by E. C. Tubb
“There!” She stepped back dropping her hands. “You finished with my knife?”
“I’m keeping it.”
“Keeping it?” Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. “Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me. Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!” Her face changed as he lifted the blade. “No! No, I didn’t mean that!”
“How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too.”
“A stone,” she said bitterly. “I haven’t a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle.” She watched as he moved about the cave. “What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?”
“I need clothes.”
Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the savage terrain. All the things that an adult had and that he had been denied because he was a child. But he was that no longer. He would take what he needed and make his way towards the east to live how he could.
A killer, a thief, a bully and a liar-a child of Earth.
They followed him. The men of the village eager for fun, for sport, for his agony and death. They had assembled and sat and drank and talked and listened to the wailing complaints of the crone and her lies and demands that something be done. Dumarest had always been a little strange, too reserved, too clever, a little too good at what he attempted. Incidents were remembered, others invented. His victim had been popular in his careless, drunken fashion and the sight of his corpse created unease. What had been done once could be done again. Other boys, goaded too far, could remember what Dumarest had accomplished and try to follow his example. And they could succeed. The stab of a point, the slash of an edge, the hammer blow of a stone-death could be delivered with such speed and ease.
“Kill him!” demanded the crone. “He robbed me! Took my things. My blanket and jug and knife. He stole my knife! He killed my man! You saw him do it! Let him do it! Watched as he beat his head and face to a pulp. Go and see it. See what he did. Take a good look. Bury him-then go and get the bastard who did it!”
A score of them decided it was a good idea. True the killer had a knife and he might well try to use it, but he was a boy and they were men and it would be safe enough to track him down, and make him crawl and beg and plead and scream as they broke his limbs, shriek as they tore out his eyes, moan as they used fire to sear his threshing flesh.
It would be a thing to remember. Once they had whipped and tormented him into a moving heap of lacerated flesh and blackened bone, they would drag him back and hang him on a pole as an example. Something for all to see and hear if they were careful to leave him alive. A lesson to those who might be tempted to forget who and what they were and what would happen to them if they did.
“Let’s go!” said a man. He swigged the last of the liquid in his jug. “Let’s teach that little bastard a lesson no one will ever forget!”
They knew the terrain. They had hunted and roved and scavenged and they knew which direction Dumarest had taken. Knew, too, that he was young and relatively small and they could make faster progress. They had no doubt they would catch him. He was starved and weak and would have limited endurance. Fear would ride with him and terror would make him careless. He could even have made the mistake that there would be no pursuit. That they would leave him alone. That he could walk away from his killing as if it had never happened. They would relish reminding him it had.
He learned they were coming. Far back in the distance a bird had risen to wheel and glide away and, by so doing, had signaled the presence of strangers in its domain. He knew who they had to be and could guess at their numbers. Guess, too, as to how long they would take to reach his present position.
By dusk, he calculated, studying the sun. Maybe before, but he doubted it. For them dusk would be soon enough and the darkness of night would give an added zest to what he knew they intended. But it would also give him an advantage.
Shards rattled from beneath his feet. The rags with which he had bound them protected him from the jagged edges but the sound would carry and a hunter would recognise it for what it was. He repeated it, a third time, then stepped slowly and stealthily to where the opening of a narrow gully pierced the surrounding mounds of the terrain.
The setting sun filled it with shadows and a straggle of trees resembled hostile sentries mounted on vantage points and glaring at the opening, the expanse beyond. Stones lay scattered around and Dumarest paused to study them. He had lost his sling but it was not a good close-quarter weapon. It took time to load and get into action and, when spun, would produce a sound recognizable to any hunter. The knife was better but it was small and fragile and to use it at all meant he would have to get in really close. An attack from the rear and a quick slash to cut the throat or a stab to sever an artery. An attack which might work if the target was alone but relative size came into it and that advantage was not his.
Carefully he chose from the scattered stones.
A sling wasn’t essential to launch a missile. He had hands and arms and a back and shoulders to provide muscular power. The thing was to get close enough, to throw fast and hard enough, to have a reserve in case of need. The stones would provide it. He had reason to know how effective they could be. Others could have forgotten.
Standing among the trees he heard them coming. He stood against a bole, arms lifted, a stone gripped in both hands. A heavy rock treble the size of his clenched fists, its weight taking its toll, giving birth to muscular tremors and a mounting, numbing ache. Things he had expected and ignored.
The bole of the tree eased his weight and gave a degree of support. More important it enabled him to stand immobile. To wait in the thickening shadows as the rasp of boots grew louder.
“You in there?”
The voice was loud, blurred, careless. The man a shape that gained features and details as it came closer. A big man, blotched with sores, his clothing ragged, his temper short. A man Dumarest recognized.
“Earl! You in there? Answer me lad. Let’s end this and get back home. I’ve food and a fire and you’re welcome to share.” He added, “Trust me. You’ll come to no harm. I give you my word on that.”
