by E. C. Tubb
"Nadine!" A young man came running towards her. Nigel Myer, face flushed from recent exertion, sweat running over his naked torso. Behind him, on the exercise ground, other young men struck and weaved in simulated combat. "A moment. Please!"
She waited, knowing what he wanted, pretending ignorance as he fought to regain his breath.
"I heard what happened in the town. I'm sorry."
"Did you have a part in it?"
"I was with the crowd," he admitted, "but I had nothing to do with the fire. If there is anything I can do to help?" He paused, waiting for the expected rejection of the empty offer. One not meant and made as the part of a calculated design. "Nadine?"
She said, knowing his answer. "You could help with the construction."
"I'd like to but I can't. I'm hoping to get a place with Toibin," he explained. "I'll have to be in top condition when he makes his decision. It's important that I make his crew. I need action!"
And wanted her to speak for him. She could sympathize with his need. A man without reputation had little chance of selection and needed all the help he could get. Without it he would be lucky to be picked at all even if willing to take a minimum share or no share at all in order to gain experience.
"I'll do what I can," she promised. "But don't build up your hopes. Your best chance is to catch Toibin's eye. Draw his attention in some way. Do something spectacular." She anticipated his question. "I can't tell you what, Leese Toibin has his own standards, but I can tell you this – he won't look kindly on a man who needs a woman to speak for him."
Something he should have known and the fact that he had appealed to her for help showed him to have more ambition than capability. Kaldar had too many of his type.
Her office was cool, shadowed, a haven to which she clung. Later, when darkness came, the air would lose its heat and winds blow from the hills carrying the scent of chard, kren, emulish, the subtle magic of peedham. Stars would blaze in the fading lavender of the sky and all would be at peace.
Odd thoughts and disturbing. She was far from senile and only the old dreamed of endless tranquillity. Irritably she shook her head, reaching for papers, halting the motion as the communicator glowed to life.
"Nadine?" It was Jessie from communication. She continued as Nadine acknowledged. "Messages from Chapman and Lochner. Chapman wants to know if a final assessment has been made of the peedham he sent in. Lochner said to call him. He's having trouble of some kind."
"Serious?"
"Isn't it always?"
"Always," admitted Nadine. To the man even a broken sprocket was tantamount to the end of creation. She forced herself to be patient. Jessie loved to play her little games. "Can you give me a clue?"
"I heard a rumor from someone who knows his engineer. My guess is that he wants Council backing in order to buy a new generator.
Nadine reached for the computer as the screen died. Lochner's ship had a record of unreliability. Too many minor breakdowns leading to aborted raids and dissatisfied crews. He had coasted on past success, but now his credit was exhausted which meant he would have to make do with what he had and rely on the young and inexperienced to crew his vessel. Any loot he might gain was already spoken for and generators didn't come cheap.
A bad risk. He would appeal to the Council against her summation, but they were men of business. In the end Lochner would lose his ship, his standing and, if he chose to quarrel with the wrong man, his life.
New data replaced the old. Chapman was in a different category. He had taken up farming after taking a bad wound and grew peedham in hydroponic vats. His crops were uniformly good and his credit was high. The latest assessment would provide a rich bonus. One he might be interested in investing. It would do no harm to let him know of the opportunity presented by Lochner's situation. If interested they could make a deal. Lochner would have his new generator, Chapman a share in his vessel and the Council would not be involved.
She might even avoid making a new enemy.
Leaning back she looked at the charts decorating the walls, the portrait facing her. That of a man, hair shaped to form a dark helmet over the contours of his skull, the eyes deep-set, meshed with lines, the mouth, smiling now, holding a hard resolution. Her father. A man she had never known.
What would he have made of her?
Something she would never know. How to tell how she would have developed under his parental influence? How she would have grown had her mother not chosen to follow him into oblivion? Why had she done that? For love, they had told her, but how could she have been so selfish? Tradition, honor, custom, loyalty – what value did such things have when set against the needs of a helpless child?
