by E. C. Tubb
"Earl?" The woman was watching him, her eyes lambent, understanding. "Earl, you-"
He said, "Drink up and let's get about your business. We don't want Jumoke to get worried."
They had come to shop, which was Allain's work, but he refused to set foot on the world he had reason to hate, and Dilys had volunteered to replenish the ship's store of luxury items and what staples were needed. Dumarest followed her from the tavern into the commercial complex, where thick roofs of translucent crystal softened the glare of the sun, and inset panels of variegated colors threw a multihued swath of rainbow brilliance over the covered walks and promenades, the fronts of shops, the seats on which people lounged, their eyes ever-watchful.
They wore colors as bright as their sun; blouses and tunics set and studded with odd shapes of metal, stones, scraps of quartz, minerals which glowed like fireflies-fabrics either dull or shimmering with chemical sheens, winks and glitters and somber patches. They could have been clowns, but no clown came armed with spines and spikes on shoulders and joints, carried knives and clubs at their belts, sported tomahawks, cutlasses, cleavers, helmets set with slitted visors, trailing plumes. A populace armed and armored, touchily aggressive, watchful and radiating a feral zest.
If nothing else those inhabiting Vult were strongly alive.
Dilys sensed the atmosphere and responded to it as she walked close at Dumarest's side. Colors seemed to grow brighter, the pulse of blood through her veins, stronger, the air itself held a sharp and virile fragrance. The scent of violence, she thought, if violence could be said to have an odor of its own. The scent of physical bodies tense and aware of the possibility of combat. The exudation of people who had to be constantly on their guard, constantly alert.
"Earl!" A man had screamed from an adjoining way, and another had cursed as if with anger rather than pain. A flurry, and they were past the opening, Dumarest not altering his stride, doing no more than glancing down the path dimmed and shadowed with dusty purple light. "Earl, someone is-"
"We mind our own business. Is this the place?"
The store had thick windows meshed with strips of metal, doors which were held fast with electronic devices, a floor which glowed with warning light, displays in which goods could be seen but not touched.
Assistants who were armed.
"Madam, sir, it is my pleasure to serve you!" The man wore a quilted jacket and pants puffed and bright with metal. The helmet winked with polished gems and, as Dumarest lifted his hand, the visor fell to mask the face, the eyes.
"My apologies." A hand lifted the metal screen back into place. "A misunderstanding.. The movement of your hand- I'm sure you understand."
A hand which could have been fitted with a container of acid. A movement which could have sent it into the eyes.
"Your needs?"
Dilys produced a list and read off items, frowning at the prices quoted, altering, taking alternatives which, the man assured her, were every bit as good.
"If they aren't, I'll be back," she warned. "And if I find cause for complaint, you'll lose more than our trade."
"If you are dissatisfied, then full compensation will be made. And for you, sir? Is there any item which arouses your interest? You are a visitor, I know, but it would be prudent to display arms. A short sword, or, a small axe balanced for throwing? A club, or at least a whip which can be worn at the wrist?"
And one which would stir the aggressive natures of all who saw it, inviting challenges and combats and bloody meetings.
Dumarest said, "Have you a gun?"
"A gun?" The man blinked. "Certainly, sir, but are you sure of what you are asking? Had you been carrying one, the charges would have detonated as you entered this store. Had it been a laser, the energy cell would have vented its potential in the form of heat. Outside, on the streets, in taverns, well-you understand?"
A temptation to any who saw the weapon. A greater challenge than a whip and a greater prize. One they would not hesitate to kill to obtain, or kill to prevent being used, or use to prevent others similarly armed from killing. To carry a gun openly displayed on Vult was to invite destruction. To use one, the same. Only in houses could such protection be safely owned.
"I take the liberty of mentioning this because you are strangers," said the man. "But should you want a gun, we can supply it. Delivered, of course, and under guard. Now, if you will tell me the type and caliber, any decoration you may desire, any adaptation?"
"Never mind." Dumarest turned to the woman. "Have you finished?"
