The Quillian Sector

by E. C. Tubb

  Allain, his guide, shrugged when he mentioned it. The steward was pushing middle age, his face smooth, bland with the diminution of curiosity. A man who had found his niche and who now observed the universe with cynical detachment and an extended palm.

  "Egulus is smart. Advertise free wine and it adds the edge to persuading customers to ride with us instead of another. And it whets their appetites for something stronger!"

  "Which you can supply?"

  "Naturally, and you, too." Allain glanced at the table. "Get them a little high and they get careless. A smart man can really clean up if he puts his mind to it. Well, you'll learn. Now come and meet Jumoke."

  Jumoke was the navigator. He was younger than the steward, with intense blue eyes and a mouth which betrayed an inner sensitivity. He rose from the edge of his bunk as Dumarest entered his cabin, extending his hand, lowering it as Dumarest touched the fingers. They were smooth and cool, the nails rounded and neatly polished.

  He said, "So you have learned the old customs."

  "On a world far from here, yes."

  "The touching of hands," explained Jumoke to the steward. "A civilized act or an act performed among civilized peoples to show they have no hostile intent. On some worlds both hands are extended, on others only the empty palms are displayed." To Dumarest he said, "From Naud, perhaps?"

  "No."

  "Hagor, then? Fiander? Or even Grett? All three worlds use the old custom. Rumor has it they gained it from the Original People, but so often does rumor lie. Personally, I come from Vult. You know it?"

  "The cesspool of the Rift," said Allain, before Dumarest could answer. "Every man is a thief or murderer, every woman a harlot, even the children learn to lie and cheat at their mother's knee. A world of madness."

  "And our next port of call." Jumoke looked at the steward. "Aren't you supposed to be checking the stores?"

  "It's done."

  "Completely? You've checked the sensatapes? The rare and delicate wines? The stronger liquors? The preserved delicacies which fetch so high a price? Be careful, my friend. If, by your neglect, we lose a profitable sale, may God help you, for surely we shall not." Jumoke chuckled as the man hastily left the cabin. "He's good at his work but sometimes doubts his memory. Vult always disturbs him. Mention it and you get a tirade. He had a sister once-but never mind that now. We all have burdens to bear. Allain, myself, you-?" He paused then, as Dumarest made no comment, shrugged and smiled. "The captain mentioned you were close. But so close you are reluctant to give the name of your home world?"

  "Earth."

  "What?"

  "Earth," said Dumarest again. The man was a navigator and must have traveled far. And he could have heard the gossip of others of his kind. It was possible he had heard of the planet, knew where it was to be found. A hope which died as Jumoke laughed.

  "A humorist! I knew you were a hard man but never that! Earth!" He laughed again, "You know as well as I that you talk of a legendary world. One of many-El Dorado, Bonanza, Jackpot, Avalon-the list is long. Myths invented by men yearning for paradise. Earth!" The navigator shook his head. "The name alone should warn you of its nature. Every world contains earth. They are made of it. Crops grow in it. Who would name a world after dirt?"

  "It exists."

  "In the mind."

  "In space somewhere. It is real."

  "Of course." Jumoke sobered, his tone gentle. "If you say so, my friend. Who am I to argue? We must talk more on the subject, but later. Now I have work to do in the control room; sensors to check and instruments to test. You understand?" Then, as he stepped toward the door of the cabin, he added, "A word of advice. The captain has little use for those who are less than serious. If he should ask about your home world, it would be best to lie a little. Tell him you were born on Ottery, for example. Or Heeg. They, at least, are in the almanac."

  Outside, the passage was deserted. As Jumoke headed toward the control room, Dumarest moved in the other direction toward the hold and engine room. As handler, it was his job to check the stowing of cargo and to operate the caskets designed for the transportation of beasts and often used to carry those riding Low; people traveling doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap transportation.