She felt pain and looked to where her nails dug into her palms. They drove deeper as she watched, blood welling from the small punctures, the sight feeding her impulse to destructive violence. To hurt! To destroy! To kill!
To smash the bars of her prison and to be free!
Chapter Six
There should have been castles, strongholds, towers flaunting banners filled with armed and armored men jealous of their pride. Products of a world devoted to the pursuit of adventure, battle, violence and sudden death. One governed by the worship of personal bravery, courage and respect. The stuff of romance Zehava had learned as a child. A dream which Kaldar had never fulfilled.
Pausing on the ramp Dumarest recognized a dead-end world. One of a type on which travelers feared to be stranded. A planet with few opportunities to earn money for food, shelter, a passage to freedom. One which held odd inconsistencies. The field was uneven, the buildings edging it dilapidated, the ships standing to one side rested in a litter of debris. Yet the guard pylons were thick and widely scattered. The lack of a fence was unusual but no surprise; raiders would have no patience with irksome restrictions.
A scatter of men stood on the road leading to town, mostly young, all wearing leather bright with protective metal, the plates shaped and gemmed to individual taste. Martial garb accentuated by the weapons belted to their waists. Loungers killing time, curious as to what the ship had carried. One stepped forward to bar his path.
"You a trader?"
"Of a kind." Dumarest was patient. The man was young, bored, certainly a fool, but the gun he wore made him dangerous. "Could you direct me to the hotel?"
"What are you carrying?"
"Personal baggage." Dumarest eased the strap of the satchel and slipped it from his shoulder. "It's heavy and I'd appreciate a hand. Is it far to the hotel?"
'The Kaldari aren't servants," snapped the youngster. "What are you hiding?" He glanced at his companions as if to make certain he had an audience then, as Dumarest ignored the question, said, "There's something wrong here. That satchel looks too heavy. A genuine trader would have got a ganni to carry it. Or it could have been delivered to the warehouse. Open it up. I want to check what's inside."
Dumarest said, "You want to check it? Go ahead."
He stepped forward, the satchel swinging in his hand, flying free to thud on the dirt where the other had been standing. As he sprang aside, cursing, snatching at his gun, Dumarest closed the distance between them, the fingers of his left hand clamping on flesh, the weapon it held, pressing it deep into its ornate holster. His right hand rose between them to lock fingers on the other's throat, the tips of fingers and thumb digging into the tender places beneath the ears to rest on the carotid arteries. An action masked by their bodies from those watching.
One of them called, "Hey, Nigel, you getting set to dance?"
Another, more shrewd, said, "I think he's bitten off more than he can chew."
And was stuck with it. To struggle was to be rendered senseless, disarmed, left sprawled on the dirt. To back down would brand him a coward. The only real choice was to fight and, if he lost, at least it would be with honor.
Dumarest said, "We can end this. Just back away and leave me your gun."
"I can't. The shame -"
"You'd rather be dead?" His fingers tig
htened, applying pressure which, if increased, would cause unconsciousness and, if maintained, death. "Just give me your word. We break, then laugh and talk a little. You pickup the satchel and carry it to the hotel."
A way out for the young man but he hesitated too long. Those watching, sensing something more serious than they had thought, moved closer, eager to settle the dispute. They would form a ring, insist on physical combat, watch the bloody outcome. Dumarest would have no choice but to kill.
"Earl!" Zehava broke the impasse. "What are you doing?" Her tone changed. "Nigel? What's going on?"
"Zehava!" Relief gusted from his throat as Dumarest lowered his hand. "We heard you were dead. How -"
"Never mind that now. I see you've met my friend. Earl, meet Nigel Myer. I knew his sister. Nigel, this is Earl Dumarest." Dryly, she added, "I'm sure you'll get along. Why don't you guide him to the hotel?"
