Your turn," the Earl hastened.

A card came flying out of nowhere, flashed in the dusk and settled
down on the low turtle-shell stool. It was not a strong card: Fate's
Spinning Wheel, and its color was orange; a daytime suit, the complete
opposite of the night trumps.

The Golden Spinning Wheel? Well... I'll cap it with the Dog's Cart.

There now. Both constellations were riffled off and that was just as
well: they lay rather close to the galactic core and there was nothing
to do there. Who would seek a haven in such a scorching place?

The Swamp Serf and the Comet Vermin! He slapped down two night cards
but they did not disappear, on the contrary they doubled: Garrel had
played his hand and in a different suit at that. The noble Earl raised
his eyebrows in disbelief: everything was being resolved too easily, as
if by a prearranged plan - unconventional constellations, either too
dangerous or too miserable, which even an outcast with a
disgracefully multicolored crake would be ashamed to choose to end
the game with.

Fate feigned simplicity and it was necessary to test it.

He now had two turns in a row. He put down, one after the other, the
most frightening, fateful cards with the symbols of monstrously
unbalanced stars and disintegrating constellations. Much to his
bewilderment, Garrel played trumps and the frightful cards were
riffled too.

Fate took on the guise of a fool. That usually boded ill.

It was the lad's turn now and he calmly spread out seven cards - the
famous Mother's Garden. How could Ashmoore have overlooked the fact
that he had none of the constellations of that famous pleiad at hand?

He was suddenly seized by a reckless wrath. He had completely
forgotten these seven cards, the dream of all space travellers since
the beginnings of time, whose sole ambition it had been to put a
brilliant finale to the game with precisely such a treasure befalling
the youngest among them! Yes, the Mother's Garden was practically
unbeatable; he was obliged to lay down whatever he had, but the seven
would still remain right on top - such were the ancient rules of the
game. The only thing that remained was to marvel at the fact that
despite its actual invincibility the Mother's Garden, these unbeatable
seven cards - which according to the laws of probability must have
gathered more than once in somebody's lucky hands - had never
actually won! If that should happen, according to those same rules, the
winning card would disappear from the magic pack forever, being
substituted in an unknown way by a different constellation.

The seven would become six, then five... But this had not happened
yet. Old legends had it that a few lucky ones had been a breath away
from success, yet not one of the cards from the Mother's Garden had
been won by anyone in the course of several centuries and they
continued to tease generations of players with their accessibility.

Miracles? What else could it be.

Was it actually worth marvelling at the strange inviolability of the
magic seven when there were enough miracles in the magic game with
Fate, anyway? The disappearance of the winning card, for instance; by
what sorcery did it disappear at the same time from all the card
packs on Iasper? And by what miracle was the sign of a constellation
to which someone had already departed substituted in all the packs
with the symbol of a completely different constellation? No one could
answer this question. It was thus written in the Ancient Law which
had come into being together with the Contract.

In fact, the secrets of the magic packs were of interest solely to
youngsters like Garrel. Mature men like Ashmoore of the Moores did
not stoop to digging into the very roots of the forces that ruled
their fate. Add your own might and reason to the power of order and
you get courage and dignity, not doubt.

Seven cards of the gentlest morning suit, sparkling like pearls, were
laid out before them. Why had none of the renowned commanders ever
allowed himself to win any of them?

Well, simply because these quiet, complacent constellations would not
demand too much dignity of anyone and would not bring glory. He who
seeks glory needs no peace.

The commander surveyed the frightful ranks of the purple trump army
for a second and mercilessly destroyed all the charming morning
pictures. The cards that remained in his hand after this were still
purple and he promptly presented this terrible five-strong suit: "The
Earless Nymph, the Mound Griffin, the Twice Churchified, the
Smoldering Mummy... and the Gaunt Centaur!"

Why had the cards appeared in this order? He could not explain.

He did not have to transport himself to the motionless spaceships - he
saw them in his mind's eye to the minutest detail. He could imagine
the nine lads, sitting in a tight circle on the cool surface of the
launch pad as the last rays of the setting sun gilded the terrible
cards his hand had hurled. The winning rectangle among them was the
card of a constellation called the Gaunt Centaur.

He, Earl Ashmoore, had not desired this goal. Fate had.

"Garrel, seventh son of Elle!" Ashmoore spoke as the ancient ritual
required. "Make it known to the others that in keeping with the
Contract we have been given night and that as it draws to a close we
shall depart... The destination is in front of you."

"Ave, ave, mighty Earl!" Resounded the lad's voice in reply. And was no
more.

Ashmoore was once again alone in his giant ancient castle.

II.

NOT ALL THAT IS LIGHT IS LIGHT,

NOT ALL THAT IS DARK IS DARKNESS.

He stood in front of the dark niche in which the outlines of the
winged creature could hardly be discerned. The twilight deepened. All
that remained was a night, and not a full night at that; and Lady
Senia, whom he would have no time to bid a proper adieu. Fate.

He put his sword on and weighted the field desintor in his palm.
Should he take it? There would hardly be a need for it on the night
trip, but Ashmoore was not at all sure he would manage, or want, to
return to his parents' castle before leaving. He put on his velvet
cloak, absentmindedly overlooking the fact that the battle-worn crake
could not bear to be covered up by garments. After Ashmoore had tied
the precious clasp on his shoulder, the crake released his claws one
after the other, pulled his wings from under the soft folds of the
material and carefully placed them on top of the cloak, covering his
master's hands and shoulders and tucking his silvery claws into his
master's arms. The straight ash-grey feathers were almost
indiscernible from the dark grey velvet of both cloak and cuirass and
the small, ever-alert head with the silvery cowl enveloped the white
hair of the Earl like a living hood.

The crake shook nervously, patting each feather tighter into place as
if in anticipation of the night trip. He had heard the conversation
between Ashmoore and Garrel, but could he read people's minds?

They had spent almost three score years together, Ashmoore and the
crake, but the wise Earl still didn't know the answer. He went down to
the first floor along the spiral staircase which was cut into the
trunk of an aromatic tree. Family legends maintained that its base
concealed the entrance to the Cursed Vault which stretched under the
whole continent. It was impossible to check this - all that was known
for sure was that several centuries ago Ashmoore's great-great-
grandfather had planted a tree on this spot and when the trunk had
reached the necessary width the skilled serfs had cut off the
branches, carved out the winding stairs and handrails and reinforced
them with filigree plates and supports.

Then they had built one more castle tower, this time around the
staircase. Could it be that some ancient secret was earnestly kept in
the still warm roots, that his mother had so much loved this
staircase which lead to the night chambers?

He touched the aromatic handrails for the last time and stepped into
the small antechamber from where a door led to the stables. A couple
of cleaner-serfs started working on his boots, the right one of which
was always more meticulously cleaned than the left, greeting the
master with a subdued blink of their blue breast torches: it was well-
known that Earl Ashmoore, himself exceptionally reticent, did not like
noise and exclamations. But the third serf, definitely making a fool of
himself to steal through the door unnoticed, without greeting his
master. Too bad that the desintor had remained in the Prophecy Room,
he would have to go back for it now, and that was a bad omen.

This was a purely mechanical thought, however, colored neither by
wrath nor by irritation. He ran back lightly, found the weapon and
opened the door with a heavy kick, pushing aside the obliging serfs
who had rushed towards him with the boots. The third serf fled,
bobbing on his bow-legs; had it had not been for the direct light of
the first moon which had already risen, Ashmoore would have probably
lost the fugitive. But the long shadow swept the yard, betraying
every move, and the desintor swished around at the jagged and
rounded walls.

The serf exploded like an empty canister and an oily smudge oozed out
onto the limestone slabs. The crake shook with disgust and the
movement passed on to Ashmoore.

"It's alright, friend," he said softly. "Everything should be left in
order when one leavs one's home for such a long time."

And now - the road.

He could have transported himself to his nightly destination just as
instantaneously as the way in which the ten ships would depart for
the sinister stars of the Gaunt Centaur at the first glimmer of dawn.
But he wanted to bid his own good-bye (or was it a farewell? ) to
Iasper, a good-bye which he would not trade for all the seven fabled
constellations of the Mother's Garden, a good-bye made up of the
gentle touch of the silvery moon on his face and the storing up of the
scents and sounds of Iasper in every bodily cell.

And when one of those who would follow him lost even the minutest
particle of his own memory, it was his duty, the duty of Ashmoore the
commander, to share it with him, because the store of memories was
the only treasure which could not be depleted by giving part of it to
your close and kin.

He pulled on his riding boots and sent into the darkness an inimitable
cry: the battle cry of the Moores. At that instant, a high, impatient
whining made him turn towards the stables, where his horse, which
had obviously sensed that its master was preparing for a long
journey, was showing its fear of being left behind.

"To me!" Ashmoore shouted just to give it the pleasure of hearing its
master's order, but the horse was already flying out of the stable,
spreading its wings and glittering with its raven-black armour plates.

It covered the distance from the stable tower to the entrance of the
castle in a single, infinitely graceful jump and landed in front of its
master, bending its forelegs concurrently with the folding of its
armour which barred any stranger not only from saddling him, but
from even going near him. Ashmoore noticed that in doing so the horse
brushed the left wing of the crake with its razor-sharp scales. Did he
imagine it or was there an amity between them? Imagined or not, this
wasn't the first such incident.

The crake phlegmatically raised its wing, cracked the cowl over his
eyes with its claws and, ignoring the aggressive burst on the part of
the horse, calmly slid his silky feathers along the cuirass sleeves,
freezing again in its customary alert immobility.

"Carry on, play tricks and I will leave you in the narrowest of pens,"
Ashmoore promised and the horse started blinking in fear.

That was pure bluff: he would have to take the horse along in any
case and the latter did not dare, nay, he was genetically incapable of
disobeying his master since the founders of his bloodline had carried
on their backs the founders of the Moore dynasty. All that was needed
was an order, and he would be eternally and fervently friendly to the
crake.

But Ashmoore, who had often wondered about the relations between his
horse and crake, was for some reason loath to issue such an order.
Frowning, he leaned and tightened the knots of the silk bridle which
showed through the large plates of the armour. He slid his boots into
the stirrup and found himself in the saddle with a single push. All
this was done leisurely, as befitted a mighty Earl. An Earl who well
knew only too well that he might be sitting astride his horse for the
last time ever.

