Prologue

 

Tristell was dead, and Tralvar was very, very drunk.  Having failed after three days to attain the oblivion he craved, he left the akron at dawn and walked unsteadily up the hill toward the Lyricon. Soon the artisans would arrive to take down Tristell’s statue, which stood forlorn and isolated amid the towering colonnades. Once there had been a whole avenue of statues, each one a celebration of a living singer. Now, there were no more singers. Tristell had been the last.

The stonemasons appeared, duly noted Tralvar’s dishevelled presence, and made a show of ignoring him. Such a public display of grief was unseemly. It was no excuse that he’d loved the dead girl, because that in itself had been foolish. Tristell had attracted many lovers, all valued citizens. And what was Tralvar? Untrustworthy, a close ally of Alendis the tyrant, and a failed musician into the bargain.

Tralvar, though he kept his mind closed defensively, was well aware of their attitude. Alone in the great auditorium, he sat at a distance and watched the men begin their work.  No-one dared ask him to leave.

Far above, other eyes had spied him. Two women, mother and daughter, regarded him from the window of their apartment.

"I’m surprised he had the nerve to show up," remarked Zenzie. Her youth and prettiness were marred by the scowl on her face and the dark shadows under her eyes. Her white‑blond hair was unbrushed.

"Put off your anger, child," Floren said reprovingly. "It does no‑one any good, least of all you. Poor Tralvar’s probably suffering more than we are."

"Poor Tralvar?" Zenzie repeated scornfully. "He's a good actor, I'll admit, but I'm not fooled and neither should you be. I'm convinced he had something to do with Tristell's death and I intend to prove it."

"If you're right, then harmony help him," said Floren, still gazing at the solitary figure below.

"I don't see why you feel so sorry for him.”

"Because...." Floren hesitated, trying to give her instinct some substance. "Because I represent the scolia and I've always believed they let him down. He's a born musician, better than many in the Guild. If they'd allowed him to persevere, he'd have been a very different person today."

As she finished speaking, a young man entered the room. He directed a reproachful look at Zenzie before picking up an embroidered wrap and hastening forward to place it around her. "You shouldn't be up, my little love," he said gently.

"Idenion, it's been five octals since the miscarriage. All this lying around is making me tired." She glanced out of the window again. "Or maybe it's the company."

"I saw him arrive," Idenion said quietly. "He won't let me read him; should one of us go down there, Floren?"

"We'll both go. Zenzie, I think you should stay here."

"With pleasure. Just make sure you send him packing."

Tralvar stood up as Idenion and Floren approached. They paused on the step above him, but his sombre presence was enough to offset his disadvantaged position.

"My compliments, Custodian," he said with a curt nod towards Floren.

“Walk in harmony, First Scientist," she replied pleasantly.

"Greetings, First Poet," Tralvar continued, this time addressing Idenion. He makes it sound like an insult, Idenion thought, flinching very slightly as he recalled what had happened to the previous First Poet.

+Tralvar had nothing to do with that+ Floren reminded him. +He was here, with Tristell and me.+

"Please don't feel threatened," Tralvar said, moving closer. He stank of liquor. "I admit  your new title doesn't sit easily with me, but you can blame that on your overblown verses. Now, is it true that the scolia won’t play?"

"It's true," Floren said. "They're too dispirited to form a lattice." 

"Then they're making things worse. How much longer do you think the administrators can keep Alendis out?  There has to be a concert, preferably several. And quickly."

"Tralvar," Floren said sorrowfully, "you of all people should know how delicate the lattice is, and how easily disrupted. A poor recital would be worse than none at all, and  unworthy of our traditions here."

Tralvar shrugged. “In that case you’d better start looking for a new home.”

"I shall organise a concert," Idenion said suddenly. "For tomorrow."

"And how will you command the scolia?" Tralvar inquired. "An inspirational poem, perhaps? You've done enough damage with those already."

"I regret it," Idenion said candidly.

Floren glanced warningly at him.

"I guarantee that the scolia will play," he continued.

