by Mick Farren
The rules, however, were dropping away. As the rain crashed all around and droplets of water were seeking a way down inside the dome, Phaid faced a situation that was, if not as old as time, at least as old as games of chance.
'It looks as though the game is over.'
With an air of total absorption he started to pack up his winnings. He knew what the next move would be, but could think of no way to avoid it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fuse tube drawn from the belt. One Eye was almost casual as he pointed the weapon arrogantly at Phaid's head.
'Leave the money where it be, gambler.'
Phaid slowly eased back into the chair. With the stinger his sole weapon, he could only wait for his chance. He hoped fervently that there would be one.
'Just can't let me walk away with it all?'
One Eye nodded.
'You expect us to?'
Phaid sighed.
'No, not really.'
One Eye continued to cover Phaid as he rose carefully to a standing position. Primitive also got to his feet. With his dart launcher under his arm he scanned the row of sleeping villagers. Usually the sleepers woke with the rain and started drinking. On this day, however, they remained diplomatically slumbering. Only the bartender was taking an open interest, but he also seemed about to do or say nothing.
Satisfied that Phaid had no help at hand, One Eye fumbled under his suit and pulled out a soft leather bag. He threw it down on the table in front of Phaid.
'Put the money in there.'
Phaid silently did as he was told while the two men watched him. When all the cash was packed away he sat patiently back in the chair. One Eye picked up the bag. Primitive looked at him questioningly.
'What about him?'
They both looked at Phaid. One Eye laughed nastily.
'What about him?' He directed the enquiry to Phaid. 'What about you?'
'I'd hardly be worth killing.'
One Eye was warming to the idea that there might be some sport to be had with the gambler before they finished him. He became brutally brisk.
'Stand up, stand up! Let's look at you.'
Phaid did as he was told. He spread his hands in a semicomic appeal.
'You see, gentlemen, nothing worth killing.'
One Eye had obviously got to such a low point in his opinion of Phaid as an adversary that he felt safe to scratch his nose with the fuse tube.
'I got this here rule, see. I say if I cross a man 'tis best to leave him dead, lest he come after.'
That could be a problem.'
As he spoke he absent-mindedly scratched his head. One Eye laughed and looked at Primitive.
'Could be a problem for him. What you say, Naqui? What you say? Could be a problem for him.'
One Eye was so taken with his own wit that, for a moment, he was paying no attention to Phaid. Phaid's arm, still raised as though scratching his head, flashed forward. The stinger had already crawled down into his hand. He flipped it straight at One Eye. It landed on his neck just below the ear in the fold of his jaw. The tiny silver legs grabbed hold and clung. The stinger was quite close to the edge of the patch. As Phaid had flipped the tiny weapon, a small sphere had detached itself and remained in Phaid's hand. This was the control. If he squeezed it, the stinger would go active and scramble One Eye's nervous system.
One Eye went rigid. Even though he couldn't see it he knew what had attached itself to his flesh. Eye and sensor swivelled towards Phaid.
'Stinger?'
'All I had.'
Primitive was raising his dart gun. He looked as though he was about to take a shot at Phaid. One Eye's yell was almost a scream.
'Don't!'
Primitive paused. One Eye had started to shake.
'If you get him with one of those, he'll take me f'sure. He's only got t' touch the control.'
'That's the truth.'
Primitive half lowered the dart launcher, then he grinned.
'What care I if n he takes you? The both of you'll be dead an' I'll have the money.'
One Eye glowered at him.
'I thought we was partners.'
'Partners?'
Primitive spat. It looked as though he was serious. Phaid spoke, as calmly as he could, to One Eye. 'There is one way out.'
The fuse tube roared. Primitive was all but cut in half. One Eye lowered the weapon. 'It's good that I think quick.'
Phaid nodded. 'Indeed it is.'
'What do I do now?'
'Drop the tube.'
One Eye dropped the tube.
'Kick it over here.'
He kicked it to Phaid. Phaid bent to pick it up. It wasn't the most expensive or the best looking weapon that Phaid had ever seen. Among the rovers, drifters and wanderers who roamed between scorched desert and the wind blasted icefields that girdled the world like bands of steel, the elite took much pride in their weapons. Ornate carving, delicate engraving and inlaid gems decorated the fuse tubes and blasters of the free rangers who kept ahead of life's games. One Eye had obviously never been ahead of the game. The long barrel of the tube was pitted with corrosion, and the butt was a simple construction of worn, high impact ceramic. Phaid hefted it as though he was testing its balance. Then he stuck it in his belt. He was close to trembling. The whole incident, in fact the whole game, had been too close to the edge of desperation for Phaid's peace of mind. One Eye took a chance to turn and face Phaid.
'What are you going to do with me?'
Phaid looked at the stinger control in his hand.
'I don't know.'
'Listen . . .'
The good side of One Eye's face twitched.
'I'm listening.'
'I wasn't going to kill you.' He nodded at the fallen Primitive. 'He might have done you, but not me.'
'You tried to steal my money.'
'We lost a lot, we was mad, we had a hard time gettin' that money. I wanted it back but I wasn't goin' to do you. I swears.'