  Now the caskets were empty and the cargo, a mass of bales and metal-strapped boxes, already in place. Dumarest checked the restraints, tightening and adjusting as needed. More cargo could arrive before they left, but he doubted it. From what Egulus had told him, the main trade of the Entil was in carrying passengers. Some of them could have personal luggage, and maybe personal packets of stores and cargo, but they would arrive with their owners.

  Crouching, Dumarest checked the caskets, tracing the wires and pipes, rising to swing open the transparent lids, closing them and operating the controls and watching the gauges showing the drop in temperature. As he lowered the lid of the last, he saw the woman standing in the open doorway leading to the engine room.

  She was tall, with a helmet of glinting blonde hair, the tresses cropped to hug the head and to frame the wide, strongly boned face. The shoulders were wide, a support for the muscles supporting the prominent breasts which thrust unmistakable mounds beneath the tunic of her uniform. Her eyes were oval pools of vivid blueness, her ears small and set tight against the head, the nose a little uptilted above a generous mouth. The chin matched the cropped hair in its masculine determination and when she spoke, her voice held a deep resonance.

  "Satisfied?"

  "Number two needs some attention to the hinges."

  "And?"

  "Number four is sluggish on the intake."

  "Full marks," she said. "Not many would have noticed that. At least you know your caskets. Ridden in them often?"

  "Too often."

  "It's a hell of a way to travel." Stepping forward, she extended her hand in Jumoke's gesture. Touching it, he found it soft yet firm and, now that he was close, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was floral, slightly pungent, accentuating her femininity but at variance with her general appearance. A sign that she was not attempting to emulate the male, perhaps. A personal touch which gave her an individuality, and rescued her from the anonymity of a uniform. "So you're the new man. Glad to have you with us. I'm Dilys Edhessa. The engineer. You?" She nodded as he gave his name. "Well, you're an improvement on Gresham. That's his uniform you're wearing. It's too tight at the shoulders and too loose around the waist but I can fix that for you."

  "What happened to him?"

  "Gresham? He tried to hold out and was caught cheating by a couple of punters. Miners from Cham. He made the mistake of trying to get them and one shot him from under the table. You want to watch out for that, by the way. Make sure they keep their hands where you can see them. We carry some wild types, at times."

  "And Gresham?"

  "As I said, he'd been holding out on the common fund so when he got himself killed Yarn wasn't too concerned. He took a bribe from the miners to forget what had happened and we dumped Gresham into the void." She made a gesture as if brushing dirt from her hands. "He was no loss."

  "Anything else I should know?"

  "I doubt it. You've met Jumoke and Allain? And you know the captain, of course. Now you've met me. That's the lot. We run the Entil. Including you, naturally."

  An afterthought, and Dumarest could understand it. He, like the steward, was expendable. It would be natural for the woman to regard him as less important than herself. And with reason. Looking past her, Dumarest could see the humped bulk of the engines, the wink and gleam of instruments and monitors. A comforting sight; the neatness would extend to the maintenance of the all important generator.

  Following his eyes, she said, "Know anything about engines?"

  "A little."

  "Good, then you can help me run a check later on. Just routine, but it would help to have someone relay the readings. Someone who knows what it's all about." Then she added without change of tone, "Just in cas
e you've tried a bluff with Yarn, it won't work."

  "I know that."

  "Listen! What I'm trying to say is if you need a loan? You can pay it back later."

  "Thank you, but it isn't necessary. I mean that."

  "Good." She stood looking at him, her eyes level with his own. A woman as broad as himself but heavier due to the swell of hips, buttocks and breasts. An Amazon, but one who held an unmistakable femininity, whose eyes held a genuine concern. "I like the captain but, at times, he can be hard. As you can be, I guess. You have the look, Earl, the manner of-hell, what am I talking about?"

  "The caskets," he said.

  "What?"

  "The hinges need fixing, as does the intake. If you'll let me have some tools, I'll take care of it."

  "There's no hurry," she said, welcoming the change of subject, the path he had opened from the intensity of the moment when, startlingly, she had felt her body respond to his masculine closeness. "We don't use them often now. On most of the worlds we visit, it's easy enough for anyone to earn the cost of a High passage. And few are interested in traveling Low."