"Here, yes, but I need some abrasive compounds. From Harfleman?"
"Yes, madam, as you say." The man nodded agreement to the question. "I shall call ahead to warn him of your arrival."
Hartleman was bored, pleased for the company, eager to talk of worlds he had known as a boy, of Vult, to which he had come a scare of years earlier. He served barley water tisane and small cakes, and bemoaned his lot at the same time as he praised his wares and reputation. Trade was good, but trade could be better. Violence was bad, but he had known it worse. The radiation was on the increase, but the scientists said that it could be followed by a period of comparative calm. And, yes, he could deliver the abrasives to the field for a small extra charge, but his son was nursing a wound and his daughter, well, who would allow a girl to wander without an escort on Vult? His eyes studied the woman.
"How large is the parcel?" said Dumarest He nodded at the answer. "We'll carry it."
It was small but heavy, pastes of diamond-hard fragments and others of fine emery, powders which flowed like water and grits, and scored the fingers if touched. Packed in two bundles, connected by a strap, they made a drag on his shoulder.
"Ready?" Dumarest waited as the woman made effusive farewells. Impatience edged his voice. Why was she taking so long? "Come on, now. Let's move!"
She fell into step beside him, containing her own irritation, knowing it, and his impatience, to be the result of the radiation streaming from the setting sun. The light in the promenades had dulled, somber shadows lying where once had blazed lemons and ambers, violets, blues, greens and purples. Dusky areas where gold and silver had cast shimmering pools.
Shadows in which creatures stirred and came to life with fading glimmers from bizarre adornments.
"Earl!"
"Keep walking."
There were five of them, edging close, eyes moving like restless insects beneath the rims of helmets, hands twitching at belts, weapons, clothing. Young men with hard faces, and mouths containing teeth filed and extended to give them the appearance of wolves.
Scavengers.
Hunters with brains tormented by the disturbing radiation.
Madmen after fun.
Two halted down the promenade as two others moved to stand, one at each side, the fifth taking up the rear. Those ahead blocked progress, waiting as Dilys slowed, stepping forward as she halted to run curved hands over the prominences of her breasts,
"Nice," said one. "Good meat, eh, Felix?"
"Good legs." His companion had a cheek ravaged with scars, eyes enhanced with flaring tattoos. "Long and solid and smooth all over. I bet she could crack a man's ribs if she had a mind. Crush him to a pulp-a fine way to go, right, Val?"
"You said it," said the man on the right. "You said it."
"Big," said the man on the left. "Like a mountain. I've never had a woman like that. She's big enough to get lost in. Big enough to handle us all at the same time. Give us a lot of fun. What say, Cia?"
The man at the rear had a voice which dripped like turgid oil.
"I say we waste time. Let's see what's under the wrappings."
Cloth ripped, as the man standing at the woman's side tore , at her blouse. Flesh showed, smooth, golden, the expanse widening as the fabric yielded, the twin mounds of her breasts showing to attract all eyes.
The moment for which Dumarest had been waiting. He spun, hand lifted, fingers stiff, stabbing like blunted spears at the throat of the man behind. A blow which ruptu
red delicate tissues, numbed vital nerves, sent the man to the ground, twitching, gasping, blood spreading from his mouth. As he dropped, Dumarest continued the turn, foot lifting, boot lashing out to slam against the man at his side, to send him staggering back, doubled, vomiting from the agony of crushed testicles.
"Felix!"
The man with the tattooed eyes was already in action. He was fast, smooth, metal glinting as he clawed at his belt and lifted a knife. The man at his side dragged a cutlass from its sheath. Val, the man at the woman's side, jumped back like a spider to stand hunched, a small axe in each hand.
"Bastard," he said. "You hurt. Bastard!"
"We'll get him," said Felix. "We'll have him down and take his eyes, his ears, the tongue out of his mouth, the meat from between his legs. Then we'll see about what to do with the woman-Val!"