'You do?'
'I swears.'
'So you're telling me that you weren't going to burn my head off?'
One Eye's half face tried to be ingratiating.
'That's right. You got it. We was just riled. You know how it is.'
Phaid adopted a mildly affable expression.
'Sure, I know how it is.'
'You do?'
'Sure I do.'
One Eye looked relieved.
'You mean that you ain't going t' do nothing? You going t' forget what we done?'
Phaid sadly shook his head.
'No, I couldn't quite do that. Didn't you tell me the rule yourself? How did it go? "Lest he come after you"?'
One Eye opened his mouth to protest, but Phaid didn't let him. He squeezed the control. The stinger made no noise. One Eye made a strangled sound, his back arched, he clawed at the air, then he collapsed. Phaid's whole body seemed to sag for a moment. Then he straightened, took a deep breath, exhaled swiftly and shook his head as though trying to clear it. He looked sadly at the two bodies. The bartender was popping his eyes at Phaid and the two dead, Phaid walked slowly towards the bar.
'Were these friends of yours?'
The bartender energetically shook his head.
'Lords no, I never seen them before last night.'
'So you've got no interest in the matter?'
'I don't have an interest in most matters. I'm no sidetaker.'
Phaid half smiled.
'So I don't have anything to worry about from you.'
'Not a damn thing.'
Phaid picked up the leather bag that held the money.
'You got law in this town?'
'Nothing as you'd call law.'
'That's good.'
'Good for you.'
'What other kind of good is there.'
Phaid left five twenty tabs on the table.
'That's for your trouble.'
'I'm obliged.'
The bartender hesistated for a moment, sucking reflectively on a hollow tooth.
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'You wouldn't mind if I gave you a piece of advice, would you? You wouldn't get mad or nothing.'
Phaid pushed the fuse tube into the waistband of his trousers.
'Only fools get mad when they hear good advice.'
The bartender raised an eyebrow and then flashed a yellow-brown smile.
'Not everybody sees it that way.'
Phaid nodded gravely.
'Not everyone does.'
The bartender regarded the corpses on the floor.
'I wouldn't stay around too long, if I were you.'
Phaid looked mildly surprised.
'You just told me there was no law here.'
The bartender shook his head.
'It's not a matter of law. It's a bit more subtle than that. Nobody round here had too much time for those two, but what you did . . . well, it tends to unsettle them, if you know what I mean.'
The rain fell relentlessly and the seepage splashed steadily on the bare floor. One part of Phaid simply couldn't believe that he'd come to the point where he'd been told to move on from a place like this. Had he really sunk so low? He turned and shrugged.
'Yeah, I know what you mean.'
Phaid slowly started up the sagging stairs and headed for his room on the second floor. He paused halfway up and looked back at the bartender.
'I'll be gone when the rain stops.'
'You're a sensible man.'
'Maybe.'
Once inside the room, Phaid flopped down on the bed with a weary sigh. It was almost dark but he didn't bother to light the lamp. The previous night the glo-bar had been an elderly, faltering yellow as though it was the end of its almost infinite life. Could this place have been lost here in the jungle long enough for a glo-bar to wear out, or was it just something in the air that made everything decay and die?
He lay for a while, staring blankly at the intricate spidery patterns that the damp had painted on the ceiling. Water was leaking through in three places. Fortunately, none of them was directly over the bed. Someone had thoughtfully placed a drinking glass under the worst one. The water kept hitting it with a loud and irritatingly rhythmic ping. Although Phaid's body was dog tired, the incessant dripping against the background roar of the falling rain wouldn't let him rest.
There was something strange about the room. The floor wasn't strictly even and there were peculiar curves to the roof that couldn't have been a result of either earth movements or the inroads of the jungle. The furniture stood at odd angles. It looked ill-suited and incongruous. He had seen these oddly shaped rooms on other scattered occasions during his lengthy wanderings. Each time the thought had struck him that they appeared to have been designed for something that possessed a form very different from that of a human being. It wasn't a thought that helped his rest.
He sat up and thumbed the switch under the glo-bar. It was even more weak and frail than it had been the night before.
He got out of the bed. He regarded himself in the cracked mirror hanging on the door of the single closet. He didn't like what he saw. There was no hiding from the fact that he was a mess.
It wasn't all that long ago that he'd complimented himself regularly on what a fine figure he cut in an elegant salon or dignified promenade. Nobody in the world could have said that Phaid was not a sharp dresser. Maybe a little flamboyant at times, but always immaculate. Now his boots were scuffed and going through in one sole. The breeches were equally worn and patched in the knee and his hand made silk shirt was close kin to a damp, dirty rag. Hanging in the closet was a threadbare frockcoat, under the bed was a small, beat up, leather bag. It contained a second disreputable shirt, a battered silver hip flask, a chronograph that had stopped working, three decks of cards and a transgrom on which the powerpac had run down. On the washstand was a half empty bottle of rotgut gin. All this, plus the money he'd just taken from the table, was the entire world of Phaid the Gambler.