The rasp of boots grew louder as the man came closer. A hunter and a good one but a liar all the same. His head moved as his eyes searched the dimness for a betraying trace of movement that Dumarest knew better than to provide. He held his breath as the man turned to face the tree against which he stood, eyes studying the bole, the silhouette, eyes and mouth opening in recognition at what he saw.
“By God, I’ve found you!” His voice rose to a shout as he ran towards his prey, coming close. “Hey! Here! I’ve-”
The shout died as Dumarest swung forward from the hips, the stone he held flung with all his force, arching from his hands to land directly against the gaping mouth. Teeth shattered, bone, blood jetting as the man fell dropping the spear he had carried. Dumarest lunged forward, snatched up the weapon and slammed the blade into the fallen man’s heart.
Then he was running, weaving between the shielding trees, hearing shouts and curses behind him, the sounds of pursuit that faded as he gained distance and safety. Darkness closed around him and he moved steadily towards the north living as best he could. A time of tribulation then, at the limit of his endurance, he stared at the strangest thing he had ever seen.
CHAPTER THREE
Shandaha said, “You had a most unusual upbringing, Earl. Not all childhoods are the same. Some can be far more distressing and dangerous than others.”
“As mine was.”
“Not necessarily. You doubt it?” Shandaha leaned forward in his chair, eyes intent. “You think that because a child is not beaten then it must be happy? No childhood is ever that. Each child is vulnerable, ignorant, dependant on the whims of others. Living in a cage designed with the best of intentions but illustrating the world of adul
ts not that of a child. It can be fed, clothed, housed in comfort yet denied the simple things that give simple pleasures. And worse-the mind warped, the imagination stifled, rules and regulations imposed which, in themselves, form a prison.”
“And I had the freedom to run, to hunt, to freeze, to starve.” Dumarest was bitter. “I thought you would have found it entertaining?”
“I found it interesting. Your memories are excellent. This was the first time you had killed another human. In effect it was a rite of passage. One that affected you and altered your outlook on life. A venting of all the fear, anger and terror that powered the force of your decision. A gamble for your life that yielded pleasure when you had won. You did feel pleasure.”
“You would know.”
“It was present,” insisted Shandaha. “The enjoyment at the elimination of a threat. Of a battle won. An emotion touched by relief. Also you learned something.”
Dumarest said, drily, “That to kill is easy if you have no choice.”
“Exactly.” Shandaha leaned a little closer. “But not all learn it. Chagal, for example, he lacks the courage to apply his knowledge in times of crisis.”
“You are being unfair. He has sworn an oath to protect and preserve life. A conditioning not easy to throw aside.”
“Perhaps, but it hampers his ability to survive.” Shandaha dismissed the subject. “Enough of the doctor. There is something else. A puzzle I find intriguing.” Pausing he added, “Would you oblige me by pouring us both some wine.”
An order couched in politeness but one Dumarest knew his host expected to be obeyed. Would the commands increase until he would be forced to make a choice? Another facet of the complex game in which he seemed to be a part.
He studied Shandaha as he poured the wine. He looked as he had before but now they sat alone in a chamber resembling the interior of a bubble. The walls were smooth, unbroken, shimmering with a soft golden luminescence. Aside from their chairs the room was empty but for a low table bearing goblets and wine. Emerald wine holding within its sparkling depths the taste of mint, the warmth of summer, the freshness of glacial ice.
Dumarest sipped then leaned back and closed his eyes, seeing again the red and grey pulp of the shattered skull. Feeling again the emotions he had experienced and which Shandaha had mentioned. Fear and hate, yes, with fear predominant, but pleasure? Had he felt pleasure?
If so had he been no different from the man he had killed? The woman he had robbed?
“Dreaming, Earl?”
“No, just thinking.” Dumarest opened his eyes. “You’ve made me curious. You mentioned a puzzle. Is it about my childhood?”
“You should never have had it.”
“I agree. No one should. But I did.”
“Here on Earth?”
“Yes.”
“That is the puzzle.” Shandaha sipped at his wine. Green fire shone from the elaborate pattern engraved in the crystal. “No such band of barbaric savages would have been permitted to exist. From what we both experienced you were in a harsh and barren area. One warm during the day but bitterly cold at night. Such conditions would match those to be found in a desert set on a high plateau. You and your people would have had to hide your existence. Remain secret. I know of no domain where that would be possible.”
“You were with me in my mind,” said Dumarest. “You experienced all that had happened to me at that particular time. I was a child on Earth. You know that.”
For answer Shandaha dipped his finger into his goblet and scrawled a series of patches on the table.
“Areas,” he said. “Once they would have been called villages, parishes, sees, counties, states, nations, empires. Now they are domains. Each has its owner. None would allow those you claim to be your people to exist.”
“I know what a domain is,” snapped Dumarest. “Are you saying I lied?”
“No. You could not have lied. That is what makes the puzzle so intriguing. Your people could not have existed yet, for you, obviously, they did. You have memories of them.”
“So do you,” reminded Dumarest. “I think you place too great a trust in the capabilities of those owning the domains. The one responsible could simply have ignored those people. Or be conducting an experiment. Or simply be unaware they existed at all.”
