by E. C. Tubb
"Well?" Oaken was impatient. "You have heard what Paran has told you. How can we end this war without ruining ourselves at the same time?"
"There are only three ways to end any war," said Dumarest coldly. "This information will cost you nothing. You can win, you can lose, or you can negotiate. In many cases, it is better to lose; an early surrender will, at least, save lives and property. There is no logic in continuing to fight against a force which you cannot defeat."
Stone frowned. "A strange philosophy from one from the Warrior Worlds."
"A realistic one. I am a mercenary; war is my trade. You are in business, I take it? Then you know the futility of selling goods below their cost of manufacture. In war there comes a point where the object to be attained simply is not worth the effort expended. That naturally, is a variable."
"Let us not talk of losing," said Paran.
"I mentioned it only to clarify the situation," said Dumarest. "To win, at times, is also unwise. With sufficient force it is possible to defeat any enemy, but if the force used is too great, what have you won? Corpses and desolation. In my experience, it is always better to negotiate."
"With killers? Murdering savages?" Oaken slammed his hand on the table. "Never!"
Dumarest shrugged. "That is for you to decide, gentlemen. However, as you should know, the use of force tends to escalate. First the use of limited weapons, then ones that are more powerful, then the ultimate in destruction. If that is your choice, I suggest you skip the intermediate steps. Radioactive dusts scattered over the areas in which the enemy is to be found will destroy them without loss of life on your own side. The mothers of your soldiers, at least, will be grateful."
"Radioactives?" Oaken stared his horror. "But they will destroy the crops! Ruin the soil for a generation to come!"
"Yes."
"And that is your expert advice?"
"I have given you no advice. I have merely mentioned possibilities." Dumarest rose, ending the conference. "You seem unable to make up your minds, gentlemen. My trade, as I have said, is war. As yet I have received no offer for my services."
Colonel Paran said quickly, "You would consider an engagement?"
Oaken was more direct. "How much?"
"That," said Dumarest, "I will consider when I have examined the ground."
* * *
The raft rode high, the pilot nervous, the two-man escort tense as they leaned over the edge to either side, laser rifles at the ready. In the body of the boxlike compartment behind the controls, Ven Taykor gestured to the hills.
"There," he said. "Right in among them, that's where you'll find their council house."
Dumarest followed his pointing arm, seeing nothing but the loom of hills slashed with crevasses, thick with shielding vegetation.
"Have you seen it?"
"Once, when I was a boy. Too long ago now." The guide was weathered, lined with age. His clothing, of thick weave, was patched, his high boots worn, torn on one of the uppers. "My dad took me. There was a festival of some kind. They made me a member of a tribe." He spat over the edge of the raft. "I guess that's why I'm alive now." He added thoughtfully, "I never expected trouble from the Ayutha. No one did. God alone knows what set them off."
Beside them, Captain Louk said, "Have you seen enough, sir?"
"Of the hills, yes." Dumarest looked below. "Can we drop a little?"
"It may not be advisable." The captain was young, conscious that his rank was diminished by his scant command, but the raft was small, and numbers had been sacrificed to light and speed. "They could be watching us from below," he explained. "If they are armed, we could be in trouble."
"Drop," ordered Dumarest. "And tell your men to keep alert."
He leaned over the edge as the ground rose toward them. On either side, as far as the eye could see, ranked plants made a mat of vegetation, scored by thin lines of paths nearly invisible in the fading light. The lofios grew ten feet tall, bushy fronds springing from a central bole, branches that now bore succulent fruits, blooms, enigmatic pods. Bad country for men trained in cities unaccustomed to moving in silence. Perfect cover for guerrillas.
"Mutated stock," said Taykor. "It took almost a century to perfect it. No seasons to speak of in this part of Chard, and the plants bear fruit, bloom, and pollen all at the same time. No insects, either, so they have those pods, see?" He pointed. "They are self-fertilizing. The pods explode and release the pollen, which lands on the blooms to conceive the fruit. I'm no farmer, but I know what it's about."
Without turning, Dumarest said, "What are you, aside from a guide?"
"Hunter, trapper, prospector. Mostly I'm up in the hills. There are some good pelts to be won up there. I was trading in the city when the trouble started. The quicker it's over the sooner I'll be back where I belong."
"What do you think of the Ayutha?"
"Simple people, but not stupid, if you know what I mean. They have their own way, and it isn't city living. They don't put much value on goods and possessions. They aren't lazy, but they don't like being forced to work. Come to think of it, who does?"
"Do they have initiation rites?"
"Maybe. I wouldn't know. I've been in contact with them in a casual way most of my life, but that's about all. Why do you ask?"
Rites could change. If murder was now the needed proof of manhood, it could provide the answer-or a part of it, at least.
"Have the farmers been pressing them? Taking their land, for example?"
"No. There would be no point. Lofios doesn't grow everywhere, and that's all the farmers are interested in. Anyway, they need the labor the Ayutha can supply. There's a lot of weeding and collecting to be done, and machines are too expensive. And no one yet has designed a machine to extract the natural oil. If we land, I'll show you what I mean."
