<h2><SPAN name="THE_VEIL_OF_ILLUSION" id="THE_VEIL_OF_ILLUSION"></SPAN>12. THE VEIL OF ILLUSION</h2>
<p>Perhaps his status was that of a prisoner, but Shann was too
tired to press for an explanation. He was content to be left
alone in the unusual circular, but roofless, room of the structure
to which they had brought him. There was a thick mat-like
pallet in one corner, short for the length of his body, but
softer than any bed he had rested on since he had left the
Terran camp before the coming of the Throgs. Above him
glimmered those patches of light symbolizing the lost stars.
He blinked at them until they all ran together in bands
like the jeweled coils on Warlockian bodies; then he slept—dreamlessly.</p>
<p>The Terran awoke with all his senses alert; some silent
alarm might have triggered that instant awareness of himself
and his surroundings. There had been no change in the star
pattern still overhead; no one had entered the round chamber.
Shann rolled over on his mat bed, conscious that all his
aches had vanished. Just as his mind was clearly active, so did
his body also respond effortlessly to his demands. He was not
aware of any hunger or thirst, though a considerable length
of time must have passed since he had made his mysteriously
contrived exit from the outer world.</p>
<p>In spite of the humidity of the air, his ragged garments had
dried on his body. Shann got to his feet, trying to order the
sorry remnants of his uniform, eager to be on the move.
Though to where and for what purpose he could not have
answered.</p>
<p>The door through which he had entered remained closed,<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></SPAN></span>
refusing to yield to his push. Shann stepped back, eyeing the
distance to the top of the partition between the roofless rooms.
The walls were smooth with the gloss of a sea shell's interior,
but the exuberant confidence which had been with him since
his awakening refused to accept such a minor obstacle.</p>
<p>He made two test leaps, both times his fingers striking
the wall well below the top of the partition. Shann gathered
himself together as might a cat and tried the third time, putting
into that effort every last ounce of strength, determination
and will. He made it, though his arms jerked as the weight
of his body hung from his hands. Then a scramble, a knee
hooked over the top, and he was perched on the wall, able to
study the rest of the building.</p>
<p>In shape, the structure was unlike anything he had seen on
his home world or reproduced in any of the tri-dee records
of Survey accessible to him. The rooms were either circular
or oval, each separated from the next by a short passage, so
that the overall impression was that of ten strings of beads
radiating from a central knot of one large chamber, all with
the uniform nacre walls and a limited amount of furnishings.</p>
<p>As he balanced on the narrow perch, Shann could sight
no other movement in the nearest line of rooms, those connected
by corridors with his own. He got to his feet to walk
the tightrope of the upper walls toward that inner chamber
which was the heart of the Warlockian—palace? town?
apartment dwelling? At least it was the only structure on the
island, for he could see the outer rim of that smooth soft sand
ringing it about. The island itself was curiously symmetrical,
a perfect oval, too perfect to be a natural outcrop of sand and
rock.</p>
<p>There was no day or night here in the cavern. The light
from the roof patches remained constantly the same, and
that flow was abetted within the building by a soft radiation
from the walls. Shann reached the next room in line, hunkering
down to see within it. To all appearances the chamber
was exactly the same as the one he had just left; there were
the same unadorned walls, a thick mat bed against the far<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></SPAN></span>
side, and no indication whether it was in use or had not been
entered for days.</p>
<p>He was on the next section of corridor wall when he caught
that faint taint in the air, the very familiar scent of wolverines.
Now it provided Shann with a guide as well as a promise
of allies.</p>
<p>The next bead-room gave him what he wanted. Below
him Taggi and Togi paced back and forth. They had already
torn to bits the sleeping mat which had been the
chamber's single furnishing, and their temper was none too
certain. As Shann squatted well above their range of vision,
Taggi reared against the opposite wall, his claws finding no
hold on the smooth coating of its surface. They were as competently
imprisoned as if they had been dropped into a huge
fishbowl, and they were not taking to it kindly.</p>
<p>How had the animals been brought here? Down that water
tunnel by the same unknown method he himself had been
transported until that almost disastrous awakening in the center
of the flood? The Terran did not doubt that the doors
of the room were as securely fastened as those of his own
further down the corridor. For the moment the wolverines
were safe; he could not free them. And he was growing
increasingly certain that if he found any of his native jailers,
it would be at the center of that wheel of rooms and corridors.</p>
<p>Shann made no attempt to attract the animals' attention,
but kept on along his tightrope path. He passed two more
rooms, both empty, both differing in no way from those he
had already inspected; and then he came to the central
chamber, four times as big as any of the rest and with a
much brighter wall light.</p>
<p>The Terran crouched, one hand on the surface of the
partition top as an additional balance, the other gripping his
stunner. For some reason his captors had not disarmed him.
