The Quillian Sector

by E. C. Tubb

Impelled by his hand, she stepped outside and watched as he closed the door. He was fortunate, the panel had a spring lock. The game won, then, but the victory was nothing. It would be better if she warned Dumarest-a quarry on its guard made for better sport. And yet, only a fool made a stalk more difficult than it needed to be.

  She said, "What did you mean when you said you needed a man like Earl?"

  The bait had been nibbled, gently he tightened the line.

  "In my work. As you probably know, I am associated with a consortium of speculators interested in expanding into wider fields. We cater to those who like to hunt, and are always in need of men who have both knowledge and experience in the field. Someone to arrange for various safaris. To guide and guard our customers, not all of whom are as knowledgeable as we would like." His smile and gesture made clear his meaning. "Dumarest would be ideal. He is a man who inspires confidence and seems to have an innate caution and an awareness of what needs to be done when it needs to be done. A perfect hunter, guide, guardian and teacher. On Persing, he-but what is the use?"

  "Persing?"

  "Yes. A world we are opening up for exploitation. It has magnificent hills ideal for breeding predators and good cover for those who have a wish to hunt them. A stalk, properly managed, could take days. We need a manager, someone to oversee the workers, to maintain the beasts, to decide on the hunts. In short, someone to take full charge. There is a house of thirty rooms, the use of a raft, servants and the remuneration is generous. That isn't taking into account the usual gifts made by satisfied clients. And there is always the prospect of promotion."

  "Which are…"

  "Very good. As I told you, we are expanding and there is room for a good man to climb high and reach the top. Frankly, I'd like Earl to be that man, but I guess to hope for that is to hope for too much. Well, that's the way it goes." Then, casually, he added, "Of course, he would need to be married before we could consider him for the position."

  "Married?"

  "It makes for stability. A man with a wife and children is more likely to stay than one who hasn't. You can see our point of view? To furnish a large house, to make all the arrangements and then, because of some passing fancy, to be let down-" His shrug was eloquent. "You are close?"

  He would have been a fool not to have known it but she could appreciate his delicacy.

  "We are friends, yes."

  "He is a lucky man. Shall we join the others?"

  Bochner took her arm, aware of her presence as he had never felt the presence of another of her sex. Not simply because of her femininity, which was strong, or her size, which was unusual, but because of something to do with his own conditioning. The natural reaction of a man who had felt superior, both in height and ability, to all others for the majority of his life. It did not please him to feel dwarfed.

  Yet, he maintained his smile. The woman was just another game, another hunt. To bend her to his will, to manipulate, to delude, to misguide, to dangle the lure of golden promises-all were part of the sport.

  As they walked down the passage, he said, "One thing, my dear, a matter of confidence. I would not like Earl to know how eager I am to obtain his services. A business precaution, you understand. It would be best if he knew nothing of what I told you." Than, casually, he added, "Has he ever spoken of leaving the Entil?."

  "No."

  "But he surely doesn't intend to remain for long?"

  "I-I don't know."

  He caught the note of doubt, the inner worry which she must strive to conceal, and felt increased amusement. How simple some people were. How transparent was a woman in love.

  "It must be in his mind," said Bochner. "A world he would like to make his home. One he may have mentioned to you. Aaras, perhaps, or Vien." Both were on the edge of the Sector, though still within the Rift. Logical places for a man like Dumarest to make a change. "Swenna, perhaps?"

  "No," she said, a little too quickly. "The only world he's mentioned is Earth."

  "Earth?"

  "He was joking, of course."

  "Of course." Bochner yielded precedence as they reached the door leading to the salon. "After you, my dear."

  Allain came toward her as she stepped inside. He looked like a ghost in a living garden; walking through the tumult of flowers, the glint of metallic wings adding extra eyes to the tension of his face. He caught her arm and drew her from the salon.

  "Jumoke-have you seen him?"

  "No." She sensed his urgency. "Is something wrong?"