"Pardon my scepticism, but I think the task is beyond you," Tralvar declared. "Scribble a few more odes to Alendis, my friend. Protect your livelihood."  With one final insolent look at the poet he stalked off, but Idenion knew his distress and wasn’t offended. He watched until Tralvar had quit the main portal, then said: "I shall need your help, Floren, if my plan is to go ahead."

"I'll organise things here; I consider it my duty.  But are you sure you're ready?"

"I'm sure." Idenion faced her resolutely. "It's all happened sooner than I expected, but I've studied and prepared. If the scolia have a singer, I know they'll play. And once they've accompanied a true voice, they'll demand more voices, and Alendis will have to give in."

"Ever the optimist!"

"The attempt has to be made," Idenion said stubbornly. "Think of the alternative, and then tell me I shouldn't go."

Floren was silent.

"Admittedly," Idenion went on, "Hellas is far from ideal. They have wars, they take slaves. But on the other hand, we've no record of our previous expeditions coming to harm."

"The journey itself is perilous," Floren said quietly.

Idenion laughed. "What? After Tralvar has personally inspected all our spacecraft?"

"He does make mistakes."

"In music, perhaps. In engineering, never." Idenion's tone was emphatic. "I must get a message to Halon. In fact, I'd better go to Communications and see him. The Hellas flight programme has to be found."

"Are you going to tell Zenzie what you're doing?" asked Floren.

"Later," promised Idenion. "I don't want any histrionics just yet. I've some serious writing to do."

"Writing? At a time like this?" exclaimed Floren, but Idenion didn't elaborate. Floren, ever more troubled, watched him hasten away. Her first instinct was to go after him, shake him, remind him that he was not invulnerable. But in the end she did nothing. Poets, after all, weren't renowned for their prudence.

Having delivered his message, Idenion spent most of the day in the city archives, drafting a document which he eventually left there under seal. Then, at twilight, he paid his second visit to the communications centre on the eastern edge of Alda Mexa. The spacefield was unlit, as was the custom when no traffic was expected; but off to one side, lights burned in a  white tower. Halon, hopefully alone, was waiting for him. A discreet mindsweep confirmed this was so. Idenion also discovered, with the acuteness of perception he was renowned for, that Halon had not been entirely successful in his search for the Hellas programme.

The entrance doors whispered apart at Idenion's touch, revealing empty reception areas  and an elevator to the nine floors above. This building, plain and functional, had neither the history nor the grandeur of the Lyricon; yet, paradoxically, it showed more signs of age. The white stone walls were mottled, the synthetic floor covering was scuffed.

Halon was in the data analysis area on the fifth floor. Despite its officious title, the room looked half‑derelict, with a thick layer of dust on the monitor screens and work surfaces. Some of the dust had transferred itself to Halon's hair and clothing.

"Who's upstairs?" Idenion asked, glancing in the general direction of the control room on the uppermost level.

"Jarras. He'll mind his own business," Halon reassured him.

Idenion picked his way across the room to his friend's side. "What's been the problem?"

Halon switched on one of the monitors, which displayed a neat list of galactic coordinates. "This," he said, pointing at one entry, "is the Hellas planet, Symerid Three. And here it is again, further on. Only..." He pressed a tiny switch on the desk in front of him, and a shallow drawer slid open to reveal a trayful of gleaming crystals. "Only it isn't here. At least, not where the index says it should be."

Idenion peered at the date above the entry. “But the list was only revised a few spans ago."

"I suspect it was copied without reference to what's in here." Halon opened another drawer, and another. Inside, the fabric which lined the trays had torn, allowing the crystals to roll about. All semblance of order had long since vanished. "It's years since I examined this store," he continued. "I should have known it wasn't being looked after. To identify the contents I had to run each crystal through a simulator, and I didn't have time to check many."

"But you did find something," Idenion persisted.

"Two programmes, almost identical, which can take you to the right planet. But neither of them has the precise coordinates for Hellas. From what I know of the place I can think of two possible reasons: either it was so popular that directions weren't necessary, or someone put a ban on landing before the visits ceased altogether. The latter, I’d say. Conditions on the ground could have deteriorated." Halon smoothed his mop of fair hair, redistributing the dust. "If things stood like this alone, I'd be crazy to let you go - "

"You have to," Idenion said, regarding the jumbled crystals with near‑resentment. It was this kind of thing, wasn't it, that Alendis had railed against ‑ technology discarded and left lying around to rot?