Dumarest sprang backwards as the man lunged forward, axes gleaming. Dilys screamed as a razor edge touched her hair and sent a golden strand falling to her shoulder, screamed again as blood showed in a thin, red line across her chest; screams intended to distract, to divert, echoing high and shrill as Dumarest backed, dropping the strap from his shoulder, the band weighed at each end with the abrasive pastes. Air whined as he whirled it in a tight circle, released it, sent it wheeling through the air to hit an upraised arm, to wrap around it, to slam against the face behind the fragile protection.
Dilys grabbed one of the axes as the man fell, lifted it, swung it hard against the exposed jaw, the flat side making a dull, liquid sound as it shattered bone.
"Get them!"
Her attack had been a mistake, one she recognized as Felix shouted. She should have moved away and remained mobile, instead she was now stooping over the man she had struck, awkwardly placed, an easy victim for the man who came running toward her with his cutlass lifted high. A matter of moments. Dumarest could handle either, but not both at the same time. But he was on his feet and had the better chance.
As Felix ran toward him, Dumarest dropped his hand, lifted it weighted with the knife he'd snatched from his boot, swung it back and forward to send the blade lancing through the air in a calculated throw. As it landed, the man with the tattooed eyes drove his own knife hard into Dumarest's stomach.
A gamble taken and won-had the man aimed for the throat or face, the steel would have done its work. As it was, the point ripped into the plastic then glanced upwards as it struck the metal buried beneath. A blow which hit like the kick of a horse, but one Dumarest gave the man no chance to repeat. His hand fell, gripped the knife-wrist, squeezed and twisted and his other hand darted forward, the fingers closing around the throat, digging into the tissue to impact against the carotids, stilling the flow of blood to the brain and bringing immediate unconsciousness. A pressure which, if maintained, would bring death. Dropping the limp figure, Dumarest said, "Dilys?" She was standing beside the fallen body of the man who had carried the cutlass, blood making a scarlet swath over her exposed flesh, breasts rising and falling as they betrayed her agitation.
"Animals," she said. "Beasts. They would have killed you and-"
"They could have friends." Dumarest knelt and jerked his knife free from the dead man's spine, wiping the blade before thrusting it back into his boot. Slinging the abrasives over his shoulder, he said, "Cover up and let's get out of here."
The party for Ellge arrived at dusk and with them bales and crates and the artifacts constructed of ironstone and silicates found in the deserts of Vult; things found by the party which consisted of archaeologists delving for evidence of a race which could have preceded the present inhabitants. One which was suspected to be other than human.
"Men, as we know them, must have been a fairly recent development," said Aares Atanya with dry precision. "An influx from some overpopulated world, or a colony choosing Vult on which to establish their own form of society. Such things are common. But I am certain that before they arrived there was another viable culture which had adapted itself to local conditions. A life form which could have evolved here, if not introduced by the same means as the present inhabitants. Some of the items we found could not have been used by mankind. Their shape is unsuited to the human hand, and yet they are undoubtedly tools. The conclusions are interesting, and further evidence could show traces of movements which could upset all our accepted beliefs as to our own origins."
"Because Vult may, at one time, have supported a race of lizards or toads?" One of the others, a young girl with heavily lidded eyes, smiled as she looked at Dumarest. "You mustn't get carried away, Aares."
"And you must learn to have a more open mind, Gliss."
"But not too open." The younger man sitting beside her closed his hand protectively on her own. "We must adhere to the principle of scientific investigation and logical truth. For example, I've heard people say that all life must have originated on one planet. An obvious absurdity-how could one small world have supported all the variegated types we know? If life had evolved on a single planet, then surely all men would look the same? As it is, we have skins ranging in color from alabaster to the deepest ebony, hair from silver to jet, eye color, shape of skulls, subtle differences of limbs-" The man shrugged. "Even to think of all men having a common origin is patently absurd."
Dumarest said, "But isn't there evidence to support such a supposition? We all belong to the same species, surely? If not, how could we interbreed?"