  "Yarn wants him. The instruments are acting all to hell, and he's worried. Jumoke could be responsible. He-"

  "Jumoke commit sabotage? That's impossible!"

  "Once, yes, but now I'm not so sure." The steward was bitter. "He's been eating smoke and God alone knows what other things. The man's half-crazed and not even seeing straight. I've tried to cover for him, but now he's gone too far. Have you seen him? I've checked the salon but he isn't there. His cabin?"

  "Maybe." She made her decision. "I'll look-he'll answer for me."

  Answer, if he was inside and read more into her call than was intended, but that was a problem to be settled later. Now, with the ship in potential risk, there was no time for worry about personal commitments. As a crew, all had to stick and operate together.

  But he wasn't inside. The door remained closed and, when she opened it with the master key, the cabin was empty aside from the acrid taint of drugged vapors.

  "Smoke," said Allain, grimly. "He must have hidden some away. I thought I'd found every can."

  "The instruments," she said. "Just what is the situation?"

  "Bad. Yarn's doing his best, but Jumoke is the navigator. We're off course as it is, and surrounded by trouble. At the best, days have been added to the journey. The worst-" He didn't need to complete the sentence. "Where the hell is he?"

  A jerk gave the answer. A slight movement of the deck beneath their feet, a twitch of the hull, a movement of the fabric itself, as if the ship had shrugged within its skin.

  Yarn Egulus felt it and reared in his chair, his face ghastly in the subdued light of the telltales. The historian felt it and shrugged, happy in his ignorance. Gale Andrei pursed her lips as the hologram shook a little, then steadied to its former beauty. Bochner felt it and guessed. Dumarest felt it and knew.

  As did the dancer who halted the undulating movements of her arms, the complex pattern she wove among the blaze of flowers to stand, mouth open, the scarlet smear of a bloom casting the semblance of blood over her throat and chest, a blotch which quivered as she screamed.

  "The ship! My God, the ship! The field is down!"

  Chapter Seven

  Jumoke lay where he had died, looking very small now, a limp figure with burned and blackened hands and a face which had one cheek pressed hard against the bulk of the generator which he had ruined. A face still tormented by the devils which had possessed him, one unrelaxed by the peace he had hoped to gain.

  "The bastard!" Allain was bitter. "If he wanted to die, why take us with him?"

  "He was crazy," said Dilys. "You said so yourself."

  "And who sent him that way?" The steward's anger was the product of fear. "You could have given in to him. Let him have you and kept him sane."

  "I'm not property. The ship doesn't own me."

  "Where would have been the harm? You went with him before and you knew how he felt. You could have lied, promised, given him hope. Damn it, a kiss could have saved us!"

  "That's enough," said Dumarest. "Dilys isn't at fault. If anyone is to blame, it's you. You knew he was eating smoke. Why didn't you stop him?"

  "I tried."

  "Like hell you tried!" Dilys flared with a sudden rage. "Did you report it to Yarn? Did you tell anyone? Did you take precautions against something like this happening?" She gestured to the body, the machine. "Damn you, Allain. Damn you!"

  Dumarest caught her lifted hand before she could send its palm against the steward's cheek. For a moment, she struggled with him and
he felt the strength of her, the fear and anger which powered the muscles beneath the skin, then, abruptly, she was against him, her face pressed against his own, a dampness on her cheek.

  "Earl! Oh, Earl!"

  He held her, waiting for the moment to pass, knowing that until it did, nothing constructive could be done. When she finally straightened, he said, "How bad is the damage? Can it be fixed?"

  "I don't know. I'll have to check."

  "Then get on with it." Stopping, Dumarest gripped the body and swung it to one side. "Allain, you'd better get back to the passengers. Give them tranquilizers if they need them, and any lies which can give them comfort. We've had a temporary breakdown which will take a little while to fix. In the meantime, they can enjoy the hospitality of the ship. Break out some spirits and strong wines. Euphoriants, too, and get that woman to play more of her recordings."

  "They aren't stupid, Earl. They know what it means once the field is down."