“Aldacite crystals don't rot," objected Halon. "They just need someone to tidy them up, that's all. Now stop looking so miserable and sit down. There's something else you should see." He slid his chair along to the next monitor and set it in operation. "My tutor, Elos, was concerned about the age of these programmes. So, each time one of them was successfully used, he noted it in this register.  Someone went to Symerid Three only seventeen years ago."

Idenion stared. "To Hellas?"

"It's a possibility. They went into geostationary orbit, and that's all it says. I'll put the details on your flight plan."

Idenion continued to frown, and Halon grew slightly annoyed.

"The important thing is, they got back again. Just be thankful the programme was tested so recently. I'm sorry I can't tell you where Hellas is, or if these people made landfall, but I couldn't find any trace of a flight log."

"Forgive me. I'm being unreasonable." Idenion looked contrite, then worried. "It's just that everything's beginning to seem so difficult..."

Halon smiled. "You're being realistic at last." He took Elos' file from the reader and replaced it with another crystal. "This ought to resolve a few difficulties."

Idenion gazed in half-recognition at a series of architectural drawings. Pillars, porticos and friezes etched themselves into existence and just as suddenly disappeared. Halon showed him how to change the perspective, to travel round, through and over each structure until he began to feel giddy.

"It's from the Hellas scrolls," he said slowly. "Where did you get it?"

"It's mine, from my student days," said Halon. "Essential background. From an engineering point of view, this stuff's brilliant."

"And will this ‑ stuff ‑ guide me to Hellas?"

"With a little perseverance. I'll put in into a seek‑and‑locate format and show you how to use it tomorrow."

"What time should I report to you?" Idenion asked eagerly.

"Let's see... no earlier than dawn‑plus‑two. Your transport will be in the maintenance bay for pre‑flight checks. I'll download all the information while the bay is sealed off ‑ that way no‑one will see what's being planned."

"More checks?" queried Idenion. "You've been over everything once. Why make more work for yourself?"

"Because,” said Halon with exaggerated patience, “our biospheres are getting old.  Treva  isn't supplying any new ones. There are a few incomplete 'spheres in the vats, but nothing seems to get finished off these days."  He paused and  regarded the younger man gravely.  "I fear for you,  Idenion. You know so little of space travel ‑ of transposal ‑ "

"Transposal," Idenion repeated softly. "The progression across. Do you understand it?"

"I don't think anyone does.  But I do know how to navigate home, should my sphere emerge in the wrong quadrant. You couldn't begin to do it, so I'm making sure you don't have to try."

"Nothing will go wrong. I won't allow it!" Idenion assured him. "And tomorrow night we'll have the best concert ever."

"Tomorrow night?" Halon echoed. "But you can't!”

“And why not?”

Halon sighed. “Explorers wrote these programmes, Idenion, and sightseers used them. This one makes a tour of Symerid's outer worlds before it goes anywhere near Hellas. You'd never get back in time even if you started now!"

+There's something you're not telling me+ Idenion's keen, slightly irreverent thoughts took him unawares.

"I...." 

+Come on, out with it+

Discords, thought Halon, why does he make me feel guilty for keeping to the rule book? It's his life at stake. But I can't hinder him now, and he knows it. No wonder Alendis dotes on him.

"Well, Halon?" Idenion prompted. "The other programme..."

" ... goes straight to Symerid Three," Halon said resignedly. "Oh, Idenion, did you have to make that stupid bet with Tralvar? I want your plan to work, but how can I sanction the use of an untested programme?"

"You said they were almost identical."

"Yes, but ‑"

"And they've both been in use before?"

"At one time, yes." Halon stretched his tired limbs. "Look, I'll tell you what: I'll compare the vectors in detail and see where they differ. I'll stay here all night if I have to. Logically, you'd be safer not trailing around a strange solar system; and if I decide that's the case I'll let you take the shorter route."

Idenion, smiling broadly, stood up to leave.

"That wasn't a promise," Halon added. "Don't treat it as one."

"Of course not," Idenion said.

