by E. C. Tubb
He moved and felt a momentary nausea then was standing, facing an eerie scene of lowering night edged by the dull red glow of the western sky. One he had seen before when on Gath and he looked again at darkness illuminated by moving lanterns carried on rafts, held by tourists, attendants, accompanying guards. A wending line of men and women heading north across a sea-edged plateau towards the fabled mountains of a world holding a unique formation. A spectacle that intrigued the woman standing at his side.
“It looks like a snake,” she said. “Or a centipede. Or an eltross from Vootan. They are composed of seven distinct types of creature united in a common symbiosis. Have you ever seen one?”
The Lady Seena, spoiled ward of the Matriarch of Kund, slender, beautiful, wearing a fortune in gems and rich fabrics. Beside her, dressed in his traveler’s garb, Dumarest was a grey shadow.
He made no comment, eyes searching the column, seeing things he had seen before and was seeing again by a trick of woken memory, the figment of a dream.
“You did not answer me.”
He was her companion. An attendant she regarded as a paid servant. She expected a response. Obediently he said, “No, my lady. I have never seen a eltross.”
“You should. They have a certain charm.” A subject forgotten as she found a new interest.
“That man!” Seena pointed to a figure stooped and struggling beneath a heavy burden. “What does he carry?”
Dumarest told her. She stared in amazement. “A coffin holding the dead body of his wife? You can’t be serious.”
“It is so, my lady.”
“But why?”
“He is probably very attached to her.” He added, dryly, “I understand that some men do feel like that about their wives. They cannot bear to be parted.”
“Now I know that you are joking.” Seena was impatient. “It is hardly a subject for jest. Why is he carrying such a burden? Why did he bring her with him? What can he possibly hope to gain?”
“That is the question, my lady.” Dumarest looked at the woman at his side, seeing again what he had seen so long ago. Knowing what was to come, what she would say. “I am not sure as to his reason but there is a legend on Earth that, on the very last day, a trumpet will sound and all the dead will rise to live again. Perhaps he hopes to hear the sound of that trumpet-or that his wife will hear it.”
“But she is dead.”
“So he claims.”
“But if she is dead how could she hear?” She frowned her irritation. “You fail to make sense,” she complained. “I have heard of no such legend. And I have heard of no such world. Earth!” She laughed at the concept. “Do you really expect me to believe there is such a place?”
“You should-it is very real.” He began walking so as to keep abreast of the column, pausing to allow her to catch up, continuing when she did. “I was born there. I grew up there. It is not a pleasant world. Most of it is desert, a savage, barren expanse in which little grows. It is scarred with old wounds and littered with the ruins of bygone ages and lost civilizations. But-”
He broke off, senses reeling as the scene before him swirled and blended with mist. A time of deja vu ending as soon as recognized. But the question remained.
How had he known?
How?
He could not have known the details he had mentioned. He had been too young, too small, too weak to have traveled far. The moon, yes, that was plain for all to see, but the scars of old wars, the ruins, the vast expanse of wilderness? As Shandaha had pointed out there was no way he could have seen them and yet he was certain they existed. Certain that all was as he had claimed. Convinced he knew the truth.
Like ghosts thin voices whispered in his mind.
“Earth? A strange name for a planet. Why not call it Sand or Loam or Dirt?”
Laughter at the concept.
“It has to be a legend. A fanciful myth. A world that does not exist.”
More laughter at his insistence that it did.
“Then why isn’t it listed in the Almanac? If it was real it would be registered. The coordinates would be known. They aren’t so it doesn’t.”
Syllostic logic of the kind Shandaha had demonstrated. All planets were listed in the Almanac. If a world was not listed it didn’t exist. Earth was not listed so Earth did not exist. Proof according to the rules of the system used, but the initial premise was at fault. Change it a little to-‘all known planets are listed in the Almanac’-and the reasoning held no value. For if Earth was unknown it could not be listed, but it could still exist.
Comfort of a kind and surely the existence of Earth could soon be no longer a matter of speculation. For he had found the planet. The legendary world of limitless wealth. He had managed to return, to get back home. The coordinates were no longer a secret. The Kaldari must have them and could have sold them on. They, or others, would use them driven by curiosity and greed.
Given time more vessels must surely arrive.
To be greeted as he had been? Blasted from space to be sent to crash in ruin on the surface of a hostile world? To be eliminated or made a prisoner for the amusement of some decadent being?
Anger touched him and he fought the hampering mists of sleep, rearing to sit upright, clearing his mind, remembering, concentrating on familiar things. He was lost in a world of alien dimensions, lacking coordination, knowledge on which to plan and act. The pawn of a being of apparently superior power amusing himself with an elaborate game. Dumarest remembered the impression he had gained of a player radiating the smug confidence of one convinced of victory. Shandaha had won-but what? The doubt he had sown as to the veracity of youthful memory? A demonstration of skillfully applied logic to score a point? If so why? Shandaha would yield no answer, volunteer no explanation. He was too much in control. A situation that had to change if Dumarest was to gain some degree of independent action.
But how?