After all, his trumps had been night trumps...

The horse, stretching its neck, playfully opened its wings, catching
the bluish light of the moon on them. He undoubtedly did this just out
of spite towards the crake who looked like an ugly duckling in
comparison.

"Well, well," said Ashmoore condescendingly, patting the horse with a
rough glove and at the same time brushing his chin against the
glistening feathers which covered the shoulder of his cuirass. "Start
off on a trot."

Although he was addressing both of them, Ashmoore realized that he
was in fact trying to excuse the horse's hostility toward the crake.
Yes, it would be a good thiing to settle their differences prior to the
journey and it was just too bad that this had occurred to him so
late. They were both loyal to him but - and the ancient gods surely
saw it - each in his way.

The horse was loyal because it was a horse, and total obedience to its
master was in its blood.

The crake was loyal because he was true to the Contract, that is to
himself.

Or to all other crakes?

He pressed his knees into the horse's sides and the latter proudly
trotted through the yard, his hooves clattering evenly on the night
road and giving off pale sparks. Needle-like steeples, viaducts, lady's
bridges untrodden in years, moonlit opal pools of lilac, long-deserted
barracks and ghostly grilles of the super-sensitive living radars -
these last impressions of the castle slowly receded in the darkness, in
the past and perhaps into nothingness.

After all, the trumps had been night trumps!

The sun, sending into the night its last greenish rays relinquished
the cerise cup of the sky to the string of moons and they colored the
narrow fields of mangel, growing alongside the road in mournful opal
shades. Beyond the meadows, the uniform boxlike forms of the cil-
processing plant could be seen, a family property of the Moores which
had been conferred in days of yore by the King of Iasper to the elder
of the clan. From that moment onward all Moores, generation after
generation, had been hereditary chemists by education, remaining in
their souls and by vocation warriors. The present King had once more
reasserted the vassal rights of the Moores, although this glorious
family had dwindled in numbers throughout the centuries.

When Ashmoore's father died, his mother was left with an under-age
son and no one offered her his hand, nor his help.

Tarita-Moore had governed the castle and the plants, and had ruled
the serfs for eighteen years, and all that time she never left the
place, living there all alone with her son governing one of the largest
feudal estates on Iasper. Her son had hardly come of age when he
passed the full course of studies which a future chemist would need
and won the tournament on princess Senia's eleventh birthday, and she
handed the administration of the estates over to him with relief,
calming herself with the dream that family happiness was still to
come... But Tarita-Moore's hopes to see her son married and herself
surrounded by grandchildren never came true. She never understood
what had really happened at the tournament when her son had
defeated the three strongest fighting serfs - one with a sword, the
other with a desintor and the third bare-handed. Fascinated by her
son's valor she had kept watching him, and him alone.

She should have watched the princess instead.

Later on, she questioned all the serfs who had accompanied them to
the tournament, reliving their visual and emotional memories second
by second. No, nothing had happened between her son and the strange
princess. And anyway, what could have happened on that day when she
was only eleven?

But since then Ashmoore wouldn't look at even the prettiest girl on
Iasper. So Tarita-Moore was not at all astonished to hear that when
Mona Senia came of age her son had secretly asked for the hand of the
king's daughter.

She was even less astonished to hear that Ashmoore had received a
flat refusal.

The feudal estates of The Moores were too big - if anything happened
to Ashmoore, the princes would have to take over all the
administration of the plants. Mona Senia herself would have to take up
the studies, especially chemistry, but, although the members of the
royal family had to coordinate Iasper's economy, people said the only
thing she loved to do was play military games more suitable for boys
and ride aimlessly for days on end from one estate to another through
meadows with crystal clear springs where only serfs could be seen,
gathering the poor crop from the windless autumn slopes. She had a
strange character, that princess, but nobody could do anything about
that. Glory be to the ancient gods that she was the youngest child
and not a crown princess.

Did the strange young king's daughter have any idea that Ashmoore
had asked for her hand? Tarita-Moore was too proud to be interested
in details, especially if there had already been a refusal. Who could
she ask, anyway? Her son? She spared him the shame of reliving the
memory. The serfs? They had already proved helpless. There was, of
course, one place where they knew everything about everybody. And
just like any other Iasperian she had to appear there from time to
time. That place was the king's court.

Several times a year the elite gathered in the grand palace the size
of a city - thousands of people, all the adults on Iasper. It was only
the elite who had survived through the awful Black Times. Now they
gathered to shape the history of their planet, and they did it as well
as they could: some of them convened in the Great Council, a
coordinative economic body, comprising the king and the princes;
others spent their time nearby - in the numerous galleries, meditation
rooms and secret cabinets, taking part in different consultative
committees. As a rule, all they spoke about was kept secret.

Next to the cabinets were the halls of the aesthetes, warmed by
phosphorescent fires. There the sounds of music pleased the ear, and
people chanted ancient prayers or performed heretic rituals under the
influence of fashion or chance infatuation and one could hear only
skeptical comments on decisions already taken.

Further on the sounds of revelry echoed, and nobody was interested
in politics or skepticism there: people simply didn't care about those
things. This was a lively circle that surrounded the old men's center
- people here simply enjoyed life... Everybody had it his own way.

And behind the noisy halls the king's gardens stretched out, where
shy verdure coiled up, throwing its shadow on those who wanted to be
alone. One could often see crake pairs there, shooting up in the night
sky, breast to breast, wing to wing, beak to beak, - crakes don't need
much, because they don't look for a partner, but enjoy the choice of
their masters instead!

It was not only love that filled the king's gardens: those who didn't
need love or weren't able to feel it filled the labyrinths and the
nestles with the gossips of the day. Naturally, all gossips centered on
the king's family, but, to judge from their trivial sameness, the
princess Senia never changed her habits, so Tarita -Moore could not
guess whether she knew of Ashmoores's proposal or not.

Iasper's noble elite, all the people on the planet, who were gradually
dwindling in number, gathered thus less than six times a year. Velvet
attires rustled and above the heads of the fashionable crowd the
crakes delicately showed their beaks strewn with fluorescent powder.
The guests milled around, wondering what the topic of the day in that
holy of the hollies, the Great Council, had been. And no one, not even
the wise Tarita, could ever imagine that the Great Council had been
busy gossiping about Mona Senia...

Neither these who sat in the Council, nor those who walked the garden
lanes in the evenings had grounds to gossip about anything else except
her tireless rides and exercises with the foil.

That was OK for Ashmoore. He had no reason to worry: no one would
find a reason for gossip in the fact that he had set out without
saying good-bye to the princes Senia.

III.

ALCHEMIST, BEWARE!

The fourth moon appeared on the horizon just as the plantations of
lifeless flowers, which had until then stretched as far as the eye
could see, suddenly gave way to a meadow. The rustling trees made the
horse shake its head strenuously and cast glittering looks at his
master. But Ashmoore kept silent. He had let the reins slack loosely
and had folded his feather-covered arms on his chest. The crake was
drowsing too, at least that's how it seemed to the horse, because
crakes never sleep. The nearest star rinsed the sky with a chimerical
patch of light. The pale semicircle of a cemetery arch appeared just
above the path.

The horse slowed down and stepped over a silver threshold: a gong
struck and echoed loudly somewhere behind the arch.

"What's the matter with you? Its not your first time, is it?" Said
Ashmoore, stroking the horse's scale with the sheath. "Come on, get
moving, it's already midnight."

The horse snorted and stepped under the vault of the arch.

The narrow lane ran straight as a moonbeam between two rows of
rather simple monuments and pyramids. Some of the people who rested
here belonged to the glorious Moore family. The outlines of the
monuments stretched up, seemingly ending in balls, crowns and stars.
Branched out like trees, they bore witness to the magnificent and
majestic burials of a whole clan.

Suddenly they all disappeared.

He saw dozens of wretched and unnamed graves each of which was
obviously shared by several unknown bodies. This had happened in the
horrible Black Times, when thousands of human bodies had laid
unburied and decaying. Some of them were put in common graves
without even a few clumsily scratched letters on a board to designate
them... There were even graves with no head stone on top of them.
Some of the graves were simple burial mounds, but they were the most
respected ones, because legend had it even in those times only Moores
had been buried there. The corpses of those who did not belong to the
planet's elite were predestined to decay in the fields or lie in the
factory yards where silent grave diggers dragged them to garbage
furnaces like so much carrion.

Ashmoore heaved a sigh, though he could hardly define the reason for
his bitterness: he was a lonesome, uncommunicative type of man and
could not really feel sorry for those times when Iasper, the merry
Iasper of yore, was so thickly populated that people could gather and
talk to each other even without any special order from their king.

The crake gave out something which sounded like a sigh too, and
Ashmoore understood how he felt - if crakes were able to have
feelings at all, that is. The wretched graves had given place to tombs
with epitaphs. Probably, looking at these strange peaked towers, the
grey crake for the first time understood that some day he too would
have to stay in such a tomb and a wait for the fulfillment of the
Contract? Ashmoore would have given a lot just to look into the eyes
of his crake and read the answer there: was he afraid of his master's
death or was he longing for it?

But you can't look into the eyes of your own crake and these
mysterious creatures didn't stand mirrors.

The lane grew wider and all the midnight moons were one by one
reflected in the transparent windows of the empty tomb towers. At
last the horse stepped on the little white lilies which seemed splashed
on the lane stones, snorted, and stopped without waiting for an order.
To the right of the cemetery lane stood the last tomb of The Moores
and the newly built arched chapel above it was not empty like the
others.

Earl Ashmoore pulled himself together. He took a leather glove out of
the saddle bag and put it on his left hand, carefully moving the
strong claws of his own crake a bit higher. Without dismounting from
the horse he bowed his head and respectfully said:

"Tarita-Moore's crake, friend and guide to my mother! I, her son have
come here to fulfill The Contract!"

A fall of fragile feathers rustled all at once and a pale-white, aged
crag slipped out of the tomb chapel, made a full circle over the
deserted cemetery as if bidding farewell to these places and perched
on the earl's newly-gloved left hand.

Ashmoore knew that there, by the space ships, nine lonely crakes,
separated by Death from their masters, were waiting for him on the
hands of his youthful crew, and that all of them were united by the
idea of fulfilling the Contract which had been signed between people
and crakes hundreds of years ago.