 

***

 

The following morning, technician and poet stood side by side in the maintenance bay annexe. Idenion was taut with impatience. "I told you it was no use being early," Halon said. "I can't open the airlock or the roof until the chamber's fully pressurised. You'll just have to wait."

Two assistants wandered past, pausing incuriously for a moment. Idenion contrived to relax until they had gone.

"Now," Halon continued, "about the untried part of the programme. You'll lose transposal well above the plane of the ecliptic, so you'll be clear of the asteroid belt and its rubble. Nevertheless, as soon as you've defined your quadrant, you must follow the safety procedures I've detailed in the flight plan."

"All right," Idenion said absently. He was feeling rather wretched, having just quarrelled with Zenzie. Where in the name of discord had she acquired such a temper? She certainly hadn't absorbed it from Floren. Incandescent, wilful girl, with a spirit too bold for her frail body. Five octals ago she had stormed into Alendis' presence, reviled and condemned him - and with good cause....

But he didn't want to think about First Poet Relto. Not in here.

Subsequently Zenzie had miscarried. And Idenion was made First Poet in Relto's place ‑ a doubtful honour, but one which he'd dared not turn down.

"Well, get going," Halon said, pushing him; and he found himself walking trancelike across the service bay.  Above, the roof began to slide ponderously open.  A bright sliver of early morning sunlight cut into the near‑darkness and dazzled him. Suddenly, a small, determined figure darted across the gloomy recess and planted herself firmly between him and the waiting spacecraft.

"Dena!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here, little sister?"

"Zenzie's just told me what you're up to," said the girl breathlessly. "Did you think I'd let you go alone?"

"But, Dena, I can't involve you. I'll come back safely, I promise."

"And will you also promise," she inquired, "to bring back someone who can sing in tune?"

"Well - I..."

"Exactly. You need me. Besides, I told Zenzie I'd keep you out of trouble."

That, under the circumstances, was so impossible that Idenion decided not to comment.  

 

Chapter One

Cheveney, West Berkshire, 30th July 1966

 

"Laura! Hey, Laura!"

Laura Gilcoyne stirred fitfully at the shout. A moment later the cry was repeated, accompanied by the sharp crack of a pebble on the window‑pane. She opened her eyes and looked at the alarm: 5.50 a.m! Perturbed, she slid out of bed and opened the heavy curtains, admitting a wash of grey daylight. When she’d finished blinking, she looked down and saw a familiar red‑haired figure aiming another pebble.

"Jimmy!" she called, opening the window hastily. "Whatever's wrong?"

"Come down," Jimmy replied. "I have to talk to you. I'm going to London."

He must mean Wembley, thought Laura. It's today, isn't it ‑ the World Cup Final?  She ran a comb through her tangled brown hair and dressed swiftly, wondering what on earth couldn't have waited until tomorrow. When she opened the front door, her sense of foreboding increased. Jimmy, who was seldom nervous, looked more ill at ease than she’d ever seen him.

"Is your uncle at home?" he asked.

"If he had been you'd have woken him with all that yelling," she returned. "What's wrong? Why are you here?"

Jimmy fidgeted. "To say goodbye," he said after a pause. "I'm not going to the football. I'm going for good."

"Going?" she repeated blankly. "You mean ‑ leaving? Leaving Cheveney?"

Jimmy turned away from her stricken eyes. "I knew you'd look like that. I nearly went without seeing you, but I didn't want you to worry."

"But where are you going to live? Do you have any money?"

"Don't know, and no," said Jimmy lightly. "Now don't fuss - I'll be all right. I'll sell my World Cup ticket."

"Who else knows about this?" asked Laura.

"Tracey," said Jimmy, shamefaced. "I didn't intend telling anyone, but she got it out of me."

"I bet she did," Laura said sarcastically.

"There you go again!" Jimmy said. "You never wanted a relationship, so why get jealous of Tracey?"

"And if we'd had a relationship, would it have made any difference? Of course not. You'd have run off just the same."

"Laura."  Jimmy gripped both her hands; they were cold.  "I can't spend the rest of my life in this dump. You may think I'm letting you down, but perhaps this is what you need to get your own life sorted out. I'm setting you an example."