Perhaps they believed they had no necessity to fear his off-world
weapon.</p>
<p>"Have you grown wings?"<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The words formed in his brain, bringing with them a sense
of calm amusement to reduce all his bold exploration to the
level of a child's first staggering steps. Shann fought his first
answering flare of pure irritation. To lose even a fraction of
control was to open a door for them. He remained where he
was as if he had never "heard" that question, surveying the
room below with all the impassiveness he could summon.</p>
<p>Here the walls were no smooth barrier, but honeycombed
with niches in a regular pattern. And in each of the
niches rested a polished skull, a nonhuman skull. Only the
outlines of those ranked bones were familiar; for just so had
looked the great purple-red rock where the wheeling flyers
issued from the eye sockets. A rock island had been fashioned
into a skull—by design or nature?</p>
<p>And upon closer observation the Terran could see that
there was a difference among these ranked skulls, a mutation
of coloring from row to row, a softening of outline, perhaps
by the wearing of time.</p>
<p>There was also a table of dull black, rising from the flooring
on legs which were not more than a very few inches high,
so that from his present perch the board appeared to rest on
the pavement itself. Behind the table in a row, as shopkeepers
might await a customer, three of the Warlockians, seated
cross-legged on mats, their hands folded primly before them.
And at the side a fourth, the one whom he had trapped on
the island.</p>
<p>Not one of those spiked heads rose to view him. But they
knew that he was there; perhaps they had known the very
instant he had left the room or cell in which they had shut
him. And they were so very sure of themselves.... Once
again Shann subdued a spark of anger. That same patience
with its core of stubborn determination which had brought
him to Warlock backed his moves now. The Terran swung
down, landing lightly on his feet, facing the three behind the
table, towering well over them as he stood erect, yet gaining
no sense of satisfaction from that merely physical fact.</p>
<p>"You have come." The words sounded as if they might<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></SPAN></span>
be a part of some polite formula. So he replied in kind and
aloud.</p>
<p>"I have come." Without waiting for their bidding, he
dropped into the same cross-legged pose, fronting them now
on a more equal level across their dead black table.</p>
<p>"And why have you come, star voyager?" That thought
seemed to be a concentrated effort from all three rather than
any individual questioning.</p>
<p>"And why did you bring me?" He hesitated, trying to
think of some polite form of address. Those he knew which
were appropriate to their sex on other worlds seemed incongruous
when applied to the bizarre figures now facing him.
"Wise ones," he finally chose.</p>
<p>Those unblinking yellow eyes conveyed no emotion; certainly
his human gaze could detect no change of expression
on their nonhuman faces.</p>
<p>"You are a male."</p>
<p>"I am," he agreed, not seeing just what that fact had to do
with either diplomatic fencing or his experiences of the immediate
past.</p>
<p>"Where then is your thoughtguider?"</p>
<p>Shann puzzled over that conception, guessed at its meaning.</p>
<p>"I am my own thoughtguider," he returned stoutly, with
all the conviction he could manage to put into that reply.</p>
<p>Again he met a yellow-green stare, but he sensed a change
in them. Some of their complacency had ebbed; his reply had
been as a stone dropped into a quiet pool, sending ripples out
afar to disturb the customary mirror surface of smooth
serenity.</p>
<p>"The star-born one speaks the truth!" That came from the
Warlockian who had been his <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'fist'">first</ins> contact.</p>
<p>"It would appear that he does." The agreement was
measured, and Shann knew that he was meant to "overhear"
that.</p>
<p>"It would seem, Readers-of-the-rods"—the middle one of
the triumvirate at the table spoke now—"that all living things<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></SPAN></span>
do not follow our pattern of life. But that is possible. A male
who thinks for himself ... unguided, who dreams perhaps!