"Later." Dumarest straightened and turned to the officer. "Take me to the first place to be attacked."
"Homand?"
"If that's what it's called, that's the place I want."
It was small, a collection of neat houses backed by warehouses and sheds holding equipment for processing the crop. A school, store, something which would have been a church. A forge and meeting house, a typical backwoods village. A place where children could grow safe in the knowledge they were loved, where old men could sit and dream of past achievements. There would be festivals and occasional trips to the city. Transient merchants would drop from the sky in silent rafts. Life there must have been an easy thing.
Now it was gone. The place was deserted, the houses empty, shattered glass ugly in the streets, black timbers standing gaunt against the sky where a house had burned, doors scarred with the impact of savage blows.
Dumarest said, "Tell me what happened."
"We can't be sure. A message was received in the city-a garbled thing barely making sense. Something about monsters. When we got here-"
"We?"
"A party from the city. I was among them. Before I became a soldier, I was a field supervisor on duty at the reception center."
"Good. Continue."
"When we got here, everything was a shambles. The Ayutha must have hit all over the place at the same time. Men were lying cut and bleeding, women ripped open, children torn apart, babies with their heads smashed against doorposts. That building was on fire. Those savage swine didn't leave a thing."
"You are talking of the Ayutha?"
"What else?"
Dumarest said flatly, "I am not interested at this time in your opinions. Did any resident of this place say they were responsible? Think now, did they?"
"The few that were still alive were dazed, dying. They muttered something about monsters, about being attacked."
"But did not, specifically, mention the Ayutha?" Dumarest continued at the reluctant nod. "Then we have no actual proof that they were responsible for what happened here. Was much damage caused to the equipment? No? Was anything taken? No? Then apparently some force of which we can't be certain attacked and killed for no
apparent reason. Do you agree?"
"Does a savage need a reason to kill?"
"Yes. His reason might not be immediately apparent, but it is always present. Hunger, hate, fear, the conviction that he cannot become a man unless he does, a stranger who must be disposed of-always there is a reason. How long did it take you to get here after you received the message?"
"A few hours. We had to find rafts, gather and arm men."
"And there were no survivors?"
"None, not even a baby. Damnit, whose side are you on? If you'd seen what I did. The blood, the mess, heard them screaming…" The officer caught himself, forced a measure of control into his voice. "I'm sorry, but it hit me hard. There was a girl I knew… I wish I hadn't found her."
Dumarest said, "Let's look around."
* * *
It was dark when he returned, the city bright with flecks of light from street lanterns, windows, drifting rafts, and moving cars. A busy, bustling place, a violent contrast to the village he had left, the place where a community had died. Zenya was absent, and he looked at the things she had left. The golden dress, the serpents that had graced her arms, a litter of cosmetics. Quickly, careless of who might be watching, he searched them all, letting the fabric slide through his fingers, taking care over the jewelry, the pots of unguents, paints, and powders.
He found nothing. If the girl carried a device to activate what was within his body, it must be buried within her flesh. He had checked on the ship; what he did now was for confirmation. And it was highly possible that she didn't carry the trigger at all.
Aihult Chan Parect, he remembered, trusted no one.
The phone rang. On the screen Colonel Paran looked anxious. "I heard you were back, Earl. Have you arrived at a decision?"
"Not yet. I must correlate my findings."
"Later, then?"
"Later."
A bottle of wine stood on a table, and he poured a glass, sitting facing the window with it in his hand. He felt tired, uneasy. There were too many problems and too few solutions. Parect's threat, the false position he was in, the girl. Even now she could be babbling, betraying him, and to a people at war, such a betrayal could have unpleasant consequences.
He leaned back, sipping the wine, recalling what he had seen. The dusty streets littered with debris, the empty houses, the pathetic remains of dolls, toys, a wooden animal on rockers, a carefully embroidered shawl ugly with stains of blood. And marks on doors, walls, the sills of windows. Even the toys had been crushed, cut, hammered with savage violence. And there had been other marks, bullet holes, the seared patches of laser burns. Some of the farmers would have owned guns, less the more expensive lasers. All would have possessed knives, machetes for cutting the crop, axes, hammers. They had been found, and all of them had been used.
He shrugged, impatient, emptying the glass in a single swallow. The war was not his problem; he had conducted the examination simply to maintain his assumed character. His immediate need was to find the son of Chan Parect. To finish his assignment before the threat made could be put into effect. And that would not be easy. Why would a lord of Samalle be interested in such a man?
He wouldn't, but perhaps Branchard would. A free trader could drift around, ask questions, make contacts, and use bribes, all with relative impunity. And he would be a willing ally if the price was right.
Dumarest rose, and without looking at the phone, moved toward the door. Outside, the corridor was empty but for a pair of men standing with exaggerated casualness. Guards? Men set to watch his movements? One of them came forward, recorder in hand.
"My lord, a few words for the media? We are all interested in what you have to say."
"The situation, while serious, must not be inflated beyond its real proportions," said Dumarest. "There is danger and a threat of escalation, but nothing which cannot be handled without undue interference with normal life. While brave men are willing to fight, Chard has nothing to fear."