"What example?" Laura's grey eyes flashed with anger. "You're being irresponsible and thoughtless."

Jimmy grew angry in turn. "What was I supposed to do, Laura? Stick around until you decided to grow up?" His voice was over‑loud in the still morning air. "You've hidden yourself here," he continued after a self -conscious cough, "and what worries me is that you'll hide for too long. Don't forget I've seen the real you ‑ the girl who can dress up and walk on stage and sing her heart out. Are you willing to let all that talent be stifled?"

"I'm not that good."

"But it's in you, Laura. It's your heritage. You've always said so."  He glanced at his watch. "I have to go ‑ I've a lift arranged. Promise me something?"

She looked at him miserably. "What?"

"If someone offers you the chance to get away ‑ a chance to go somewhere decent, I mean ‑ you're not to hang back. Okay?"

"Okay," she said expressionlessly.

"Right. Look after yourself, angel. Bye." He traversed the lawn with his familiar loping stride and set off down the lane.

"Will you write?" she called.

He waved, pretending he hadn't heard. A soft drizzle began to fall.

Laura stood at the front door long after he was out of sight. Then, feeling numb and empty, she shut the door firmly and went to make a mug of coffee. Sitting in the cool quiet kitchen, with its outsize wooden table and rows of willow pattern china, she pondered what Jimmy had said. Was she hiding?

Laura had come to Cheveney in 1962 as a shy, bewildered twelve‑year‑old, newly discharged from hospital after the car crash which had killed both her parents and left her with a disturbing gap in her memory. She was to stay with Nathaniel, her father's elder brother, whom she hardly knew. Nathaniel, a bachelor in his mid‑fifties, made it clear that he’d acted from duty rather than compassion. He’d sent her to a prestigious boarding school in the area and detailed his part-time housekeeper to look after her in the holidays. His work as a financier took him to London for days on end, and consequently he was almost as remote now as when Laura had first met him.

For companionship Laura had Mrs. Moffat and Jimmy Stretton. Mrs Moffat, the housekeeper, was an honest uncomplicated soul who doted on Laura. As a mother‑substitute she was the best choice that Nathaniel could have made, though he was irritated by her attempts to mother him.  Jimmy was two years Laura's senior, a bright but disaffected youth with an unappreciative family.  He'd been drawn to Laura by her tragedy and they'd soon become very close. At first she'd been woefully insecure, always needing his approval or reassurance; later, as his family situation worsened, he'd needed hers just as much. But she'd kept their friendship platonic, saying the time wasn't right for anything more, knowing instinctively there never would be a right time.

And now he'd gone, turning his back on his home. Dear, safe,  unprepossessing Cheveney. How rustic it had seemed to her at first, and how small. But the little community, and the ancient forest that surrounded it, had soon endeared itself to her. Nathaniel's house, Windbourne, had once been the vicarage. It had a rambling garden, a conservatory adjoining the study, and an air of genteel decay. Not even Nathaniel had been able to impose his personality on this house; it had stood too long and forgotten too much. Laura had been strangely comforted by its indifference to human affairs and had settled in at once ‑ perhaps a little too well.

"But I'm not hiding now," she said aloud.

The sudden click of the back door latch made her start. Mrs Moffat bustled in, beaming.

"Just off to Newbury, love, but I won't be long. Roll on three o'clock, eh?"

Laura looked up blankly. "What?"

"The World Cup. Don't tell me you'd forgotten!"

"Er ... no," said Laura, putting down the cold coffee.

Mrs. Moffat scrutinised her more closely. "Have you been crying, pet? Come on, tell me what's wrong."

Laura didn't mention Jimmy. If anyone caught up with him, she'd get the blame.  "I just feel so aimless," she extemporised. It was true, anyway. "It’s been a fortnight since school broke up and I still don't know if I want to go back. My exam marks were terrible except for music."

"That's Nathaniel's fault," Mrs. Moffat declared. "He should've sent you to an ordinary school." She inspected her perm in the mirror over the sink. "What about learning to type? There's lots of jobs for typists."

"I'll think about it," said Laura.

"You've done too much thinking already, my girl. Why not come to Newbury with me? Get your hair done or buy a new dress. You need taking out of yourself."