“That is not possible.”
“Why not?” said Dumarest. “We waited a long time for you to find us after we’d crashed and we did our best to attract attention. Did you know we were there? Making us wait? Denying us rescue? If we had landed in a different place, suffered less damage, we would have moved from the site. You need never have discovered us.” He added, bitterly, “If we’d known you intended to eliminate us we’d have made damned sure of it.”
“I did what I did because it had to be done. Chagal has given you the explanation.”
“He told me what you had instructed him to tell me. I’ve no proof. Is there any? Bodies I could examine?” Dumarest paused, waiting, examining the design engraved on the surface of his goblet. One of complex, interwoven circles, creating the illusion of movement and depth. “No,” he continued as Shandaha remained silent. “There are no bodies. There wouldn’t be. The explanations are too neatly convincing. Those you found were diseased and had to be incinerated. They could not be tolerated. Cured. Given care and the opportunity to survive. As you say those I knew as a child would never have been tolerated. They were certainly never fed, clothed, housed or given any medical attention.”
“Nor destroyed,” reminded Shandaha. “Perhaps because they never existed.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Perhaps. I suggest you think about it.” Shandaha sipped at his wine. “Earl, let us not argue. There is another matter I wish to clarify. I think you will agree that Nada and Delise are both desirable women yet neither seems to attract you. Do you pine for another? Nadine, perhaps?”
“Did Chagal tell you of her?” Dumarest was bitter. “Did he also mention that she is dead?”
“Dead and preserved in the ice. But her basic cellular matter is available. I could create an identical copy of the woman you lost. If you wish it will be done.”
Dumarest remembered Nadine’s softness, her warmth, the comfort she had given him, the companionship. It would be good to hold her again, to listen to her voice, her arguments, her laughter. To ease her fears and give her comfort. To have her at his side. To be as one. Things that could never be.
He said. “You promise what you cannot deliver. A body, yes, but not a mind fashioned and molded by years of experience, hurt, hope, distrust, fear. It would be nothing but a shell. A toy that would only remind me of her loss. What you can do is resolve the puzzle of my childhood. Another incident?”
“If that is what you want.”
“I need to know.”
“I understand, but repetition will serve no useful purpose. It is best to move on. To the time when you left the planet. Recall the incident.” Shandaha reached out and touched Dumarest’s hand. “Now!”
It was something he had never seen before. A slim, rounded construction pointed at the sky. One bearing symbols equally strange to which he gave no more than a glance his attention concentrated on the ramp leading from the ground to an open port. Nowhere could he see or hear signs of life.
For a long moment he hesitated then, as the wind stung his flesh with the chill of approaching night, he darted forward, mounted the ramp and dived into the chamber beyond. A compartment filled with bales and boxes, containers like coffins resting in the centre. Odd things to find in an odd building but he had no time to examine them. The sound of footsteps and coughing warned of the approach of others and he hid, watching, as they entered the compartment.
Two men, wearing clothing almost identical in color and style, neither bearing weapons. One older, larger than the other, dark stains marring his hands and cheeks who coughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and swore as he saw the trace of blood.
“That damned stuff Dorph’s
been feeding me isn’t working. I’ve still got something eating at my lungs.”
“Drugs take time to work,” said the other. “You’re loaded with antibiotics, there’s nothing more Dorph can do. But you engineers are all the same. You have no patience. No toleration. You want things to work and work at once. Here.” He produced a bottle from behind a heap of bales. “Take a slug of this then we’ll get to work. I checked the cargo earlier so all we have to do is raise the ramp and seal the hold.”
“You don’t need me, Jesso. That’s handler’s work.”
“You got something else to do?” The smaller man snatched back the bottle and took a gulp. He spat, cursing.
“This is too raw. It will taste better with some basic. I’ll get us some from the dispenser while you wind up the ramp.”
“After we’ve wound up the ramp,” corrected the big man. “I’m only here to help, remember?”
He moved towards the port and stood looking outside as the other crossed to where a spigot sprouted from the wall. A thick liquid streamed from it as he pressed a control and half-filled a container. He topped it with what was in the bottle, stirred it, sipped, nodded, tipped half into a second cup that he handed to the big man.
“This will hit the spot. Better than Dorph’s tablets.” He glanced at the open port. “What’s it like out there?”
“The same as it’s been all along. Cold, deserted, a barren waste. Now it’s growing dark.” The engineer gulped at his cup. “Let’s seal up and get the hell out of here.”
Out of the compartment, away from where Dumarest crouched, shivering, fighting the hunger eating at his belly. Crossing to the spigot he did as the smaller of the two men had done. The liquid was thick, sweet with an appetizing tartness, emitting a tantalizing odor. He sipped at it then gulped it down. His stomach relayed messages of gratitude. He helped himself to more and then more. Bloated he returned to his hiding place and snuggled against a yielding bale.
Asleep, he didn’t notice the sudden movement of the compartment. Feel the change in orientation as the vessel lifted towards the stars. Unaware that he was traversing the void until, inevitably, he was discovered.