Or who can understand the truth of dreaming! Strange indeed
must be his people. Sharers-of-my-visions, let us consult
the Old Ones concerning this." For the first time one of those
crested heads moved, the gaze shifted from Shann to the
ranks of the skulls, pausing at one.</p>
<p>Shann, ready for any wonder, did not betray his amazement
when the ivory inhabitant of that particular niche
moved, lifted from its small compartment, and drifted buoyantly
through the air to settle at the right-hand corner of the
table. Only when it had safely grounded did the eyes of
the Warlockian move to another niche on the other side of the
curving room, this time bringing up from close to floor level
a time-darkened skull to occupy the left corner of the table.</p>
<p>There was a third shifting from the weird storehouse, a last
skull to place between the other two. And now the youngest
native arose from her mat to bring a bowl of green crystal.
One of her seniors took it in both hands, making a gesture of
offering it to all three skulls, and then gazed over its rim at
the Terran.</p>
<p>"We shall cast the rods, man-who-thinks-without-a-guide.
Perhaps then we shall see how strong <i>your</i> dreams are—to be
bent to your using, or to break you for your impudence."</p>
<p>Her hands swayed the bowl from side to side, and there
was an answering whisper from its interior as if the contents
slid loosely there. Then one of her companions reached forward
and gave a quick tap to the bottom of that container,
spilling out upon the table a shower of brightly colored
slivers each an inch or so long.</p>
<p>Shann, staring at the display in bewilderment, saw that in
spite of the seeming carelessness of that toss the small needles
had spread out on the blank surface to form a design in arrangement
and color. And he wondered how that skillful
trick had been accomplished.</p>
<p>All three of the Warlockians bent their heads to study the
grouping of the tiny sticks, their young subordinate leaning<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></SPAN></span>
forward also, her eagerness less well controlled than her elders'.
And now it was as if a curtain had fallen between the
Terran and the aliens, all sense of communication which had
been with him since he had entered the skull-lined chamber
was summarily cut off.</p>
<p>A hand moved, making the jeweled pattern—braceleting
wrist and extending up the arm—flash subdued fire. Fingers
swept the sticks back into the bowl; four pairs of yellow
eyes raised to regard Shann once more, but the blanket of
their withdrawal still held.</p>
<p>The youngest Warlockian took the bowl from the elder
who held it, stood for a long moment with it resting between
her palms, fixing Shann with an unreadable stare. Then she
came toward him. One of those at the table put out a restraining
hand.</p>
<p>This time Shann did <i>not</i> master his start as he heard the
first audible voice which had not been his own. The skull at
the left hand on the table, by its yellowed color the oldest
of those summoned from the niches, was moving, moving because
its jaws gaped and then snapped, emitting a faint
bleat which might have been a word or two.</p>
<p>She who would have halted the young Warlockian's advance,
withdrew her hand. Then her fingers curled in an unmistakable
beckoning gesture. Shann came to the table, but
he could not quite force himself near that chattering skull,
even though it had stopped its jig of speech.</p>
<p>The bowl of sticks was offered to him. Still no message
from mind to mind, but he could guess at what they wanted
of him. The crystal substance was not cool to the touch as he
had expected; rather it was warm, as living flesh might feel.
And the colored sticks filled about two thirds of the interior,
lying all mixed together without any order.</p>
<p>Shann concentrated on recalling the <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'ceremoney'">ceremony</ins> the Warlockian
had used before the first toss. She had offered the
bowl to the skulls in turn. The skulls! But he was no consulter
of skulls. Still holding the bowl close to his chest, Shann
looked up over the roofless walls at the star map on the roof<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></SPAN></span>
of the cavern. There, that was Rama; and to its left, just a
little above, was Tyr's system where swung the stark world of
his birth, and of which he had only few good memories, but
of which he was a part. The Terran raised the bowl to that
spot of light which marked Tyr's pale sun.</p>
<p>Smiling with a wry twist, he lowered the bowl, and on impulse
of pure defiance he offered it to the skull that had
chattered. Immediately he realized that the move had had
an electric effect upon the aliens. Slowly at first, and then
faster, he began to swing the bowl from side to side, the
needles slipping, mixing within. And as he swung it, Shann
held it out over the expanse of the table.</p>
<p>The Warlockian who had given him the bowl was the one
who struck it on the bottom, causing a rain of splinters. To
Shann's astonishment, mixed as they had been in the container,
they once more formed a pattern, and not the same
pattern the Warlockians had consulted earlier. The dampening
curtain between them vanished; he was in touch mind to
mind once again.</p>
<p>"So be it." The center Warlockian spread out her four-fingered
thumbless hands above the scattered needles. "What
is read, is read."</p>
<p>Again a formula. He caught a chorus of answer from the
others.</p>
<p>"What is read, is read. To the dreamer the dream. Let the
dream be known for what it is, and there is life. Let the
dream encompass the dreamer falsely, and all is lost."</p>
<p>"Who can question the wisdom of the Old Ones?" asked
their leader. "We are those who read the messages they send,
out of their mercy. This is a strange thing they bid us do,
man—open for you our own initiates' road to the veil of illusion.