"No, not today, Aunt Margaret," said Laura with a watery smile. "I have to practice my singing."

"Are you rehearsing for something?"

"No, but I still have to sing. My voice would seize up otherwise. And besides, this is my last chance before Uncle Nat comes home. You know how he hates it."

"Well, if you're sure." Mrs Moffat gave her a peck on the cheek and went out. Silence, profound and dispiriting, eddied back.

Laura made herself a fresh mug of coffee, but had only taken a few sips when she saw a blonde head peering over the privet hedge at the end of the drive. Tracey!  Instantly, Laura threw the bolt on the back door and scurried upstairs to her bedroom. Tracey had come to talk about Jimmy, or probably to gloat about him.  Well, she wouldn't get the chance. At least, not yet. Laura sprawled face down on her bed and waited for the unwelcome visitor to stop wandering around outside ‑ and the next thing she knew, two hours had passed and the sun was out.

The extra sleep had improved her spirits. She exchanged her crumpled dress for a blue t‑shirt and jeans, and hunted out her favourite medallion - a souvenir from Athens with an image of the Parthenon etched into the wafer‑thin gold.

Fifteen minutes later, she was at the piano. After running through some warm‑up exercises she began to sing Voi Che Sapete from the Marriage of Figaro, accompanying herself as best she could. She wished, not for the first time, that Nathaniel could have been persuaded to pay for piano lessons too. But he'd made her choose, and there had been no mistaking his disappointment when she'd chosen singing. She'd given up asking why.

At two o'clock she made herself some sandwiches and carried the plate into the study. Nathaniel's books were mostly in Greek and Latin, but surprisingly he also had a number of scientific romances which Laura liked to delve into. She took up an ancient paperback, removed her marker and began to read intently.

It was after 3.30 when she re‑entered the drawing‑room to try one last song. On one of her occasional forays into the loft, she'd discovered a wind‑up gramophone and a cache of 78s which Nathaniel didn’t want her to play. Naturally she'd disobeyed, and found a song which delighted her: Nuits d'Etoiles by Debussy. She was now in the process of memorising it from sheet music.

The room had become stuffy. Her fingers, disobedient, allowed errors to stray into the accompaniment. Irritably she ceased playing, stood up and opened the window wide. Then she started again, striking the keys painstakingly and omitting any chords she wasn't sure of. Her young soprano voice rang out confidently and accurately, and her introspective mood added just the right touch of ennui to the lyric.

She’d scarcely completed the song when the telephone shrilled a peremptory summons from the next room. It was, of course, Nathaniel.

"Yes, uncle," she said mechanically. "Yes, of course I'm here. Where else would I be? No, I haven't looked for a job yet. I wanted to talk it over with you first."

The terse voice uttered some predictable admonitions. " ‑ and I shall expect to see a tidy house," it continued. "No music scattered about, and no dirty cups left in my study. And I shall only give you careers advice if you promise to be guided by me. No more nonsense about the music business."

"No, uncle," said Laura wearily. "See you later." She dropped the heavy black receiver into its cradle, picked up her dinner plate and took it into the kitchen. The table had a generous scattering of crumbs; she wiped them up carefully, then wandered about the house looking for anything else that might offend Nathaniel's eye. Her music, as he'd guessed, was strewn across the drawing room floor. As she began to retrieve it, the sound of low‑flying jets rent the afternoon silence and shook the ornaments on the mantelpiece.

"Get lost!" Laura muttered. She continued to sift through the manuscripts, pausing now and then to re‑read the pencilled comments made by her tutor, or to take quiet pride in a difficult piece she'd mastered. I'm not going to give this up, she declared to herself. A minute or two later, she paused and looked suspiciously at the window, quite expecting to see Tracey's impish face grinning at her. No‑one was there, but she still had the sensation of being watched. Seized with sudden hope, she hastened to the front door and flung it open. "Is anyone there?" she called. "Jimmy? Jimmy, is that you?"

At that moment the jet fighters made another pass overhead. She turned to glare at them, and a second later realised that she did after all have company. "Hey, you two!" she cried wrathfully. "Get off the flowerbed!"

And waited, arms folded, for an answer, never suspecting that it would change her life.