Nine feathered creatures were patiently waiting for their time to
come; Tarita-Moore's crake was the tenth and last. They had served
their masters all their lives, and these had sometimes been unduly
long and hard, but all of them had been faithful to the end. An
incredible loyalty which only a crake was able to feel, whose reason
and meaning remained a mystery! Now the time had come for the sons
to pay off their mothers' and fathers' debts. And the only payment
that the crakes accept is a complete and inconceivable solitude.

Alone on a whole planet.

Such a planet had to be found and given as a present to each crake.

Having carefully checked that the old crake was all right on the stiff
glove, Ashmoore reined the horse and made him go around his mother's
tomb when all of a sudden he heard hoofbeats. Someone was coming at
full speed and was already very near - the clatter of hoofs came from
the cemetery, from somewhere near the nameless graves.

So, the person who was seeking Ashmoore knew exactly where to find
him. The earl raised his eyebrows, somehow amazed by the light and
nervous rhythm of the nearing beast. He placed his right hand on the
sword's hilt. A serf would never ride a horse and by Iasper's laws it
was strictly forbidden to threaten a man with a desintor. And yet...

He carefully moved crake Tarita with his left hand to the horse's
mane. No man on Iasper would dare hurt a crake, but who knew what
might happen... It was pretty dark... Actually, the darkness was never
complete: even at this time, when the evening moon had already
disappeared, two dazzling white moons and a honey-colored one cast
their somewhat ominous light on the straight rows of graves.

He had almost pulled out the sword when he saw a low-flying maroon
horse appear from behind Tarita-Moore's tomb like a fairy amethyst
bird. The horse pranced about, evidently guided by an experienced
hand. The sparkling mane mingled with an avalanche of silky feathers
which rippled in the light of the three moons. It was impossible to
make out who the rider was, as his head and arms were hidden under
an enormous hat made of long flamingo feathers, but then, Ashmoore
didn't need to look.

Only one person on Iasper had a horse like that and a crake like that.
Ashmoore's raven-black horse neighed pleadingly and approached the
amethyst mare. Ashmoore thought that he had pulled the reins, but
then realized it had remained only an intention which his hands hadn't
obeyed. The black neighed again and bit a lock of the mane that
rushed at him like a lilac halo. Skillful hands, so far hidden under
weightless feathers, embraced Ashmoore and he felt the touch of a
body cool from the wind and soaked with the scent of the night. He
felt the strong claws on his hand loosen their grip and the
inseparable hood slid off his hair, and then the world around him sank
in utter darkness. He couldn't see how the two crakes - the ash-grey
and the amethyst one - pressed against each other, mingled and
turned into one lilac-grey bird which proudly flew away in the night,
waving with trembling and somehow strained wings.

"Without me... fly away without me..." A timid voice full of sorrow
echoed through the darkness, and the sounds were lost in his hair,
caressing his face like velvet. "Without me, without me, without me!"

He took the fragrant and gentle hands, the hands which he knew he
shouldn't touch, and immediately the wilful lips appeared, repeating
those same words which would have sounded miserable if they were
said by somebody else. These lips followed a burning path of their own
which went over and over every feature of his face - the eyes, the
lips, the chin - stamping every contour of that face in their owner's
memory forever.

But her lips could never belong to him.

"You've gone crazy, Senia, you've gone crazy..." He mumbled,
embarrassed, trying to push her away. But his words simply didn't
mean anything to her, because she was already in his hands. He
dismounted from the horse, holding her carefully with both hands as
if he could spill her. When his feet touched the ground, he forgotten
about honor and duty: the only thing that mattered was the touch of
her face. His lips were searching for her eyelashes, those sharp salty
beams which hid the eyes, the eyes that were so useless in moments
like this. All the world was in the touch and in the whisper of their
breaths. Only one sense was forbidden in this world of love, and that
was the sense of vision.

The crakes who had merged into one sped up into the night sky, for,
although a man is blind as a bat without his crake, there are some
moments when even a crake would have been an intruder in his private
world.

"We've both gone crazy, Senia," whispered Ashmoore, kneeling in the
thick grass while the horses spread out their wings above them to
form a living ash-pink tent.

Suddenly a voice rang out:

"Alchemist, beware!"

IV.

A UNION OF WILLS

He recognized the voice of the old forest-guard, his only friend, the
guardian of all the king's forests. Hearing the warning cry, Senia
pressed herself even tighter to Ashmoore, as if covering him with her
body and he felt with astonishment the compact holster of a desintor
on her waist.

"Crake! Crake Ashmoore!" He cried out, helpless in his impenetrable
darkness.

"No, no, it's OK," whispered Senia, "while I'm here they can't do any
harm to you..."

So she knew who the forest-guard had warned him about. Ashmoore
embraced the girl and reached out with his hand: the warm scales of
his horse immediately found his palm. Groping, he put the lithe body
over the saddle, and suddenly a mass of feathers fell on him from
above. At this moment the world around him took on color and he saw
everything around him glimmering in the moonlight: the eyes of the
crake had once more become his eyes. He saw Mona Senia pulling the
reins of his raven-black horse; her black hair, showing out from
under the lilac feather cloak, had spilled over the horse's mane and
yet the horse didn't seem to mind that. His scales were laid back. No
one except Ashmoore had until then ever managed to approach the
almost untamed animal, which showed respect only to the master of its
choice.

All at once a deadly gun appeared in the hand of the princess. That
was forbidden. Behind her Ashmoore saw Senia's three brothers,
sitting on the same saddle.

Ashmoore turned abruptly around, drawing his sword out of its
sheath. In cases like this the sword was permitted. The other six
princes were there too, standing right behind him. So, they had all
come on time!

He himself could easily disappear and run away to his ships. He could
probably make it before her brothers managed to surround him - but
his Mona Senia would be left...

No, not his, never his: but he was nevertheless ready to fight
anybody who dared say this to him. He had got a refusal from the
king, but he would never let even a prince repeat it. "My sword is not
used to waiting." He said that in a hoarse and arrogant voice. As if in
answer to his words the tired old wings of the pale-grey crake
trembled and the bird perched on his sword, clutching the hilt tightly
with its strong claws. Now Ashmoore couldn't use it.

"I'll shoot!" Mona Senia cried out. "And I won't miss either! You know
that, don't you?"

Both her brothers and Ashmoore knew it.

But crake Tarita-Moore shook his head so that his grey feathers went
up just like a knight's plume, and he screamed reproachfully. This
proved to be more effective than Senia's threat. Actually, there
wasn't anything worse on Iasper than aiming a deadly gun at a human
being.

But hurting a crake, even by chance, was a most shameful and indelible
sin.

The princes surrounded the horses.

"Earl Ashmoore," roared the eldest, who stood behind Mona Senia. "You
are aware that he who is fulfilling the Contract has immunity, and
that no matter how insulted we are, as royal princes we are bound by
the laws of Iasper. That's why we are letting you go now. It's after
midnight and you have to be on your way by dawn. Go in peace, but
remember that should you return and approach within sight and sound
our sister we'll fight as the honor of our family requires - without
crakes, blindly following our swords."

"I respect the Contract and Iasper's law not a whit less than you,"
Earl Ashmoore said, breathing heavily with anger. "Yet remember, you
noble princes, that having done my duty to my mother's crake I'll come
back and cross sword, knife or foil, whichever you choose, with any
or all of you, and that if the princess Senia deigns to honor me with a
word or look that is none of your business!"

"Now you listen to me," Senia's clear voice echoed in the night. "Unlike
you, I don't care about the Contract or any of Iasper's laws, with one
exception - the law that gives me, the king's daughter, the right to
choose a husband by myself. You don't want to carry on your
shoulders the burden of administrating Ashmoore's estates which you'd
have to do if he died - isn't that so, brothers? Well, ease your minds
for you are free of this burden and we're relatives no more! I
renounce the crown. Ashmoore!" She bowed from the saddle and put her
small hand, covered with amethyst feathers, on his shoulder. "You
forgot about the old tradition - to get married at the time you sign
the Will. Then there won't be any problems for these old fools who mop
around in the Council if you don't come back. Well?!"

He looked at her face with pain: a narrow, passionate face framed by
locks of black hair which tumbled out of her flamingo hat. He had once
loved this girl who hadn't taken her fascinated eyes off him during
her first tournament... But the ancient gods knew how tired he was of
her eccentric character. She might be right, he probably had the soul
of a crake, but the only thing he now wanted was peace - if not
physically, at least for his honor and soul. And now, when she had
managed to fascinate his horse and stood between him and the
fulfillment of the Contract, he realized that he would love her much
more if she were his only in his memories.

"Mona Senia," he said, as calm as he could. "Noble mona, you are angry
with your brothers and you have renounced your relationship with
them, but you've forgotten about your father!"

The melody of his voice didn't have the calming effect he had hoped
for. Love and pain goaded Senia, and she completely lost control:

"Ashmoore, I never repeat things twice! You are either going to marry
me now or..." She looked around, trying to find something that could
hurt and threaten Ashmoore.

And that was really difficult because nothing on Iasper could scare the
earl! But the princess was not one to back off easily, and she now
proved it - she slowly lifted up her hand, holding the small desintor
at the level of her forehead, and her hand was rock-steady.

"Ashmoore," she said, very quietly and simply, "if you don't do that, I
will KILL THE CRAKE. My crake."

He rushed towards her, trying to catch her hand, but she was
quicker: she jumped on the saddle and stood up on his black horse, lit
by the three moons, her hand aiming at her forehead.

As if by command, the princes jumped to the ground as one. The
youngest looked away and buried his face in his horse's mane. For all
the fifteen hundred years of the Contract there had never been such
an attempt to kill one's own crake.

Suicide attempts - yes, Iasper had witnessed that.

But princess Senia was about to do the unthinkable.

"Crake Tarita, guide of my mother!" Ashmoore's voice echoed through
the graveyard, sounding more like a condemnation than like a marriage
vow. "Standing here before you, the eldest of all the crakes thus
gathered, I, earl Ashmoore, the last of the Moores," and these were
the only words he said with pleasure, "take Senia, the princess who
renounced the throne, for my wife, and I'll be her husband to my
death. If her days last longer than mine I bequeath her and all my
estates to the man who first touches her forehead with his lips after
my death. I have sworn."