Empty words, but what they wanted. One said, "Will you be taking an active part in the struggle?"
"That depends on your military authorities."
"But you are willing?"
"Again, that depends. Now, if you will excuse me?"
He wandered a random mile before using a phone. Twenty minutes later he phoned again. Branchard was waiting.
He blinked as he listened. "Sure, Earl, I can do it. Have you got anything I can work with aside from a name?"
"A photograph and physical details-Lammarre System. I'll send you a copy. The money-"
"Can wait. Give me a little time."
The suite was still empty when he returned. He drank more wine and studied the details he had sent to Branchard. The face was younger than it would be now, but the physical details would never change. If Salek had ever received medical treatment on this world, or had fallen into the hands of the police, even if he had ever volunteered to give blood, he would be recorded. And there were other checks; the captain would know them all.
The phone rang. A man's face, smooth, bland. "The Lady Zenya?"
"She is not available. Who are you? What do you want?"
"Zerm Trish, my lord. A creative photographer. I am attached to the house of Jarl, the most exclusive fashion establishment on Chard. I wondered if your lady would condescend to pose for me in a variety of creations, which, of course, would remain her property."
Dumarest said harshly, "The wife of a lord of Samalle does not cheapen herself. Do not call again."
From behind him Zenya said, "A pity, Earl. They have some wonderful gowns, and all terribly expensive." She had entered the suite while he had been on the phone.
Quickly she added, "But of course, the suggestion was unthinkable. At home he would never have dared to make it."
"Where have you been?"
"Shopping." She spun, blue fabric rising like a sapphire mist, sparkles of brilliant crystal accentuating the hue. "Do you like it, darling? Susal Paran guided me. The colonel's wife. She is really a most charming woman, and terribly worried about her husband. She kept asking me what it was like to be the wife of a warrior. How I felt when you were away, that kind of thing." She smiled. "I think she wanted to ask more intimate details but was too restrained. You know, how we acted after a long absence, how we felt when together again."
"And you told her?"
"That it is hell to be apart, and heaven to be together. The truth, Earl. Why should I lie?"
Colonel Paran saved the necessity of an answer. On the screen his face was drawn, anxious.
"I'm at a meeting of the Council, Earl. They need your decision before deciding on a course of action. I hope that you agree to accept the commission, because I don't like the alternative. The vote is to ask the Cyclan for help if you refuse. The feeling is that a cyber could advise us of what needs to be done."
"You object?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. A cyber predicts; he tells you what is the most likely outcome of any action, but he doesn't tell you what action to take. That means wasted time, and I've the feeling that we haven't any to waste. What we need is a man skilled in the art of war, someone who can train men and use what force we have to best advantage. I liked what you said at the conference-you knew what you were talking about. The choice is yours, of course, but I hope you agree. If not, the Cyclan will be asked to help."
Dumarest said, "I agree."
Chapter Seven
Inspection was at dawn. A sleepy guard snapped to belated attention as Dumarest, accompanied by Captain Louk, approached the operations room. Inside, Colonel Paran, red-eyed from fatigue, stood before a table littered with maps. A scatter of lesser officers stood beside charts, communications equipment, a large contour map dotted with colored pins. From time to time one of them made adjustments, bringing the field of operations up to date.
"Earl!" Paran reached for coffee, which an aide was distributing. "Want some?"
Dumarest shook his head. "Trouble?"
"We got hit again last night S
onel, a small village far to the west. The usual thing-we received a garbled message, and by the time we got there, it was all over. A shambles." Turning, he called to an officer. "Any fresh news on Sonel?"
"No, colonel. The team found nothing they hadn't reported. A complete wipe-out." The officer was young, his tone bitter. "Sir, I'd like to request a transfer to active duty in the field."
Paran hesitated. "We need you here, Fran."
"Even so, sir-"
"Later."
For a moment it seemed as if the young man would argue; then, scowling, he returned to his duties. Dumarest studied him; the facial resemblance was unmistakable. He said, "Your son?"
"My only child. Susal couldn't…" Paran broke off, rubbing at his eyes. "That doesn't matter. Every young man is eager to get into the field and face the enemy, but someone has to handle operations. Fran is good at his job. Moving him would mean a double set of training-him for the field and another to take his place."
And here in operations, he was as safe as any soldier could hope to be in time of war. A natural assumption, which others would make, but Dumarest doubted if the colonel had even thought of it. His wife, perhaps, but he was too dedicated to seek personal advantage from his rank and position.
"The attack," said Dumarest. "How many of the Ayutha were killed?"
"None."
"None at all?" Dumarest frowned. "Don't you think that is strange?"
"I should have said that none were found," corrected Paran. "If any were killed, they must have been removed before we got there." He gestured toward the table. "Let me show you how we are handling the situation. The green dots are mobile rafts; the yellow, field detachments; the red, places which have been attacked. We didn't have much time to organize, but I don't think we've done too badly. Working on the assumption that all attacks emanate from the hills, we have thrown a line of observers and mobile forces in an arc reaching from here to here." His finger tapped at portions of the map. "What do you think about it?"