  As they all knew-knowledge which gave no peace of mind. Once the shimmering haze of the Erhaft field was down the ship dropped to below light speed, to drift in the immensity between the stars, to be vulnerable to any wandering scrap of debris which might cross their path-motes which could penetrate the hull and larger fragments which would vent their kinetic energy in a fury which would turn metal into vapor. And there were other dangers, less tangible, but more to be feared. The impact of invisible energies which could twist and distort the vessel and all within it, forces which were thick in the area they now traversed.

  "Dilys?"

  "I'm working as fast as I can, Earl." She was at the generator, tools spread in orderly confusion around her, hands grimed, as was her face, her hair. She had stripped off her blouse and wore nothing above the waist but the fabric confining her breasts. They, and the flesh of back and shoulders, glistened with perspiration. "He'd loosed the covers," she said. "Lifted them and put something inside. A scrap of wire which he used to short out the coils."

  "So?"

  "Like Allain said, the poor devil was crazed. He must have wanted to attract my attention in some way."

  "He wanted to die."

  "Perhaps not, Earl. He didn't know too much about generators. He needn't have meant to do much damage."

  "He wanted to die and take us with him." To Dumarest it was obvious and he wondered why she would want to think of excuses for her ex-lover. Because of that, perhaps, a reluctance to think ill of someone who had been so close. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  For answer, she shook her head. He had done enough, dragging the dead body into the hold and cycling it through the lock. Dead meat, fit only to be dumped into the void, but once it had been a man and one she could have saved had she been less harsh. Allain had been right. A kiss could have saved them all.

  A kiss, and a little less carelessness on her part.

  Had she not left the engine room untended. Hadn't wandered down the passage to enter Dumarest's cabin and waste time talking to Bochner. Hadn't become enamored of the picture he had painted, the house and prospects, the position he'd mentioned. The one dependent on marriage. Would Earl have married her to make himself eligible?

  Was he a man who could be bought?

  Questions which now had no meaning. Looking into the interior of the generator, she could see the damage which Jumoke had caused; delicate installations now seared and blacked, insulation charred, surfaces which should have gleamed like mirrors now dulled with the impact of heat, stained by condensed vapors. Things which could be repaired, and would be repaired if given the time, but the main problem was within the triple helixes. Each set at right angles to the other, things of delicate fabrication, matched to within five decimal places of similarity. How badly had they been distorted?

  It would take instruments to tell. Tests and calibrations, and more tests with the instruments she had at hand and the knowledge she had acquired. But, to retune them was another matter. To match them so they would restore the field, was a matter of luck and skill and time. Luck, in that they weren't too badly damaged. Skill, to sense and adjust and manipulate and balance. Time, in which to work.

  Time!

  Egulus shook his head when Dumarest made his report.

  "We haven't the time, Earl. That bastard did a good job on us. He worked on the instruments before heading for the generator. I guess he wanted to get us in any way he could."

  The captain was being generous-Jumoke had only been interested in killing the engineer and her new lover.

  "Radio?"

  "Out. I don't mean we just can't get messages in the Quillian Sector. That's bad enough, but at least we might have been lucky. No. The crazy idiot took care of that. Busted it all to hell and the spare unit with it. I guess we should be thankful he didn't wreck the screens while he was at it."

  A small advantage, and of dubious merit. Had the screens been wrecked they would have been "blind" but as it was, they could see the cold hostility of the universe in which they now drifted helplessly. See the flare of a nearby sun and the ugly corona around it, the leaping prominences, the blotches of roiling vapors which gave it a pocked appearance as if it were a thing alive and horribly diseased.

  "We're heading towards it," said Egulus, "and without power we're going to hit it. Jumoke's last gift to his friends and partners." His hands closed as if he could feel a throat. "I was too gentle," he said bitterly. "I smelled the stink of that smoke but never thought he would be such a fool. To lose his head over a woman!"

  "That's all you noticed? The smoke?"