  "But they wouldn't be refused if they asked?"

  "Of course not. Why turn down a profit?"

  "Then I'd better fix the caskets."

  "We'll fix them," she corrected. "Together. But why the concern? If a man's too big a creep to gain the cost of a decent passage, why worry about him?"

  He said dryly, "Call it a vested interest. That creep could be me."

  From where he sat in the narrow confines of the cabin, Leo Bochner said, "In order to survive, an animal needs three essentials; food, shelter and seclusion. It must eat, have protection against the elements and, because no matter how strong or savage a predator it may be, it will need to sleep at times, and so be vulnerable." He helped himself to some of his amber wine. "A pattern which any hunter must bear in mind."

  Caradoc said nothing, sitting with his face shrouded in the uplifted cowl of his robe, his hands buried within the wide sleeves. Bochner was a little drunk, or was trying to give that impression. If the former, he was betraying a weakness which could kill him; if the latter, then he must again be trying to get information. An exercise which the cyber would have found amusing if he had been able to experience the emotion.

  "A pattern which has won me many a trophy," continued Bochner. "To learn the habits of the quarry, to trail, to anticipate and then, finally, to close in for the kill." His hand tightened around the cap of the ornate bottle. "To win and again affirm the superiority of a thinking mind."

  "One fogged with drugs?"

  "This?" Bochner lifted the cap and deliberately swallowed what it contained. "You object?"

  "To your drinking, no. To the possibility of your failure, yes. Need I remind you that the Cyclan has little patience with those who fail? That when you accepted your present commission you also undertook certain obligations? It would be wise for you to remember them."

  "Don't preach to me, Cyber!" For a moment the smooth, almost-womanish features changed, to become those of a feral beast, an animal devoted to the kill. "The Cyclans have hired my skill, nothing more. And why did they hire me? Why, with all the skills and talents you claim to possess, was it necessary to find another to hunt down the man you seek?" Leaning forward a little, he added, "Can't you, even now, guess why Dumarest has been able to elude you for so long?"

  "Chance-"

  "Luck! The whining excuse of fools!" Wine gurgled as Bochner refilled the little cup. "Shall I tell you why? You persist in thinking of Dumarest as a factor and not as a man. As a unit instead of a thinking, human being. You make your predictions and assess your probabilities and point to a certain place and claim that is the spot at which your quarry is to be found. Yet, the men sent there find they are too late, or get themselves killed, or discover that some incident has negated your prediction. And still you haven't trapped your prey, and still you can't understand why."

  Caradoc watched as Bochner emptied his cup and again refilled it from the bottle.

  "Dumarest is a man, not a cypher. An animal with sharpened instincts and an awareness of danger. But this time, he must know who is hunting him and why; an advantage he has which I do not. It would help if I did." Pausing, he waited, and Caradoc noted the steadiness of his hand, the absence of glimmering reflections from the glass of the bottle, the surface of the liquid in the cup. A pause which the hunter ended before it became obvious he waited for an answer. "But no matter how clever he is, the rules apply to him as they do to a beast. He has the same need for food, shelter and seclusion. Being human, all can be obtained with the one commodity- money. To get it he must steal, beg or work. To beg would take too long and bring too small a return. To steal is not easy, and to rob others is to take high risks for the sake of little gain. Therefore, he must work and where would a traveler without great skills obtain employment in the Quillian Sector? Work which would provide all a man in his position needs? Well, Cyber, where is he to find it? Where would he feel safe? Where else but among others of his own kind? Transients who ask no questions, employed by those who regard them as nothing but a needed source of labor. A construction site-mines, roads, buildings, canals-but where, Cyber? On which world?"

  "Ealius. We arrive tomorrow."