"I, Senia Moore, accept your Will, my husband, and everything else that
you wish, because nobody else except you will ever touch me. I have
sworn."

"How long will this gentleness last?" Wondered Ashmoore.

Instead of waiting for the usual wedding kiss, Senia whistled quietly,
and her mare, which had pretended to be frightened, came out from
behind a tomb and gracefully approached the black, bending her neck.
The girl jumped down from her unusual pedestal straight onto her
saddle. She put the desintor carelessly back in its holster and
without turning back slowly started moving straight ahead through
the wild, languorous fields, above which the turquoise morning moon
was already rising - a moon that wouldn't let her and Ashmoore have
even a single minute of the night to themselves.

Even though she had burnt her bridges to the royal family, she still
had a princess' dignity and couldn't bear to part with her sweetheart
in the presence of others.

V.

THE PIER OF STAR PARTINGS

The nine horsemen were waiting, holding their horses by the bridles,
while further on the ten spaceships formed a whimsy pentagon. The old
crakes stood still, grasping the horses by the manes as if they
themselves were the riders. They had waited a long time, these guides
of so many blind people, they had waited a whole lifetime, and now, as
the ancient Contract stipulated, only one night separated them from
their journey to the promised goal: complete and endless solitude.
They were incomparable things these, a single night and eternity, and
the wisdom of the old crakes wouldn't let them show any impatience.

Ashmoore's crew was a different thing. They waited impatiently for
him, these novices, yesterday's children, they clustered around
scattered maps, alarmed by some bad omen. The blue pre-dawn moon
had passed along a third of her way when a turbulence in the air at
last indicated that somebody was crossing through the invisible
nothingness. They saw two figures instead of the expected one. Holding
earl Ashmoore's reins and walking by his side was Mona Senia herself,
her black shaggy hair mingling with the wild raven-black's mane. No
one had ever dared approach that horse before, for they all knew
that it had beaten people to death with its wings and had torn their
skins apart with its scales.

Ashmoore entered into the circle formed by his companions. He
carefully studied each face, though none of them seemed familiar to
him at a first glance. He might have met them before at receptions in
the king's gardens. Yes, he had probably met them, but he didn't
remember them.

Was he pleased with what he saw during that quick, improvised
inspection? That remained unclear, for the time being at least. But the
nine lads, ready to follow blindly every move he made, had, no doubt,
recognized him at first glance. Now they stood still, looking at their
commander with an admiration and pride touching on worship. And well
they might, for it turned out that besides being famous in his own
stead, he was also the husband of the princess herself, whom the
young boys didn't even dare look at.

And Senia, who was now Senia Moore, walked humbly by his side,
stopping when he stopped. Her pretty face was drowned in tears, but
she was not ashamed of them. Paying no attention to her presence, he
uttered a quiet, steely command:

"State your names."

He already knew the titles and the full names of all the men who would
accompany him, he knew their clans and their skills, but what he now
needed was something else: their battle-names, by which to call them
to him in a fight, when every second is so precious. They understood
what he meant, though their commander had defied tradition from the
very start - that kind of acquaintance was supposed to take place on
board the ship, but they were happy that the princess would hear
their battle names too.

"Arm," the eldest presented himself.

Ashmoore kept his eyes on the man's face for a while. He had been
active in many of the tournaments. His full name was Arromiorg and
belonged to the clan of the northern tans The Orgs, who possessed all
the metal ore beds. These ores were mined from under the eternal ice.
Not hard to remember: a light-grey crake with a red crest. Somehow
reminiscent of a woodpecker.

"Sork." Exactly the same crake, but without a crest. Being modest is
always a good decoration.

"Doose." Tropical plantations, most of them already abandoned. Games'
champion. Cherry-colored crake.

These were the three eldest warriors and he couldn't see any visible
flaws neither in the men nor in the guides. Who would be next?

"Sques." A mere mollycoddle. And a dazzling blue crake, like a forget-
me-not.

"Well, I won't let this baby take off his space suit until we come back!"
Ashmoore said to himself.

"Fleige!" This one had an emerald-green crake with an orange crest.

"Borb." A stumpy, dark, robust fellow with a humble brown crake. And
what did he stand for? Actually, for a complete, planet-wide monopoly
on the production of annihilation charges.

That last one stilled all his fears about the whole trio. The rest of
the group were younger. He had to take a closer look at them. "Kih."
This one was a Southerner. His family possessed almost one million
weaver serfs. A dark-blue crake with a white beak. Not bad!

"Pui." Judging from his face, he wasn't very smart, but it was obvious
that he was very strong. And he had exactly the same crake as Kih.

"Gael." Ashmoore looked at the youngest of them all and tried to hide
his surprise as best as he could. Why hadn't he noticed it from the
beginning?

A speckled crake!!!

"Take the horses on board and make the old crakes comfortable." He
said that in a low voice which was much calmer than it should have
been. "We'll set off for The Centaur's Earring, the brightest star in
the constellation we're predestined to. Get ready, for its planets may
hide more secrets than even a warrior deserves!"

As if by command, they all turned to look at the pale golden pinpoint
of light, which, situated between the Centaur's ear and his bridle, was
almost impossible to discern. They looked hard at it for a few
moments, for charts and calculations are of no help at all if you want
to cross the invisible nothingness. You have to be able to imagine
very clearly the place where you'd like to find yourself.

Nine swords flashed in the moonlight as the crew paid their final
homage to the princess and the horses dragged their feet along the
uneven concrete to the huge ships.

The glimmering range of hatches seemed to die away, people and horses
vanished in the metal cocoons, and they now looked like enormous
light-bulbs, similar to those that lit up the king's gardens.

Only then did Ashmoore jump from the horse and turn to his wife.
They stood face to face. The only difference was that while Senia was
doing her best to hide her feelings in the presence of other people,
Ashmoore couldn't even find the proper words. His soul was empty,
just like his own family castle. He remembered the ardor he had felt
when looking at the throne as a boy, but now there was nothing left
from that except a little devotion. Ashmoore realized that this wasn't
his fault, but rather just an aspect of the global problem: Iasper was
slowly dying and the first thing that was doomed to vanish in this
dying world was love.

He looked at his wife, his eyes filled with sorrow. Did she know that
they had drawn night-luck before starting on their trip? If there
ever was a man with sufficient reason for not coming back, it was him.

They didn't say a word to each other. He just touched her forehead
with his lips, as if reminding her of his will. Then he turned abruptly
and walked to the central ship which seemed to grow bigger as he
approached. The horse, his wings pressed tightly to his body, filled up
the narrow entrance of the canary-yellow ship. Then the hatch closed
and the walls of the ship gradually became transparent. Now the
princess was able to watch the horse, which was lying on the carpet in
the main cabin, and Ashmoore, who had unbuttoned his cloak and
oblivious to the watching eyes was putting on a light, lilac-colored
spacesuit. He was very careful, doing his best to avoid harming the
crake. He was so concentrated and meticulous in his actions, oh, ye
ancient gods, so concentrated and meticulous! He was no longer her
Ashmoore - the lonesome, undefeatable earl, whom she had married by
virtue of her royal will. The first time she had approached him was at
night in the castle's garden, the second time was in the fencing hall,
and then in the library... He never let himself even touch her dress
and if it wasn't for his flying away she would never have dared say:
"Marry me!"

Well, she had said it and she had lost her family, but she hadn't
gained anything at all. She looked with pain and astonishment at the
space suit which hid both the man and the crake and reminded her of
a sluggish animal...

Then opaque yellow shadows gathered round the ship and closed in on
her. She couldn't see anything except the giant inflorescence formed
by the merging of the small ships with the central one. Now they
resembled a honeycomb. While teaching her to cross the invisible
nothingness her elder brothers had many times told her that it was
extremely difficult for a ship or a man alone to reach even the
nearest star, but that by joining several ships into one and uniting
people's wills, the remotest corners of the Universe could be reached.

The giant honeycomb started vibrating and fading away. A yellow
whirlwind closed down upon them with an awful whizzing. Senia felt
the soft head of her crake rear up with a shrill cry, and she lost her
vision for a while: when the sound stopped, she once more felt the
cool, light hood on her head and she could once more see. The wind
noiselessly swept over the launch-pad, which had the desolate visage
of an empty fire-place.

The beams of the last moon lit something at her feet. Senia bent down
and saw a magic card, the last drawn card in a game: the ominous
Gaunt Centaur, outlined in the purple color of death.

VI.

THE CENTAUR'S EARRING

The foreign sun was pale and annoyingly aggressive - from time to
time it burst forth into satanic protuberances and outrageous blue
spots, rotating towards the poles, flashing deadly beams all around.
The thin, single-celled walls of the ships could hardly withstand the
deadly heat rays and the crew had to use the powerful psychotronic
shield, which necessitated unflagging efforts from each and every one
of them during his hours of sentry duty. Were it not for the iron
will-power and tenacity of the commander, heaven knows how many of
the young lads would have returned from that trip safe and sound.

Nobody heard a word of approval from their leader during that trip:
the only thing they got were commands, which were most often given
by gestures. The lonely earl had never been very talkative, and after
the first fight, which everybody thought would be their last, they
got used to obeying his every nod or gesture with the same lightning
speed as they would have obeyed his word.

It was hardest for the young man named Garrel, he of the speckled
crake. A speckled crake is something special, everybody knows that,
yet nobody would ever talk about it. It so happened sometimes that a
crake died and no one knew why. The crake was a man's dearest
companion, and all knew that it must have been purely by accident, for
nobody on Iasper would ever think of harming a crake, neither his nor
anybody else's. It is a terrible thing to be blind for even a few days.
Crakes evidently have their own means of communicating, because when
something like that happened a neighbors' crake dropped by within the
next few hours, leaving the unlucky man a precious egg. And in a
short time from this egg a speckled foundling was hatched. And as
people are never strong enough to overcome their inbred prejudices,
they always treat the master of such a speckled foundling with a
silent pity. That's the way it has always been, and that's the way it
will be. And so from the very beginning Garrel was eager to prrove
that he was equal to, if not better than the others.