  "He was tense and withdrawn, but that's normal when in the Rift. To make a living, we have to take chances and always something can go wrong. It's worse in the Quillian Sector, but you know about that. We make profits but we earn them." He ended bleakly. "Greed. It's killed more men than anything else. The temptation to make an easy profit. To take that one extra chance."

  "Kumetat?"

  "We didn't have to go there. I was going to give it a miss this time and hit it on the way back in. Only there was a cargo, and how could I refuse?"

  An odd cargo for a desert world, Dumarest remembered, but odd things were carried at times. And he'd had no choice but to stay with the Entil. The worlds at which it had touched had been too backward for plentiful shipping. Too undeveloped for a man to earn the price of another passage. Bad worlds on which to be stranded. Hard planets to easily leave. Impossible places on which to hide.

  "And if we hadn't got that cargo?"

  "We'd be on Tullon by now. At least, that's where we were headed until we touched at Kumetat. They had an urgent delivery for Mucianus. A good world. One on the rim of the Sector and close to the edge of the Rift. We could have stayed awhile, a day or two, maybe. There's always a choice of cargoes." He ended bitterly, "Now it looks as if we're going to roast in hell."

  The Garden of Emdale had gone, the bright colors vanished, the flowers, the darting insects, all had disappeared. They had been followed by the chill mistiness of the Chephron Gorge, with its souring walls and looming masses, its blurred details and rocks stained and weathered with time and climate so as to give the appearance of ranked and leering skulls. Other recordings had followed, and now she sat engulfed by the glittering magic of the Elg Cavern. A place of winking points of variegated hue as crystals caught and reflected a mote of light, amplifying it, splintering it into a hundred component parts, distorting it, filling the salon with a snowstorm of sparkles, of eye-catching joy.

  But now they gave her no pleasure. Nothing now could give her pleasure. She was filled with the knowledge that she was to die.

  What had she said to Bochner?

  An end. An extinction. The total erasure of a personal universe. The termination of existence.

  And he had called it a form of beauty!

  She looked to where she had seen him last, but failed to spot him in the flickering showers of brilliance. At the table, perhaps? Talking to Threnond about his wares? A stupidity, if he was-how could there be interest now
in instruments of death? Better to buy some of Fele Roster's compounds. They, at least, could bring sweet dreams and illusions and a release from the fear of death.

  And she was afraid.

  God, she was afraid!

  "Here!" The mercenary loomed beside her, his scarred face grotesque in the splintering glitters. He lifted the bottle in his hand and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Have a drink," he urged. "The steward's been generous. The best, and all free."

  "No."

  "Drugs then? He-"

  "No," she said again, and then added, "Please, I'd rather sit alone."

  "In the salon?" His tone was dry and she realized that he was far less drunk then he seemed. "Haven't you a cabin?"

  "Charl, you're an opportunist." The dancer had joined them, her eyes glittering, mouth twisted in a smile. "But she's too young for you."

  "I was offering her a drink."

  "And asking for payment, eh?" She gave a harlot's laugh. "Reminding her that time is short and not to be wasted. Asking about her cabin. Hinting that one more experience can do her no harm and do you a lot of good. Why her? Can't I give as much as she can?"

  He said flatly, "You've a dirty mouth."

  "To match your dirty hands! Mercenaries! Scum! Killers of women and children! Murderers!" The slap of an open hand preceded her scream of anger. "Bastard! You hit me! I'll-"

  A scuffle, a muffled sound, and the mercenary swore before he collapsed, his eyes vague, the bottle falling to spill its contents on the floor. The dancer picked it up, laughing, lost in her drugged euphoria. She had used the wrong ring, the man would recover and be none the worse for his experience, but if he struck her again she would make no mistake. A dart in his throat or one in his eye. One for the uppity young bitch who played with light. And the third?

  The third she would save for herself.

  Allain said, "They're getting restless, Earl. I've given them drink and drugs but they know there's little hope. People act oddly when they know they're going to die. Some try to cram everything into the last few days. Some just sit and look at their hands. Some pray. Some even commit suicide. Can you understand that? They kill themselves because they are certain they are going to die."