"The same species, yes," admitted the man, "but only if you accept the ability to interbreed as a sign of similarity. That could be quite accidental. My own feelings are that life evolved on worlds of similar type and so would have evolved on similar lines."
"You're forgetting the basic chemical composition," said another. "The blueprint of the DNA units surely proves that for all mankind there has to be a common point of origin. I don't mean all came from a single world. As you say, that is ridiculous, but what if we were 'planted'. By that, I mean supposing that, long ago in the past, a superior race passed through this galaxy and seeded suitable worlds with specialized compounds. Spores or sperm or seeds which became life as we know it? That would account for the diversity of types found on a variety of worlds, and also the fact we can interbreed."
Gliss said firmly, "That's fantasy, Ulk, and you know it."
"Speculation, my dear. Of course, if you'd rather believe in accident, or the idiocy of a single common origin on a small, lonely world, that's your privilege. Or perhaps you have a more esoteric belief? A superior being, for example, one who-"
Dumarest said dryly, "I thought that was your belief. A superior race, a superior being-surely they are the same?" Then, as the girl shot him a grateful look, he added, "Would anyone care to join me in a game?"
It was going to be a poor trip, he decided when later he retired to his cabin. The archaeologists had preferred to talk rather than gamble, and while their conversation held interest, it wouldn't swell the profits. Only the girl, Gliss, had shown interest and Dumarest was certain that it wasn't in games of chance.
He rose when, an hour after he had lain down, the door clicked open to reveal a figure standing in the opening. The girl, he was sure, and hoped he could handle her without too much fuss. Then she spoke and he realized his mistake.
"Earl?"
"Dilys-is something wrong?"
"No." Clothing rustled as she stepped into the cabin and closed the door behind her. In the darkness, she said, "I wanted-that is-Earl, I haven't had a chance to thank you for what you did."
"Forget it."
"I can't."
"Why not? We're shipmates, aren't we? We're supposed to help each other. You would have done the same."
"No, Earl, I couldn't. The way you moved, your speed, that knife you threw. If it hadn't been for you, those men-"
He said quickly, "Forget it. It's over. You owe me nothing."
"I disagree, Earl. May I talk?"
"If you want." Fully awake now, he remembered something. "How did you open my door?"
"With the master
key." She paused as if awaiting his objection and when none came she said, "How was it in the salon?"
"Slow. We'll get little extra this trip."
"From the men, no, but from the women?" Her voice held a question. "I saw the way they looked at you. That young one in particular. Gliss, I think her name is. Gliss. She was lingering in the passage when I came along and I was surprised to find your door locked."
"If it hadn't been, would you have entered?"
"If I'd been entertaining, then the door would have been locked," he reminded. "What would you have done had I not been alone?"
"Broken the bitch's neck!" Then, while he was still assessing the intensity of her answer, she added, "No, Earl, I don't mean that. Not really. I-damn it, why can't you help me? Why won't you understand?"
Something fell on his cheek, a touch of wetness followed by another. Rearing up on the bed, he felt for the panel, found it, touched a switch and caused moonglow to illuminate the darkness. In the pale luminescence he saw her face, her eyes, the tears which filled them to stream down her cheek.
"I love you," she said. "Earl, I love you."
"Jumoke?"
"Thinks I'm his property. We've been lovers, yes, but he doesn't own me. No man does that. Not now or ever. Not even you, Earl, though I'd walk barefoot over broken glass to be at your side. But you don't own me. No man can ever do that."
She was protesting too strongly, rejecting something he hadn't offered, defensive when there was no need. A woman too sensitive about her size, perhaps; one who must have suffered the scorn of others when young. Finding a haven on the ship and doing work which made her the equal of any. An environment in which she didn't have to meet opposition or face the competition of her own sex. Or perhaps it was more than simply a matter of size. A secret vulnerability which robbed her of the strength needed in order to survive in hostile situations. He remembered the recent attack, the way she had frozen, to act the way she had, in a fury of misguided and unnecessary effort. The man she had hit had already been rendered harmless. The effort used to smash his jaw had been an act that had endangered her life.