Nobody had asked Garrel what had happened to his first crake, but
the brave warrior never waited for that question: he was constantly
in the front line, bursting with a desire for action. Had the
commander noticed his eagerness? Of course he had, but he never tried
to stop him. Just the opposite, he started sending Garrel where the
young man's ardor led him.

It was usually the youngest who had the right of first choice of
planet for his parent's crake. A planet where the crake, a guide with
no master, would wish to remain all alone in complete solitude. The
Centaur's Earring was a star system with seven planets, but only four
of them were conquered without a fight. The first one, green, warm
and beautiful, with two moons, was, whether accidentally or as a bad
omen, inhabited by the monsters after which the whole constellation
had obviously been named.

Later on, they would have felt better had they managed to forget this
part of the quest completely, yet everyone kept thinking about it all
the time... Here is how it happened:

The first star trip had been a lucky one. United by the same impulse,
men and ships crossed through the nothingness. Nobody had lagged
behind, as it sometimes happened when the crew was not united by a
strong will. Their unified macroship had crossed the invisible
nothingness and had emerged quite near to the unknown planet.

"Youth's luck!" Said one of the elder warriors, probably Doose.

"Well, that means Fate is going to be favorable to all of us." Earl
Ashmoore interrupted him and they all got his meaning - he wouldn't
let anyone faze the youngsters.

When the macroship was finally centered over a chosen point on the
surface of the diamond-blue planet, the commander called them
together. His ship was the heart of the macroship, being both control
center and ward-room at the same time. Part of the spacious
hexagonal room was occupied by the winged horse, another part was
taken up by an altar tent for crake Tarita, and yet it did not feel
crowded.

The other, smaller ships of the fleet, surrounded this nerve-center,
forming a sphere cleverly interconnected with passages through which
everybody could visit his neighbors. Only the control cabin was out of
bounds and nobody could enter inside it without Ashmoore's specific
order, even on a life-or-death issue.

Now he had called them together for the first time and his initial
words had taught them a lesson in chivalry, as was to be expected
from a man like Earl Ashmoore.

They were going down to take a closer look at the first planet, and
see if it met with the approval of the parent's crake of the youngest
among them. If his father's crake didn't like the planet well enough to
choose it as his final dwelling, the choice would be offered to all the
rest of the parents' crakes. Little by little the dismal mood that the
games of fate had caused gave way to youthful enthusiasm. There it
was - the first stop on the road to glory. They had devoted their
whole childhood in preparations for this day. They had trained
themselves to fight and ride - things absolutely unnecessary on
Iasper. Dangers - how marvelous! The unexpected - well, that was even
better! Battles - Earl Ashmoore himself would lead them! But first of
all they had to take care of the crakes. That was top priority for any
Iasperian.

An aged, wiry bird had perched on Garrel's tough glove. They all
stared down at their feet where the planet, obscured by clouds,
appeared in the round port. "Talk, Gael!" Said the commander in a
cheerful tone.

"Leader of my father," started Garrel, his voice trembling with
emotion. "You have served him from birth to death, as required by
the Contract between people and crakes. You have served him truly
and tirelessly as a noble crake is supposed to do. And now I, his son,
as a reward for your service offer you this planet, if only you would
deign to accept it. I'm ready to fulfill all your wishes."

Ashmoore nodded. Well said, indeed. He opened a heavy volume of the
"Star Annals", a stellar atlas that had been written thousands of
years ago when the people of Iasper were many, were free, and, most
importantly, were able to see. At that time they had visited the
remotest reaches of the galaxy, exploring every possible nook and
cranny.

"The first planet of The Centaur's Earring," he read, doing his best to
pronounce the words most clearly, "was discovered sixteen hundred and
ten years ago, in the time of the space wanderings. Fit for living both
for people and crakes. The animals that inhabit the planet are
peaceful, there are no birds, the numerous herds of centaurs are
harmless, the presence of rational beings is hypothetical, but seems
highly improbable."

The crake which was sitting on the glove with his head slightly bent
forward didn't seem to be listening at all. One could almost understand
him, if a man can be said to understand a crake. A crake who was
supposed to spend the rest of his life there, and no one could imagine
how long that was. Compared to the life of an ordinary mortal human,
its magnitude was probably close to eternity. And during the whole of
that time the crake would be completely alone - according to The
Contract no Iasperian had the right to visit a planet already occupied
by a crake.

So his choice had better be good.

The crake kept thinking. He stared at the only huge island, rising up
from the blue-green ocean, his grey head with the blunt beak still
slightly bent forward. Something was troubling him! If it was that
tribe of natives, who had lived there before the Black Times - fifteen
hundred years ago, as "The Annals" said - then he would have simply
refused to remain there from the very start, because crakes can't
stand the presence of other intelligent beings on the planet they are
offered. That's why they are crakes, and there's nothing anybody can
do to change them!

But since crakes are sticklers for accuracy and the data from "The
Annals" would have to be checked first.

Could it be the centaurs? These mysterious creatures were mentioned
only once in "The Annals", and quite vaguely at that, so there could be
many different interpretations of their stage of development.

The crake continued deliberating.

The men felt light-hearted and carefree and started discussing the
planet's assets sotto voce.

"A pretty good neighborhood!" Murmured Fleige, showing an enormous
mud volcano which spewed sulphur ashes with his boot.

"It stinks," said Sques convincingly.

Ashmoore didn't bother to silence their chatter because he knew that
a man's opinion means absolutely nothing to a crake. The volcano was
something really nasty and it seemed there were lots of them -
thousands of square meters of mud and stink.

The grey crake tossed his head, his eyes flashing wildly like cinders.

"Destroy it!" A rasping mechanical voice said.

Very few men ever heard the sound of a crake's voice and it had such
an impact on everybody that the actual meaning of the words was
lost - what was more important was that this mysterious, silent
creature had at last deigned talking to human beings.

Seeing the people somehow confused, the crake lifted his wing and with
a very humanlike gesture pointed towards the control panel of the
long-range annihilation desintor. The movement of his plumage caused
an ethereal wind to sweep through the cabin and that was enough to
break the frozen tableau.

"Did you hear the command?" Garrel cried out, while Ashmoore tried to
shrug off the astonishment he had felt at hearing the inhuman voice.

"Easy, lad," he cautioned. "I'm the one who gives the orders around
here. Crakes only express their wishes." This was stated with a regal
dignity, making everybody think, for some reason, of princess Senia
walking by his side.

Everybody, that is, except Ashmoore.

"Now, if all of you will return to your cabins," The commander went
on, "we'll start an annihilation run. Borb, you are going to help me.
Our further actions will depend on the results of the attack. That's
all for now, men."

This short order meant: take turns at covering us with the
psychotronic shield, and by changing the ship's direction, if
necessary.

They generally didn't need a lot of words to understand each other
under battle conditions.

The macroship was centered over the giant stinking volcano, which was
blanketing thousands of square kilometers with its output. It was
really a disgusting scene, and on such a beautiful planet, too! Borb
didn't need any additional orders - this had, after all, been his
family's job for generations. He stood by the control panel, and his
rapport with the earl was complete.

"Shall we cover with one?" He asked.

"That's not very reliable. We'll shoot a continuous charge on a spiral."

Borb nodded with respect - well, his commander was a chemist, so he
was bound to be good at this too. The charge was shot at maximum
speed, so that each spiral was finished before the shock wave of the
preceding one could reach it.

"From the center?"

"No. From the sides towards the center."

This meant complete destruction. Within less than a few minutes the
line of smoky hills was surrounded by fire. The deadly charge was
moving so quickly that from above it looked like the fire had appeared
all of a sudden. The burning wall of fire had not yet risen to its full
height when a new turn of this deadly spiral burst into it, followed
by another one and another one, and so on, getting nearer and nearer
to the center. The shock waves stretched out and collided, destroying
everything that was in the space between them.

The grey crake, which had been put down on the floor of the command
cabin watched the whole place turn into a fiery mess. Now, when his
wish had been fulfilled he had only to wait until the molten mass
cooled down and the dust had settled. But there was no need to wait
for this high up in space.

"Everybody stand by!" The command resounded in all cabins. "We'll land
on the coastal plateau."

Ashmoore had noticed this treeless, flat island on their first orbit of
the planet. The rocky plain spread for some three hundred kilometers
and abruptly ended at the ocean. Not a trace of a lake or an oasis.
Only at its very center could something be seen, something resembling
chaotically scattered triangular stones which enclosed a patch wide
enough for a couple of ships.

That was enough for Ashmoore.

Following his command, the macroship crossed the invisible nothingness
as usual and settled down on the still crackling ground of the unknown
planet.

"Doose and Kih, you'll keep watch. The rest of you follow me!"

Fastening his space suit Ashmoore turned to the old crake, who rose
heavily from the transparent floor and flew to the fire defense panel,
his eyes covered by a misty look, his wings held close to the body...
As if the whole bustle had not been put up for his sake alone.

The commander went through Gael's cabin and jumped to the ground
first. He was followed by the other seven of the crew. They stood
still for a while, looking around and listening carefully. At least
nobody could approach them unnoticed, as there were no less than a
hundred kilometers to the nearest tree.

Yet somebody might be hiding in the grey cones. Close up they were
undistinguishable from the rocks which were pyramidal in form, made
of some kind of bricks, and not taller than three or four times the
height of a man. They had evidently been made by people and the
narrow windows, cut in the grey walls near the top, were no doubt
loop-holes.

"Gael, look inside that one," the commander ordered. "Should anything
happen, scatter and regroup at the ship."

The uneven brickwork allowed the young man to reach the top almost
immediately - his natural skill compensated for the inconveniences of
the space suit. Garrel aimed the narrow beam of the torch at the
small opening. He looked inside and shook his head, disappointed.

"Empty. The room is not big. I can see only dust everywhere."

They had to wait for the dust to settle.

If these pyramids were tombs they had been plundered many centuries
ago, and the successors of those who had been buried here had
disappeared together with those who had plundered the tombs, without
leaving a trace.

"Look in the next one!"

Quick as a squirrel, Gael clambered up again along the wall and pressed
the blue surface of his space suit against the opening. "Nothing,
commander."

The men carefully searched all of the pyramids in turn, keeping an eye
on each other. Not the slightest evidence of life, or any kind of
intelligence. No animals, not even spiders. Death had ruled here for
centuries.

"Try the biggest one."