He moved himself to the bottle and took a stiff belt. Almost immediately he grimaced as the raw spirit hit his throat. If nothing else, the cheap booze would be the death of him. He had to get out of this situation and get out fast.
He put down the bottle, stooped and pulled the bag out from under the bed. As he straightened up, he caught another dim reflection of himself in the mirror. Even his face was looking worn out. His mouth was flanked by set, downward curving lines. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunken, as though they'd seen too much for too long. Even his black curly hair that cascaded to his shoulders seemed limp and dead, like a pet plant that had been overwatered.
He'd never been that concerned about his face. He never thought about it too much. He knew it must work. Enough women had given it a glance, and even come back for a second and third. Was his face also slipping, just like the rest of him?
There was one consolation. He hadn't developed a gut. Too many friends and partners in the fat times had grown fat right along with them. The one thing you didn't worry about, when the pickings got lean, was your figure.
Phaid grunted to himself. He had to watch out for this sort of nonsense. Here he was, down on his luck and trying to scrabble his way back. It wasn't time to stand staring into a cracked mirror, wallowing in self pity. Phaid put on his jacket, dropped his winnings and the rube's fuse tube into his bag and listened to the beat of the falling rain. It seemed to be easing up. In this region, the daily storm tended to stop as suddenly as it began.
Phaid picked up his bag and started back down the stairs. The two bodies had gone, the bartender was back behind the bar, but the sleepers seemed to have gone about their business. At the sound of Phaid's footsteps, the bartender looked up.
'You're heading out?'
'I don't have much choice, do I?'
'Not much.'
There didn't seem to be a lot left to say, then the bartender suddenly grinned.
'Good luck, gambling man.'
Phaid scowled.
'Yeah. Thanks.'
Phaid walked out of the hotel and paused on the overgrown piazza. A line of dim glo-bars illuminated a narrow track through the undergrowth that led towards the river and the boat dock. Phaid hoped that there'd be a craft willing to take him. The boat people were a breed that viewed night-calling strangers with deep suspicion.
Halfway there a small grey cat stuck its head out from the foliage and stared directly at Phaid. The animal's thoughts were clear and precise. It wanted to know if Phaid was the one who had caused the trouble at the hotel.
Phaid nodded.
'I'm afraid so.'
The cat blinked and then trotted off into the darkness.
Chapter 2
In retrospect Phaid realised that trying to find a boat after sunset was a pretty damn stupid move. At the dock, there was only one of the low, flat-bottomed riverboats. As he started to climb over the gunwale the boat's owner very nearly removed his head with an antique blaster.
Fortunately the boat's owner was the widow woman who'd played poker with him the night before. She'd recognised him just in time and held her fire.
At first, she hadn't been too keen on the idea of taking on a passenger, particularly one with a local reputation as a drifter and probable no-good. It had required all the charm Phaid could muster, the right answers to some searching questions and a large portion of his winnings before she finally agreed to carry him to the next major port.
Once it was agreed, she'd invited him into her small but cosy cabin and poured him a drink.
'Freeport, I figure that's going to be your best shot. It's only two days down river. If the Republic's your final destination, you should be able to pick up a caravan to take you across the wind plain to Mercyville.'
Phaid rubbed his chin.
'I'd rather go all the way round the coast to the Havens.'
The widow shook her head.
'You got round me on the matter of taking you as a passenger. There's no way you'll talk me into going as far as the Havens, so you can save all your pretty smiles. My business is in Fre
eport and only Freeport. You can take it or leave it.'
Phaid shrugged.
'I was just thinking that a berth on a caravan is going to cost me plenty, more than I got since I paid you.'
The widow laughed.
'You're not thinking I'll give you a refund, are you?'
'No, I wasn't thinking that.'
'I wouldn't worry. A smart boy like you won't have any trouble raising money in Freeport.'
Phaid grimaced.
'Lately I seem to be having trouble raising money anyplace.'
'Hit a run of bad luck?'
'Something like that.
The woman made an impatient gesture.
'You should know that we make our own luck. Bad luck only comes when you stop trying. Have you stopped trying, gambling man?'
Phaid thought for a moment and then slowly smiled.
'No, I haven't stopped trying.'
The widow refilled Phaid's glass while he gazed around the small cabin. Most of the river vessels he'd been on had been functional to the point of discomfort. This one was so snug and homely that Phaid felt totally able to stretch out and relax. Normally Phaid didn't like low ceilings, they made him nervous and claustrophobic. This one, however, managed to give the effect of closeness and intimacy.
The widow had obviously taken a lot of trouble in furnishing her floating home. The walls were lined with a maze of shelves that held a myriad of small trinkets and knick-knacks, souvenirs of the woman's wanderings up and down the river. There was a comfortable rocking chair and a slightly less comfortable upright chair that Phaid occupied. A glo-bar in an ornate brass holder swung gently with the slight motion of the moored boat. Most of its light fell on a small and very old side table. Its dark wood top was inlaid with mother of pearl. On it were the two glasses and a dark bottle of rather good brandy. In an alcove at the shadowy, far end of the cabin was a large bed. Partly enclosed by a bead curtain, it was covered by a thick fur rug and piled with multicoloured and embroidered cushions.