The memory of Gath had been a dream but it had provided an anchor of sorts. He knew he had to find another on which to base a degree of self-determination. To fight against the swirling mists with their hypnotic influences, their insidious mind-altering patterns. He needed the stability of familiar scenes, objects, events. To rise above the deceptions, distractions and delusions that clouded his mind. Pain would help and he dug his teeth into the flesh of his inner cheek concentrating on the hurt, adding to it as he dug his nails into his palms, focusing his mind, dredging his memories with a grim determination.
The world of enchantment thinned, vanished as around him mists and planes changed to become walls, drapes, a ceiling, a floor. He concentrated harder, the walls closing in, drapes flattening, changing, turning into stained plaster and faded paint. The floor became bleached timbers, boards bearing dents, scars and discolorations. The ceiling was low. The light illuminating the chamber streaming through a narrow window. A bed, a door, a table at his side, a chair holding his garments, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, crude facilities for washing.
A rough room in a cheap hotel. One of a type that he knew too well.
He leaned back on the pillow, letting events run their course, closing his eyes as a soft creak came from the door. One repeated from a stubborn hinge as the panel opened, whispering again as it closed. He heard the soft pad of naked feet and moved a little, breathing deeply, his right hand lifting to the edge of the pillow before he slumped into apparent unconsciousness. He heard the soft rustle of discarded fabric. Weight rested on the mattress beside him and he felt the close proximity of rounded flesh. The scent of perfume pervaded his nostrils and the touch of hair was a gentle caress on his shoulder.
A part of revived memory and a natural element of the scene he had created. An attendant harlot, common among such hostelries, coming to offer her services or to steal if the opportunity arose. He moved beneath the caress of her hand, turning his face towards her, obviously aware and on the brink of waking. As she pressed harder against him, the mounds of her breasts flattening against his torso with a soft invitation,
his left hand rose to glide over her naked back, to linger as he caressed the warm, softly rounded flesh. Then to rise higher, to reach the nape of her neck, to lock his fingers in the mane of her hair. To pull back her head so as to expose the column of her throat.
At the same time his right hand moved from beneath the pillow, the knife it held flashing forward to halt with its point pressing against the flesh beneath her jaw, the arteries beneath the skin.
“Earl! No!”
He twisted her face away from him, maintaining his grip, blood oozing from beneath the tip of his blade.
“Don’t move, Nada!” Her perfume had betrayed her. “I don’t know how you managed to disappear when I held you before but I can guess how it could be done. Don’t breath on me! Don’t touch me!”
“I didn’t use gas or drugs. That is the truth. I give you my word!”
“Whatever you used be warned. If I feel myself going, or strange, or you seem to vanish I’ll do my best to drive this blade into your throat. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?” As she hesitated he pressed a little harder on the knife. “A word of advice, girl. If someone threatening you asks a question give them an answer. It needn’t be the truth-just give them an answer. Let us try again. Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I was lonely, bored and I needed comfort.” She fell silent then added, with sudden anger, “Damn you, Earl! Must you humiliate me?”
“I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“Am I so repulsive?”
“You are beautiful and you know it.” He was curt. “I’m not in the mood for games. Did Shandaha send you?”
“No.”
“Would you have obeyed him if he had?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because you would have no choice?”
“No, Earl. Because it would have been a pleasure.” She tried to turn her face towards him, then relaxed as he maintained his grip on her hair. “You are hurting me. Do you like to hurt people?”
He looked at the knife, at the blood masking its point, the sheen of her flesh in the light streaming through the window. Beautiful flesh superbly fashioned glowing in the light of dawn, of an early day, a new beginning. He had no choice but to kill or trust her and to kill would gain him nothing.
She sighed as he lifted the blade from her throat and eased his fingers from the mane of her hair. A sigh of relief, of satisfaction or of success-it was impossible to tell. She rose with a smooth grace to glide to the washbasin. Water gushed from the faucet and she laved the blood from her neck then moistened her face and lips. Droplets ornamented her skin with nacreous pearls.
“Do you really think I am beautiful?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Tell me!”
He ignored the demand. “Why did you come here? I’d like the truth this time.”
“I don’t know. I was drawn in some way. I sensed your discomfort. You were ill at ease, tense, strange, somehow lost. I wanted to help.” She moved to sit on the mattress at his side, to lean towards him, her breasts moving with fluid attraction. Her hair framed her face with a skein of beauty.
“I still want to help. To give you comfort.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Of course, Earl. But later.”
“Why not now?”
“Are words all you want between us? Is there nothing else? And what is there for me to tell? You have lived such an interesting life, Earl, that you would only be bored. I am just an ordinary woman. One whom, apparently, you do not find attractive. I wish it was otherwise. But I will remove my presence if you wish.”
She rose and stood, lifting her arms, inflating her lungs and turning on her toes in a manner women had used since the beginning of time. One that enhanced her feminine attributes and clothed her with an exotic allure. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Where would you go? To report to Shandaha?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You are his creature. He gives you his orders and you obey. You claim to be an ordinary woman but, as you stand there, I see something far different than that.”
Dumarest threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood before her. Looking down into her upturned face he was acutely aware of her femininity, his response to it, his need and desire. Aware, too, of the dilemma he faced.