He was there within a few seconds. A flash of the torch...

"Commander!!!"

The ancient brickwork almost crumbled under Ashmoore's heavy body.
Still, he was at the top almost as quickly as than his younger
shipmate. Gael moved aside, letting Ashmoore approach the window. The
beam of the torch slid along the walls, then fell to the floor...

There were bones lying down there, and they were definitely human
bones. The cone-shaped room was full of them as if the people had been
stacked like sardines in a can. No entrance could be seen. Possibly the
people who had sought shelter here had walled themselves in. And on
the walls... Ashmoore aimed the torch at the walls and even he, the
fabled warrior, felt sick.

The coal-drawn outlines were unfinished, but the painter, who had
spent the last moments of his life in drawing the tragedy which had
been taking place around him, had had no time for details. The point
had been to leave a message, and those ominous drawings certainly did
that. A long snout with the fangs of a hyena and a horse's mane... No,
it wasn't a horse: it was a centaur! A centaur breaking the head of an
old man with his hoof. Must be an exaggeration, it was hard to
imagine otherwise. Another drawing over there - a centaur holding a
newborn child in his teeth, ready to throw it in a burning hut... A
centaur, running at full speed, dragging a woman by the hair... Oh,
ancient gods, she looked just like a woman of Iasper! Another one -
two rearing monsters tearing a man apart. And blood, blood, blood...

Ashmoore turned, trying to chase away the sickness he felt. Then he
moved along the ledge and peeped into the next window from where he
could see the other wall.

There was only one drawing there, made with broken and uncertain
lines, probably the last thing the dying painter had managed to do. It
depicted a fallen beast with a bloody snout. A winged sword was
outlined above his head, a symbol of just retribution.

Ashmoore jumped off the pyramid.

"Call the man on watch here as well," he said in a quiet voice. "Let
everybody see this."

VII.

FA NOI?

Another herd of centaurs was being attacked by poisonous gas. The
winged horses lost height and tossing back their heads tried to run
away from the deadly puffs, but their riders kept them near the place
of the ambush so that no creature could slip from this ring of death.
Two or three big monsters tried to escape in the thickets, but Gael
and Sques, who had proved to be excellent shots, didn't miss them.
They were the same two beasts which had tried to capture Fleige the
other day. Every day the crew reported that the foothills had been
totally cleared from the beasts, yet anyone who wasn't careful enough
during the nights fell easy prey to strong claws which grasped him
from the thickets.

This greatly amazed Ashmoore: if the centaurs attacked men when they
were lying down why didn't they kill their enemies straight away,
striking them with their hooves? Why should they drag them into the
bushes? A tradition? But only intelligent beings have traditions, don't
they?. They would never have discovered the underground cave where
a whole herd of centaurs were hiding if Gael, trusting in the
durability of his spacesuit, hadn't let the beasts capture him and
drag him to their secret hiding place.

They spent another three days in making sure the disgusting beasts
were totally and completely dealt with. The first day a pair of one-
year-old centaurs tried to dive in the lake but the charges of the
desintor reached them even there. The horses, which hadn't had much
to do during the flight were now a little tired from the endless
patrols over the hills. They obeyed their masters' orders more and
more unwillingly every day. Apparently the food here wasn't good
enough for them. They refused to drink the spring water too.
Ashmoore carefully stroked the cold scales of his raven-black beauty
and more and more often thought what a pity it was that crakes and
not horses were able to talk. It was obvious that they had to get
back on the ships, safely hidden between the grey pyramids, give the
horses a few days' rest, and let them get their fill of the sweet
straw of Iasper. He was just about to order everybody back to the
ship when he heard something moving in the bushes. Ashmoore turned
back, pulled his gun out and saw a centaur crawling along the dry
purple moss straight towards him.

The beast was very old and its hind legs seemed paralyzed. It moved
convulsively, using the arms and the front hoofs, trying to reach the
man's legs. The centaur couldn't hurt anyone, yet his eyes flashed
with a wild hatred. His white hair passed into a mane that bristled at
the sight of him, his rotting teeth were drawn back in a feeble
attempt to reach the desired flesh. The heavy breathing made his
rugged lips froth. The breathing sounded awful: the old predator
seemed to be suffering from a triple pneumonia.

Prostration always calls forth involuntary sympathy in the observer,
even when you see a wild bear or a fierce crocodile in front of you.
Ashmoore slowly turned the desintor's knob to full power, hoping that
the tension would kill the beast before he had to shoot. But the
centaur stopped, tossed his head so that the grey hair fell back and
suddenly the man heard soft, reproachful sounds, absolutely
incompatible with the image of a fierce wild beast:

"Fa noi?"

Perhaps it was an accidental sigh, a sob, an incredible combination of
sounds supplemented by a sad intonation which made it sound
intelligent? Well, even dogs can howl sadly! Whatever it was, his
strained nerves couldn't stand it and he pulled the trigger.

Ashmoore looked on for a moment, repressing an involuntary twitch,
then turned around and walked away from the smoking hole. The horse
was so still that his master, who was used to friendly snorts, had to
look up and search for the eyes of his black in the falling dusk.

The horse stood with his head leaning against the trunk of the
nearest tree, big tears rolling from his eyes.

"To the ship!" Ashmoore cried out.

The soft night with its full moon had fallen down over the pyramids
and the motionless discs of the nearest planets seemed to hover just
above the macroship. The commander looked up at the sky, his left
shoulder leaning against the rough wall of the pyramidal tomb. He had
just ordered his men to go once more up to the window and look at
the bones of those who had been at last revenged, to look at the
winged sword - the symbol of justice.

And yet he doubted that he would be able to lead on these men whose
trust in him was equal to the trust they had in the ancient gods.

Because now he didn't trust himself.

"Crake Ashmoore," he whispered in desperation "you, whom I've never
addressed in my whole life up to now... never for my own sake, no
matter how hard pressed I was... please, answer me now, tell me, are
they intelligent or not?"

The crake spread out his feathers and shuddered, which was a sure
sign of contempt, and answered in a screeching voice:

"Not more than parrots."

He spoke very slowly, somehow unnaturally, clearly pronouncing each
separate word, maybe because crakes spoke very, very rarely. But at
this moment Ashmoore was in the grip of a strong emotion and thus
able for a moment to forget the superciliousness of his feathered
companion.

"But if that is so, then how can they be a threat to the clever old
crake who lives high above the clouds? Why must we kill all the
centaurs?"

The crake kept silent, nodding his beak as if waiting for the man to
answer his question himself, but Ashmoore too remained silent.

"You... haven't thought out... everything..." The pauses became longer,
the voice became even more unpleasant. "Sometime... intelligent
beings... may fly... from another star... and stop here. Weak,
undefended. What will greet them here?"

Ashmoore felt that his cheeks were burning with shame, like a
schoolboy's. He looked for something suitable to say, but couldn't
think of the necessary words.

And so the screeching voice echoed in the stillness for the third time:

"Crakes... are clever," crake Ashmoore said, as if to put an end not
only to this conversation but to any possible future ones.

The earl held his breath for a very long time, expelling it out a little
later with a rush. The planet had to be rid of these monsters, and he
himself would be the one to do the mopping up, even if only because he
would otherwise have to tell the whole crew about this conversation.

Now he would have to do it alone. No, on second thought one would not
be enough.

"Garrel!" He shouted.

The walls of the macroship shifted and the lad, wrapped in a cloak and
without his spacesuit jumped down to the cold stones.

"Did you call me, commander?"

He had probably thought he was dreaming since the earl, usually so
wrapped up in his solitude, had called him by his full name!

"Yes, Garrel. We have been spending a lot of time on this planet, and it
is still the first one on which we have landed. We have to finish our
hunt by tomorrow. To the west and the east the forests reach to the
sea and they are so thick that the centaurs can't pass through them.
That means we are left with the north, where there is a rocky valley,
very suitable for hiding in. Didn't you go scouting yesterday?"

"Yes, mighty earl, but these last centaurs don't want to hide. This is
a very strange herd. There are not less than three hundred head in
it, and all of them are fully grown fighting males. They are gathering
at the seaside, near to the old road, and when we flew over them with
Fleige they ran along the shore until they reached the swamp."

"Running away?"

"No, giving chase."

"Wonderful! Gael, do you remember the place where the old road,
winding among the valley, reaches the lake with the red waters?
There's something there that can be seen only from the air - there is
another road there, on the other side of the lake, leading to the
ruins of a temple. It has been so grown over as to be almost
impassable. Almost, but not completely. And if you are looking straight
ahead..."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in a moment. You yourself said that they ran after you,
hoping that sooner or later you would have to land. That is exactly
what I intend to do. I shall fly just in front of them, leading them on
towards the ruins, and I will try to keep up their enthusiasm for the
chase."

"Why don't you let me do it, noble earl?"

"You will have enough to do, lad. Do you remember the courtyard in
front of the temple?"

Garrel nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on his commander's face and
trying to catch and remember every word of his.

"Well, that's not a courtyard, it's a giant bridge. And below it there
is an enormous abyss. Tomorrow, when I reach it, you'll fly in the face
of the horde and destroy it! But in absolute silence!"

"Yes, I can see it all now - the winged horse will carry you to the
other side..."

"It's even simpler, lad, it's even simpler. I would jump into that chasm
even on an ordinary horse, for at the moment when the bridge
vanishes under my feet I would just pass through the nothingness and
return back to the ship, horse and all. The rest of the crew will have
to find suitable positions for an ambush, so that they can take care
of those that don't fall down or try to run away."

The youngster was watching his commander with a wide-eyed worship,
causing him to smile involuntarily.

"Go on, you need some rest. When the last predator has been taken
care of, your father's crake will receive this planet."

Garrel bowed, wasting no words, and left.

Ashmoore looked after him for a long time. This lad would have his
chance of returning home with his head held high, feeling no more
shame about his speckled crake. Everything would be wonderful, except
that...

What? What's bothering you, noble earl? What is it that is eating you
up?

"Fa noi," he answered his own questions, "fa noi."

VIII

TEMPLE AND ABYSS.

The road reached to the end of a precipice and he was delighted that
even the last ones would be able to see him as they gave chase along
the curves of the winding road.

Well, the end was near at hand.