That way has never been for males, who dream without
set purpose and have not the ability to know true from false,
have not the courage to face their dreams to the truth. Do
so—if you can!" There was a flash of mockery in that, combined
with something else—stronger than distaste, not as strong
as hatred, but certainly not friendly.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She held out her hands and Shann saw now, lying on a
slowly closing palm, a disk such as the one Thorvald had
shown him. The Terran had only one moment of fear and then
came blackness, more absolute than the dark of any night he
had ever known.</p>
<p>Light once more, green light with an odd shimmering
quality to it. The skull-lined walls were gone; there were no
walls, no building held him. Shann strode forward, and
his boots sank in sand, that smooth, satin sand which had
ringed the island in the cavern. But he was certain he was
no longer on that island, even within that cavern, though far
above him there was still a dome of roof.</p>
<p>The source of the green shimmer lay to his left. Somehow
he found himself reluctant to turn and face it. That would
commit him to action. But Shann turned.</p>
<p>A veil, a veil of rippling green. Material? No, rather mist
or light. A veil depending from some source so far over his
head that its origin was hidden in the upper gloom, a veil
which was a barrier he must cross.</p>
<p>With every nerve protesting, Shann walked forward, unable
to keep back. He flung up his arm to protect his face as
he marched into that stuff. It was warm, and the gas—if
gas it was—left no slick of moisture on his skin in spite of its
foggy consistency. And it was no veil or curtain, for although
he was already well into the murk, he saw no end to it.
Blindly he trudged on, unable to sight anything but the rolling
billows of green, pausing now and again to go down on
one knee and pat the sand underfoot, reassured at the reality
of that footing.</p>
<p>And when he met nothing menacing, Shann began to relax.
His heart no longer labored; he made no move to draw
the stunner or knife. Where he was and for what purpose,
he had no idea. But there <i>was</i> a purpose in this and that the
Warlockians were behind it, he did not doubt. The "initiates'
road," the leader had said, and the conviction was steady in
his mind that he faced some test of alien devising.</p>
<p>A cavern with a green veil—his memory awoke. Thorvald's<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></SPAN></span>
dream! Shann paused, trying to remember how the other had
described this place. So he was enacting Thorvald's dream!
And could the Survey officer now be caught in Shann's
dream in turn, climbing up somewhere into the nose slit of a
skull-shaped mountain?</p>
<p>Green fog without end, and Shann lost in it. How long had
he been here? Shann tried to reckon time, the time since his
coming into the water-world of the starred cavern. He realized
that he had not eaten, nor drank, nor desired to do so
either—nor did he now. Yet he was not weak; in fact, he
had never felt such tireless energy as possessed his spare body.</p>
<p>Was this <i>all</i> a dream? His threatened drowning in the underground
stream a nightmare? Yet there was a pattern in
this, just as there had been a pattern in the needles he had
spilled across the table. One even led to another with
discernible logic; because he had tossed that particular pattern
he had come here.</p>
<p>According to the ambiguous instructions or warnings of the
Warlockian witch, his safety in this place would depend
upon his ability to tell true dreams from false. But how ...
why? So far he had done nothing except walk through a
green fog, and for all he knew, he might well be traveling in
circles.</p>
<p>Because there was nothing else to do, Shann walked on, his
boots pressing sand, rising from each step with a small
sucking sound. Then, as he stooped to search for some indication
of a path or road which might guide him, his ears
caught the slightest of noises—other small sucking whispers.
He was not the only wayfarer in this place!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></SPAN></span></p>
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