He could be the subject of a test. Ifhe ignored the allure of the woman would it prove the strength of his detachment? To accept what she offered his lack of resolve? Or the very reverse? What did Shandaha hope to learn? What would be the wisest thing for him to do?
The room itself hinted at the answer. In any such place how would he have treated a woman who had come to him as Nada had done? If not to accept her then to make the rejection one which would cause no anger. To act with gentle courtesy. Above all to salvage her pride.
To gain time he turned and retrieved the robe Nada had discarded from where it lay in a sprawl of vibrant color. Rising he saw her face, her eyes, the subtle hardening of her lips and recognized the added dimension to his predicament. A woman fully aware of her attributes. A creature of passion and pride who had come to him and offered herself as a willing diversion. An invitation it would be dangerous to reject. He was in no position to invite the fury of a woman scorned.
“Your robe.” He handed it to her. As she took it he added, “Beauty to add to beauty. That is what I see when I look at you. A beauty that is beyond description. One no painter could possibly chain to a canvas. Loveliness that is all too rare.”
Softly she said, “Do you mean that?”
“Any man would tell you the same. Any mirror will give you the truth of what you are.”
“I’m not interested in any man, Earl. Nor any mirror.”
She came closer, the scent of her perfume strong in his nostrils, the radiated heat of her flesh signaling her passion. “Prove you mean what you say. Show me how you really feel. How genuine you are. Do you honestly care for me? Want me? Need me?”
“Yes, Nada, I do.” His hands rose to caress her hair.
“I need you more than I can say.”
“Earl!”
The robe fell as she reached towards him, her arms closing about him, her lips seeking his own, finding them, pressing with an avid hunger as the heat of her naked flesh burned against his own.
“Earl! I want you! I need you! Take me! Earl! Earl!”
The room was the same but a subtle magic had touched the moldering plaster and stained woodwork so they seemed gifted with a new brightness; a shimmering patina as of things remade and reborn. As the bed was softer than he remembered, seeming larger, as the light was even more enticing as it streamed through the window. At his side Nada moved a little, her hand caressing his torso, the fingers tracing the scars of old wounds.
“I love you, my darling,” she whispered. “I shall always love you.”
Her voice was a sleepy murmur, her face lax with satiated passion, her hair a sprawl on the pillow, her skin a softly yielding velvet delight. On her throat the wound he had made rested like the badge of another kind of passion. One that had given him the cicatrices he bore. The fruit of emotions she should never have known.
On impulse he stooped and kissed it.
“Darling.” Her eyes opened and she smiled. “Kiss me again. Heal me. Please, Earl.”
He obeyed and looked down at the unbroken skin of her throat. The wound he had made had vanished without trace.
“You have the power, darling.” Her hands moved, questing, her smile widening as she felt his response. “You will always have power over me. I am yours when you need me. Just need me. Never stop needing me. Earl! Please! Earl!”
Again they lost themselves in an ancient rite, Nada clinging to him with a desperate intensity as if afraid of losing a newly found pleasure. Only when they lay exhausted did she run her hands over his torso again her fingers following the pattern of his scars.
Fingers
with the delicate impact of insect wings, touching, tracing, covering more than flesh. Creating a pattern that transcended space and time to waken ancient memories of things learned and events almost forgotten on the backward world of Deratai.
“Relax, my darling,” she murmured. “You are safe in my arms. Relax.”
Dumarest sighed and obeyed and inhaled the vapor of her perfume which changed in a subtle manner so that he smelt again the oddly pungent odor of a shabby chamber, saw again the tall, shrouded figure of the man to whom it belonged. The bland face with the shrewd almond eyes, the lipless mouth, the high-arched brows. Hsi Wei-master of the subtle art of survival.
His voice was the thin keening of wind through reeds as he addressed his attentive pupils. A small circle patiently listening to hours of instruction and advice. All young, each hoping they would learn how to enhance their status and prosper and escape the poverty that held them in its grasp.
“You have been taught the five basic laws of survival. The first is self preservation. The second is to be aware at all times. The third is always to expect the unexpected. The fourth is never to underestimate anyone. The fifth is to respect all that exists in life.” Hsi Wei showed no signs of fatigue. “To simplify; always avoid trouble, always be alert, take nothing for granted, never trust another, always anticipate the worst.”
Words to add to those already spoken their cadences inducing a somnolence which Dumarest remembered too well. An aggravation to add to the rest. To nod would be to signal a lack of interest, to be inattentive the same.
“Every world, every city, every village is a jungle thick with predators who have no mercy for the weak. In order to survive you must learn many skills. Adopt many habits. Watch where you walk. Note those who stand near or follow too close. Never arouse antagonism. Above all always mistrust beauty. A pleasing exterior can shield a venomous nature. Think of a snake, a lethal fungi, the shimmering loveliness of exotic creatures whose sting can fill your blood with a host of eggs to travel through your system each to grow and eat and bring an agonizing death. And, as with those creatures, so it is with those of your own kind. Treat all with caution. Never trust a beautiful visage or an appealing figure. Remember that you are the victim of your own heritage. Your own needs make you vulnerable.”