The permanent rumble behind him made it necessary to fondle and calm
down the horse all the time if he didn't want it to rush off into the
sky. In front of him the road widened into a smooth plain, where it
was possible to irritate the pursuers, goading them on to maximum
speed, and at the same time preventing them from looking ahead to
where their surprise awaited them.

He cried out loudly, so that his voice reached the walls of the temple:

"Is everything ready, Gael?"

"Yes, commander!"

"Go back to the rest of the crew! Block the road behind them when the
first of them fall down and don't let anybody escape."

"It will be done, mighty Earl!"

Several centaurs in the front line anxiously neighed, as if sensing the
approach of a new enemy.

"He-hey!" The Earl shouted, once more focusing their attention on
himself. "After me, you cowards!"

The guttural sounds turned into a frantic storm.

The road lay straight as an arrow and the walls of the old temple
shone in the morning light, giving one the impression that the valley
was a dead-end blocked by it. These places were familiar to the
centaurs - the tracks proved it. They now pursued their unfortunate
enemy in much the same manner as wolves run down a deer against the
edge of an abyss: moved by an in-bred hunting instinct rather than
by reason. Only this enemy knew that there would be no bridge ahead
where they prepared themselves to press and surround him against the
temple's walls - in front of them was only the bottomless abyss which
cut through the valley and it would be too late to stop at its edge,
while those in the hind ranks wouldn't give up easily and would
continue to push. The white walls were much closer now, and the cold
of the abyss could be clearly felt, but blinded by their berserker
rage the centaurs were unable to sense it. Ashmoore put his hand on
the horse's mane and whispered: "Don't be afraid, I'm here. Just jump
bravely on my command, but don't open your wings no matter what
happens."

The horse didn't recognize its masters voice, changed as it was by the
spacesuit, and its wings spread hesitantly, ready to rise both horse
and rider over the wide emptiness in front of them.

"Don't!" Ashmoore shouted, because their pursuers could yet
understand the whole absurdity of the chase and stop at the last
moment. He opened his space-suit and breathed in the fresh air with
pleasure; he pressed his face to the hot ear of the horse.

"Go ahead!"

And the horse jumped.

At that moment, standing on his saddle, Ashmoore saw how an invisible
door in the wall on the far side of the abyss began to open; a grey
centaur, very similar to the one from yesterday, only festooned with
shining bracelets and ribbons, stood framed in the door. With a
guttural shout he shot a short bronze arrow toward the falling earl.
Piercing pain, the arrow sticking out of his throat, paralyzing his
body, dulling his reason, and removing him more and more with each
passing second from that elusive nothingness, so called because it was
too difficult to understand; Ashmoore was falling, together with his
horse, followed by many centaurs, and his horse was foaming at the
mouth from fear. He had to go into the invisible nothingness if he
have wanted to save himself but he couldn't disappear. It was as if he
had made a special effort to smash himself up on the sharp stones at
the bottom of the abyss or to be minced by that avalanche which was
dropping from above.

Garrel saw everything.

Why hadn't he obeyed the command and returned to the group after
destroying the bridge? The reason was simple: a very un-warrior like,
boyish curiosity. The act contemplated by Earl Ashmoore, Ashmoore the
invincible commander, was the stuff that myths and legends are made
of, and there had to be a witness to tell and retell them to enthralled
audiences all over Iasper. And he was the only one in a position to see
everything...

He jumped down from his horse, and, holding the bridle tightly,
carefully climbed up to the rocky edge of the abyss. The great earl
was flying down, followed by the horde of centaurs.

Garrel raised himself over the rocks so as to be able to have a better
view, when everything was over in a fraction of a second. The
naturally armored raven black horse was a whirlwind followed by a
firestorm. The lad gazed with wide-eyed admiration as the winged
horse started its last jump. Suddenly a clothed centaur appeared at
the opposite side, a bronze weapon flickered in the sun, and then the
horse was falling down, scraping the wings it could no longer spread
on the stone walls of the chasm. Earl Ashmoore wasn't going through
the invisible nothingness, he was falling into the depths of the
abysmal trap, and Garrel saw that the commander was wounded and
couldn't make the transition. The young warrior didn't hesitate for a
second. He transported himself down to the bottom of the abyss so
that the commander and all the centaurs were above his head. There
was no time to loose and Garrel, throwing himself with all his might
toward the frantic horse with its lifeless rider, barely managed to
catch hold of the pommel. He threw Ashmoore, the horse, and himself
into the nothingness, sending everything in the safe emptiness, and
from there on to the carpet of the control cabin. The lad had been
just a second late in his rescue: the tissue of the spacesuit had
resisted the momentary crash well enough, but his suit as a whole was
a complete write-off.

While rubbing his bruises he stood up and looked around. Occupying
the whole of the control room was the flying horse was convulsively
heaving its sides and gulping, the commander was lying motionless
beside it while his ash-grey crake, carefully spread its wings
carefully emerged from the damaged spacesuit. It flew to the backrest
of the commander's chair and shook itself, covering the whole cabin
with drops of blood.

"Crake Ashmoore, you're wounded!" Garrel shouted instinctively,
wanting to help the guide first, before he helped the man. The flying
creature continued to shake the blood off its body, not deigning to
answer Garrel's question.

So the bird at least was all right!

It was time to take care of the commander. He put his hand on the
horse's flank, trying to pull the commander from beneath it, but the
horse bristled at feeling a foreign touch. From then on Garrel tried
to stay as far as possible from it and kept close to the walls. He
halted when he reached the blood-covered body - the short bronze
arrow was sticking out from the neck, and even Garrel, unseasoned
warrior that he was, knew what would happen if he pulled it out.

Meanwhile Ashmoore slowly opened his unseeing eyes. Garrel turned in
despair to the crake, which obviously didn't have the slightest
intention of returning to its owner. Did the earl understand that he
was safely back in the ship? Or were his thoughts somewhere else?

"Commander," whispered the youngster. From the slight change in his
blood-smeared face Garrel understood that the commander knew very
well where he was and what had happened to him.

"You... Aren't you fighting a battle?" He whispered. A scarlet jet
spouted from the corner of his mouth.

"For the present... only I..." Garrel wanted to say something else, but
the purple-gloved hand made a sign: go out!

"Guilty, noble Earl!" Said the youngster between clenched teeth.

The commander was right as always, his place was there, flying over
the wood with the other eight riders and carefully watching lest any
centaur flee to safety.

The hunt continued for two more days. At the end of the second day,
when the orange sun was quietly sinking in the ocean, the exhausted
horses flew over the green island for the last time. Small animals like
lizards and snakes hid in the grass, but no monsters remained on this
planet, on which the word "centaur" would henceforth be mentioned
only as the name of the constellation to which it belonged.

"It is time to go back!" Said their temporary leader, the oldest of
them, with a tired voice.

They formed a common cocoon and transported themselves in an instant
to the foot of the grey pyramid. They jumped down from their horses,
but didn't have the courage to enter the ship.

As if in answer to their common prayer one of the walls of the ship
creaked open and from it a white crake flew out.

Oh, ancient Gods! There was a united shout under the evening sky,
while the white crake rose without a sound, without even throwing a
look around. The joy of the warriors was caused not by the acceptance
of the planet by the crake or by the satisfaction they felt in a job
well done, but rather because the wall could only be opened from
inside the ship by a human hand, and there was only one man inside.

He was alive!

They rushed through the maze of smaller cabins, peeling off their
jack-boots and spacesuits as they went, until they reached the control
cabin. "Commander," said Garrel, sending his voice straight in front of
him to the depths of the cabin. "The crake of my father accepts this
planet."

This really meant "It is time for us to go."

He stood motionless, awaiting an answer. The wall under his hand
began to shine and the commander's cabin opened.

The horse still filled up more than half of the room, opening its
wounded but smeared with balsam wings, and near it on a chair lay
Earl Ashmoore, ready to travel, clad in a tightly fastened space-suit.
The volumes of the "Star Annals" were lying open on the carpet
nearby.

The purple-gloved hand rose, commanding to attention, and after that
with an imperative gesture touched the pages. There wasn't any
alternative: the commander was pointing at the map of the Centaur
constellation. A red point was hidden under his forefinger - the next
planet was the ominous star called, because of its golden color, The
Centaur's Earring.



IX.

WORLDS FOR CRAKES

The next four planets were favorable. Almost the same: nice, covered
with whimsical vegetation, without so much as a hint of local
intelligence, just perfect for quiet solitude. Four more crakes left the
ship, without saying good-bye as usual, and with that the Centaur's
Earring was exhausted.

They had to go on to another star of the constellation, and the
nearest one was the Bridle-bit. In fact they found only one habitable
planet around it. It was a planet of giant reptilians, whose food
consisted of giant trees. The many-hued snakes curled around an
enormous stone column: for pleasure probably, because it was hard to
imagine what kind of business they might have had there. Reaching
the top, they folded their bodies in a fabulous circle and threw
themselves down towards the umbrella-like tops of the trees. The men
on their flying horses were unable to tear themselves from this
fascinating spectacle, but the old crake for whom the planet was being
terraformed was not impressed. His desire was that the forests and
the reptiles be burned.

The crake's desire had the power of law, and the crewmen hastened to
obey. When the sun went down the forest started to burn. The sea of
fire spilled wider and wider, throwing a shawl of sparks around itself
and covering it up with smoke. The crake's order had been given and
there was nothing more to take care of, yet it was impossible to be
detached when faced by that great spectacle, and the winged horses
flew to and fro through the night sky, intoxicated by that galloping
fire.

And suddenly - it happened so quickly that no one could stop it -
Ashmoore's raven-black, directed by his powerful hand, fell sharply
down like a stone right into the center of a firestorm. A horrified
murmur swelled through the ranks of his crew, and they prepared to
follow him into the fire when Ashmoore's horse flew out, trembling
with its singed wings, and making a last circle before going on to the
ship. When the crew found him later, Ashmoore was sitting near a
small waterfall as if nothing had happened, and his horse was washing
its wings under the sparkling stream.

No one dared ask any questions: the commander was free to do what he
wanted. The crew understood what had made him throw himself into
the fire; on the black stones near him lay a mound of multi-colored
reptilian feathers.

Mona Senia... Nobody could be blamed for too much rashness and
impetuousness because of her. That deed of their commander, the
wresting of a present for his beloved from a sea of fire, raised their
respect for him to a level bordering on adoration.

