doorway, one from the center of
the room. The boy watched from his hiding place at the window. No one
spoke; not an indrawn breath broke the silence.
Then Platus smiled
slightly. Taking off his glasses, he wiped them—a habitual
movement that made Dion's throat hurt with unshed tears. "You
come upon me like Lucifer, Derek . . . his face, deep scars of
thunder had intrenched . . . ? Do you remember your Milton?"
"Still the poet,"
the man in the doorway commented in a deep baritone that was
passionless, grave, and quiet. Removing his helmet, he placed it
under his left arm in military fashion, then—ducking his
head—he walked through the doorway and stepped into the simple
living room. Dion could see him quite clearly; the light of a lamp
shone directly on his face.
The man called Derek
appeared older without the helmet. Though he had the muscular build
of a young man, Dion guessed that he was in his late forties, about
the same age as Platus. It was the face that aged him. It might have
been carved of granite, each stroke of the sculptor's blade bearing
downward in grim, stern resolve. Black hair, damp from perspiration,
was worn long and was tied at the back erf his neck with a leather
thong. His skin color was the rich, even bronze of those who live in
space and must depend on artificial suns for their health. The eyes
that glanced about the room were dark and narrow, cold and forbidding
as a grave.
Dion shivered in the
warm darkness.
"I remember my
Milton, poet. I'll finish the line: \ . . waiting revenge.' You were
warned of my arrival. Stavros, of course. I thought I had shut down
his transmission in time."
"You did. You were
as efficient as always, Sagan. It was only a simple, mathematical
sequence sent out by a friend of his when Stavros knew it was too
late to escape. Easily overlooked by your monitoring devices, yet it
told me . . . all."
Sagan glanced about the
room, taking in the shelves and shelves of books; the few, fine
paintings hanging on the wall; the simply, homely luxuries. Dion saw
them, too, with new eyes, eyes blurred by tears. How precious they
seemed suddenly. When the man reached down and picked up a small lap
harp—Platus's harp—with his gauntleted hand, the boy
would have given anything for the strength to rush inside and snatch
it from him. But Dion barely had strength enough to hang on to the
windowsill. He could still give no reason for his fear, but it was
very real and it was eating him alive.
"It has been a
long time, poet," Sagan said, returning the harp carefully and
respectfully to its place. "I have sought you many years."
He walked across the
room toward the window and Dions chest almost burst from the
suffocating fear that he'd been seen. But the man turned his back to
Dion, to face Platus. A magnificent phoenix, embroidered in gold, had
been stitched on the man's cloak. "The boy is gone."
"Yes, I sent him
away."
"Why didn't you go
with him?"
Platus shrugged, the
silver armor glistened in the fight. He turned to face his visitor
and Dion saw a marvelous jewel, hanging from a silver chain around
his master's neck.
"I am easy to
find, Sagan. You have me on file, everything from my blood type to my
hand print to the pattern of my brain waves. Witness how easily you
traced me to this house, once you knew the name of the planet on
which I lived! How much longer could I hide from you, Derek? Yet, the
boy. That is different. He is anonymous—"
"Anonymous!"
Sagan sneered. "Bah! Whatever else that family of his may have
been, they were never anonymous. Surely, he must have all the traits!
Unless ..." The man stared at Platus in disbelief. "He
doesn't know!"
"No. He knows
nothing, not even his real name."
"Creator!"
Sagan breathed. His face darkened and it seemed to the boy that the
man was not swearing but calling upon God in reverence. "And I
can imagine how you have raised him, you weak, sniveling worm!"
The narrow-eyed gaze swept the room.
the room. The boy watched from his hiding place at the window. No one
spoke; not an indrawn breath broke the silence.
Then Platus smiled
slightly. Taking off his glasses, he wiped them—a habitual
movement that made Dion's throat hurt with unshed tears. "You
come upon me like Lucifer, Derek . . . his face, deep scars of
thunder had intrenched . . . ? Do you remember your Milton?"
"Still the poet,"
the man in the doorway commented in a deep baritone that was
passionless, grave, and quiet. Removing his helmet, he placed it
under his left arm in military fashion, then—ducking his
head—he walked through the doorway and stepped into the simple
living room. Dion could see him quite clearly; the light of a lamp
shone directly on his face.
The man called Derek
appeared older without the helmet. Though he had the muscular build
of a young man, Dion guessed that he was in his late forties, about
the same age as Platus. It was the face that aged him. It might have
been carved of granite, each stroke of the sculptor's blade bearing
downward in grim, stern resolve. Black hair, damp from perspiration,
was worn long and was tied at the back erf his neck with a leather
thong. His skin color was the rich, even bronze of those who live in
space and must depend on artificial suns for their health. The eyes
that glanced about the room were dark and narrow, cold and forbidding
as a grave.
Dion shivered in the
warm darkness.
"I remember my
Milton, poet. I'll finish the line: \ . . waiting revenge.' You were
warned of my arrival. Stavros, of course. I thought I had shut down
his transmission in time."
"You did. You were
as efficient as always, Sagan. It was only a simple, mathematical
sequence sent out by a friend of his when Stavros knew it was too
late to escape. Easily overlooked by your monitoring devices, yet it
told me . . . all."
Sagan glanced about the
room, taking in the shelves and shelves of books; the few, fine
paintings hanging on the wall; the simply, homely luxuries. Dion saw
them, too, with new eyes, eyes blurred by tears. How precious they
seemed suddenly. When the man reached down and picked up a small lap
harp—Platus's harp—with his gauntleted hand, the boy
would have given anything for the strength to rush inside and snatch
it from him. But Dion barely had strength enough to hang on to the
windowsill. He could still give no reason for his fear, but it was
very real and it was eating him alive.
"It has been a
long time, poet," Sagan said, returning the harp carefully and
respectfully to its place. "I have sought you many years."
He walked across the
room toward the window and Dions chest almost burst from the
suffocating fear that he'd been seen. But the man turned his back to
Dion, to face Platus. A magnificent phoenix, embroidered in gold, had
been stitched on the man's cloak. "The boy is gone."
"Yes, I sent him
away."
"Why didn't you go
with him?"
Platus shrugged, the
silver armor glistened in the fight. He turned to face his visitor
and Dion saw a marvelous jewel, hanging from a silver chain around
his master's neck.
"I am easy to
find, Sagan. You have me on file, everything from my blood type to my
hand print to the pattern of my brain waves. Witness how easily you
traced me to this house, once you knew the name of the planet on
which I lived! How much longer could I hide from you, Derek? Yet, the
boy. That is different. He is anonymous—"
"Anonymous!"
Sagan sneered. "Bah! Whatever else that family of his may have
been, they were never anonymous. Surely, he must have all the traits!
Unless ..." The man stared at Platus in disbelief. "He
doesn't know!"
"No. He knows
nothing, not even his real name."
"Creator!"
Sagan breathed. His face darkened and it seemed to the boy that the
man was not swearing but calling upon God in reverence. "And I
can imagine how you have raised him, you weak, sniveling worm!"
The narrow-eyed gaze swept the room.
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