  They landed at sunset when the terminator was bisecting the single continent and tattered clouds hung like shredded garlands against the darkening orange of the sky. Bochner paused at the gate as Caradoc went on his way, asking for and receiving audience with the guard-commander, a burly, sullen man who softened as money was pressed into his palm.

  "Procedure? It's simple. We don't worry about arrivals and only test people when they leave. We stand them on the detector and ask their names. If they lie, we hold them for further investigation. If they're on the list, the same."

  "List?"

  "Contract-breakers, debtors, those accused of any crime. We catch them, hold them, pass them on for appropriate action. Dumarest?" He frowned. "No, no one of that name has passed through."

  "How can you be sure? Are you on duty at all times?"

  "No, but we keep records and I check the lists. Want to check?"

  "I'll take your word for it. Sorry to have taken up your time."

  "Dumarest!" The commander frowned, musing. "Wait a minute! Dumarest-that name's familiar." He turned to where a man sat at a computer terminal. "Check it, Mallius."

  A moment, then, "It's on the list, Commander. Man to be detained if spotted. An accusation of theft by the Hafal-Glych made on the-"

  "Never mind that." The commander looked at Bochner. "Satisfied?"

  With the thoroughness of the Cyclan, if nothing else. The listing of the name was proof of the efficiency of the organization-they must have alerted agents on every world in the Quillian Sector to keep watch for Dumarest. His respect for the man increased as he realized what difficulties he had to face. Still had to face. A cunning and intelligent quarry who should provide a stimulating chase.

  Caradoc, sitting in a room in the foremost hotel, listened to what he had learned, then said, "Your conclusions?"

  "Dumarest must be working for one of the construction companies here. Maybe the Fydale or the Arbroth-both are large employers of labor."

  "As is the Lenchief."

  "You think that is where he is to be found?"

  "The probability is high." Caradoc made a gesture of dismissal. "If you hope to gain your reward I suggest you waste no further time. Contact me immediately if you have located Dumarest. Once you are certain you have found the man I will give you further instructions."

  Bochner drew in his breath, aware of the rage mounting within him, the anger which must surely burst to reveal itself on his face. A rage triggered by the realization that the cyber had already assessed all possibilities and had arrived at his decision without deigning to consult his partner. His anger was not helped by the knowledge that his inquiries at the gate had been a waste of time. Why hadn't he been told?

  Caradoc said
, "You have the name of the company and can gain its location if you ask at the desk. They will also arrange for transportation. Is there more you need before undertaking action?"

  "No, I- Bochner forced himself to remember that no cyber was ever sarcastic and that Caradoc's inquiry had been genuine. "Aren't you coming with me?"

  "There is no need, in fact, my presence could be a disadvantage. In any case, I have other work to engage my attention while you execute your commission." Again came the gesture of dismissal. "Please delay no longer."

  Caradoc followed the hunter with his eyes as the man left the room. Bochner had mastered his obvious rage well and that was to his credit, but against that was the fact there had been no rational cause for anger at all. Another demonstration of the futility of emotion; the crippling reaction of the mind and body to external stimuli which destroyed the sharp reasoning power of the intellect. Had he considered the Cyclan to be so devoid of foresight that he had thought it necessary to question those at the gate? Had he no concept of the power of the organization which had chosen to utilize his limited skills?

  Yoka had chosen him, and the old cyber had long ago proved his capabilities. Yet, too much importance should not be placed on past achievements. Age could bring more than physical decay; always there was the danger of a mind affected by senility. It was barely possible that all relevant factors had not been taken into account when he had decided on the use of Bochner. He would include the suggestion in his report. In the meantime, as he had mentioned to the hunter, he had other matters to attend to.

  A touch on a button and a man answered the summons.

  "Master!" The acolyte bowed. One of two sent from a different world on another vessel-what Bochner didn't know he couldn't guard against. "Your commands?"

  "Send in Fan Dudinka."

  He was of middle height, middle-aged, his face marked with lines of worry, his eyes wary even though his manner was assured. The Head of the Essalian Group, which faced ruin unless the Cyclan could help them.