There were no more planets round the Bridle-bit and it became
necessary to go on to the most distant stars - the Saddle and the
Cross. There was, in fact, a closer sun, which in the annals went
under the interesting name of Chakra Centauri: in the ancient picture
that star was right in the middle of the centaur's forehead, between
the eyes and the ears. Somehow the crew started calling it "The Star
On The Forehead", and the name stuck.

Strangely enough, no one had gone there for the last five hundred
years, and the name of the sun was crossed out; on the page with the
picture there was a note which said "Star wolves".

The commander needed neither advice nor support: he by-passed The
Star On The Forehead and went ahead to The Cross.

There were four crakes left. Their biggest problem turned out to be
Doose's father's crake - the bird had grown accustomed to tropical
heat and turned down each offered planet, giving its turn to the not-
so-choosy crakes. The planets of the Cross were hot enough, they
were in fact gas giants. One of them was similar to Iasper, but on the
best site there was an ancient tower, built by some long-forgotten
spacefaring race.

The tower wouldn't have disturbed the crake and would have made a
great perch, had it not been for the lightnings which crackled
between it and the passing clouds. It was a fantastic collector for
atmospheric electricity, and from the globe at the top a powerful
lightning struck the ground every 30 seconds. Naturally, even the
immortal crake was afraid of these bolts.

The crake's desire had to be obeyed, and he wished to have the tower
done away with. It was easy, as long as you didn't come close to the
yellow sands where a multitude of glassine nodules could be seen, the
results of countless electrical discharges. But Ashmoore was attracted
by these danger zones, and there he was, coming closer to the zone of
death, counting the intervals between the lightnings, and then the
outline of his figure trembles and dissipates: the Earl has crossed the
border of the invisible nothingness. A mighty blow shakes the earth
and the fiery column spears through the air and into the ground
precisely where the purple outline had been just a split second before.

The young men, not daring to came closer without a command, stood
motionless, unable to understand their commander's actions. It would
have been easy enough for him to send a couple of charges through
the nothingness to the foot of the tower, without exposing himself to
any danger. The purple-clad figure danced around the base of the
tower, skillfully throwing the charges. Soon everything was ready.
The ten horses began to neigh, raising their heads, and the tower
began falling down, slowly painting a rainbow through the stormy sky.

The tower became a heap of brown ash. The seventh crake left the
ship.

There were only three more left.

It was necessary to go to the next planet, but Ashmoore lagged behind
for a while. He returned to the site of the tower, and found a few
glass fragments among the ashes. He kept these as a memento of a
dangerous game.

The fourth planet of the Cross was cold and the humans worried that
it, too, wouldn't satisfy Doose's crake. Because of that Sork got the
easy job of emptying the high lake situated in the middle of a twisted
peninsula. Something moved in it, and from time to time rose to the
surface - something formless and clumsy.

To detonate the barrier between the lake and the valley was the work
of a minute. The water rushed through the gap, and when its level fell
sufficiently a mass of panic-stricken blue-green figures could be seen,
writhing in panic.

Ashmoore gazed from above in the waters of the small lake, wondering
how the voiceless creatures could possibly disturb the old crake.

It proved impossible to engage the crakes in a discussion on this
topic, so the only thing left was to pool their resources together, and
try and save the inhabitants by themselves.

The earl swung his mantle and gestured towards the place where the
mountains dropped to the sea. His crew understood perfectly well what
they had to do. Ashmoore, flying down low above the water, stood on
the stirrup and, throwing himself from the horse's neck, jumped on
the back of one of the innocent water-creatures. Everyone of his crew
followed his example, and ten black creatures together with the men
crossed the invisible nothingness and appeared in the sea, where they
would forever remain hidden from the crake's glance.

This was a new and novel form of hunting, and soon all the denizens of
the lake had been transported to the sea. By the time the last ones
had left there had been no more water in the lake, and their horses
had had to wade through a knee-deep slime.

Wet, happy, and smelling of salt and seaweed, the lads rushed back to
the ship. Earl Ashmoore turned round and looked for a last time at
the planet, the mountains, the sea, then sealed the ship, feeling in his
heart the voiceless gratitude of the creatures they had saved from
extinction. They were now ready for the next planet, whatever it
might prove to be.

The flight was uneventful. The planet on which they landed was so
burned out by its sun and enveloped with sulphur that it did not
allow any life whatsoever to thrive on it. The crake nodded
benevolently and left the ship forever. Only one more crake was left
now, the leader of the commander's mother, Tarita-Moore, and only one
star remained unexplored from this constellation - the Saddle.

X.

STAR ON THE FOREHEAD.

The Saddle had only three planets, and it was necessary to by-pass
two of them, as they were populated by intelligent beings.

They landed on the third planet, which was void of any sound,
movement, or reason, with a rarified atmosphere and enormous smoking
hollows where natural gasses burned themselves out. It was impossible
to imagine that life of any kind could gain a foothold here.

Suddenly the crake said, with the scratchy, rasping voice that crakes
use when talking to humans:

"Rocks!"

Everyone looked around curiously - ordinary rocks. It seemed that
the crake wasn't refusing the planet, but what did those words mean?
Did the stones have to be collected? Or thrown away into space?

Ashmoore carefully took his mother's crake back to the ship and went
down into a smoking valley. There the oxygen was enough to keep the
torch burning, but to live... Crakes didn't like to have any living
creatures for company, but why shouldn't Tarita-crake like these
stones? They were scattered here and there, and their strange
globular form made them look like crystals. Ashmoore checked one -
under the burnt surface shone a fabulous green light. What didn't the
crake like?

Anyway, the question was senseless - the crake's desire was law.
Raising his hand, the commander called his crew, and together they
tried to move the smallest one.

But the stone remained motionless.

Ashmoore tried to break off a piece - it proved impossible. Sharp
knives broke, leaving no tracks on the surface of the stones.

The crewmen looked at each other. Borb raised his shoulders and went
to the ship to take the portable annihilator while the Earl tried out
the desintor on the green stone. Borb, bowed under the weight of the
heavy annihilator, had almost reached him, when Ashmoore heard his
shout:

"Ancient Gods! They are moving!"

And the stone block was really moving toward Ashmoore, as if it was
moved by an invisible force. The Earl gave a sign and the crew
scattered. Now, in a silence broken only by the crackling of the
stones he stood, watching two green stones and a purple one converge
on him.

"Look out!" Garrel shouted, but the commander had already jumped
aside: a great noise and a rainbow of small pieces rose above the place
where the two stone blocks had crushed each other.

"Earl Ashmoore!..."

Two more stones crashed, and Ashmoore jumped away without looking
around. A couple of new attackers were coming at him, but he was not
worried anymore, because the game they were playing was a simple one:
only the ones between which he was positioned moved, and they rushed
at him from ten feet away. Ashmoore started choosing his attackers
himself, standing between a pair of stones and watching them rush at
him, then jumping aside and seeing the resultant crash and the
rainbow-hued debris.

The rumbling suddenly stopped and looking around Ashmoore saw that
there were no stones left in the valley. There were only pieces of
them left. It was impossible to understand the monoliths' structure...
One more secret remained unsolved.

Earl Ashmoore reached the end of the crater where the sparkling ship
stood. He opened the hatch way and entered the ship.

"Let him say good-bye to Tarita-crake." Somebody whispered.

They were waiting, looking at the moonless sky, so that the white-
winged bird would not leave unnoticed. But the time passed and the
crake didn't appear. The peering eyes began to water from the smoke,
and it seemed to everybody that a huge black gryphon had flown over
the ship. Of course, there were no birds on this planet, its
atmosphere made sure of that. Seeing that no crake was going to
emerge, the whole crew hurried to the commander's cabin.

Earl Ashmoore was reclining in his armchair, just as he had done on
that memorable night when they had returned from the centaur hunt.
How much time had passed since then, how many foreign worlds had
they seen - and for all those days, they hadn't heard a word from
their commander.

A horrifying guess stopped Garrel's breadth, and he understood the
reason for the terrible risks and the recent behavior of the great
earl - he didn't want to return home because he had no voice
anymore.

But at that moment Ashmoore raised his head and in a very silent
voice said:

"Tarita-crake does not agree!"

A gloved hand pointed at the book and at the star which they would
visit next - the forbidden Chakra Centauri. The one which they called
Star on the forehead.


##############################################################

They flew slowly, investigating for suitable planets, but the ones they
found were either too hot, or too big. One was even populated by some
kind of intelligent beings, whose cities lit up the dark side. There
was only the fourth planet left, stony as the previous ones, but
without any vegetation and with a very thin atmosphere. The
commander placed the ship into orbit around the planet, giving the
crake an opportunity to look around. The crew, bored enough by such
planets, were waiting aimlessly in their cabins.

"Commander!" The shout echoed all over the ship. "We're reaching
someone!"

Jumping over the horse situated in the middle of the room, Ashmoore
threw himself in the control cabin. The Wall, which Sques always kept
in a condition of crystal-clear transparency, was not turned toward
the red surface of the planet below, but towards space, where a
cocoon had appeared. At first all thought it was alive. The thing was
a little bit smaller than their ship and when it opened its mouth Sques
was ready to grab the annihilator, but the commander motioned him
back, and they all continued to watch silently.

Suddenly, two creatures crept out of the thing's mouth.

Covered with a strange whitish material, with but a single green eye,
they were rhythmically creeping out of it. The feel of something
horrible emanated from the two monstrosities - and it was impossible
to understand what in fact caused it - the eyes, the movements of the
dreadful pincers or something else. Everyone felt his crake's feathers
bristling. And then the powerful voice of crake Tarita was heard:

"Star wolves! Destroy them!"

The crew moved away from the window, preparing to fulfil the order,
but the raised hand of their commander stopped them.

"No! Catch them alive!"

Crake Tarita indignantly spread its wings and flew out of the
commander's cabin, as if preparing to leave the ship.

If the whole crew hadn't been so busy putting on their space-suits,
someone would have seen that the crake was trying to say something.
Only Garrel stopped, but his friends had all gotten dressed and were
flying towards the star wolves. He quickly followed them, never
thinking that from now on the destiny of the commander, the crew,
and the whole of Iasper would be changed.