It was large, clean, luxurious. The bath, made of striated marble, was ringed with ornate decoration and held him like a cupped hand. Relaxing in steaming water Dumarest closed his eyes and let the warm comfort ease him into a state of drifting introspection as he assessed what he had learned. Nigel had been eager to volunteer information in order to make amends. A young man who had tried to gain a cheap reputation and had almost lost his life. The hand at his throat, the face close to his own, had left him in no doubt as to that.
He would talk and to save his own reputation would enhance Dumarest's prowess. A beginning – on Kaldar a man made his mark or was held in small regard. A world of too many rulers and headed to a predictable end. Kings, princes, politicians, those who demanded taxes or tributes of any kind and by any name were parasites living on the effort of others. When their greed and numbers grew too large they would ruin the host which supported them.
"Earl!" Dumarest woke to a pounding at the door, Zehava fuming at her failure to open it. "Earl, let me in!"
"A moment!"
He rose from the water, taking his time drying and dressing himself. The bedroom was large as was the bed with its ornate decoration and richly embroidered cover. Tall windows gave a view of the plaza below and filled the chamber with mellow light. Zehava came to a halt before them.
"There was no need for you to have bolted the door. You're safe here."
"As I was when leaving the field?"
"Nigel's a fool." Irritably she shook her head. "Forget him. Pour me a drink."
She had brought a bottle with her and he opened it and poured lambent fluid into small glasses engraved with intricate decoration. Handing her one he lifted the other in the gesture of a toast.
"To luck, Zehava! All of it good!"
The pungent spirit filled his mouth with smoke and fire, turning into a sweet tartness as it slid down his throat to blossom into a flower of comfort as it reached his stomach.
"Peedham," she said, watching his reaction. "It's made from peedham. A herb which grows in the hills. You like it?"
"It's unusual." Dumarest took another sip, wondering why she had brought it, guessing at its probable effect. An aphrodisiac, perhaps, certainly a strong neural depressant. One which would erode caution, bring euphoria, and make the drinker less than wise. "Did you enjoy your reunion?"
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you head for the ship. The one which raided Arpagus. I recognized it. Toibin's vessel. Nigel told me his name." He added, "He also told me about his sister."
"She died." Zehava helped herself to more from the bottle. "Eight years ago now. On a raid she shouldn't have touched. She was my idol. I worshipped her. Loved her. Well, never mind, she's gone now." She emptied the glass at a swallow as if in salute to a tender ghost. Coughing, she dragged air into her lungs. "To hell with it. The past is dead. What made you tangle with Nigel, anyway?"
"He wanted to demonstrate how tough he is. To get himself known so as to gain a place with your friend. I promised to speak to you about it. Get you to use your influence."
"What influence?" She was bitter. "Lesse Toibin goes his own way and takes only the best. With his reputation he can pick and choose."
"So your visit was just a matter of business." Her glass was empty and Dumarest refilled it, watching as, more cautiously, she drank. 'To talk over what happened and to get his explanation as to why he abandoned you. Was it a good one?"
"I didn't see him," she admitted. "He's visiting a friend in the hills. He'll be back after the auction. We came in with the last of the dealers," she explained. "After the viewing we'll get down to business and sell the loot."
"What about Toibin?"
"Damn Toibin. Why keep talking about him?"
"Everyone thinks he's a hero. He made a successful raid and only lost two people. One now that you're returned to take the blame."
"Blame?"
"You selected the cargo," reminded Dumarest. "You assessed its value. If it brings a small return you won't be popular. You, not Toibin, he's the kind of hero you people love. He's done nothing wrong. He only abandoned you. Snatched what was to hand and ran like a scared rat. He didn't even check on his own men. All he wanted was to save his own skin."
"You can't say that!"
"Why not?" Dumarest shrugged. "I was there. I saw it. He had time and enough to spare. He could have waited for you. He could have sent out a search party. He must have known you'd be close to the towers. He could have guessed that you might be hurt. Comrades are supposed to look after each other. Did he you? My guess he wanted to dump you. Even if we hadn't met I doubt if you would have reached the ship. Maybe he wanted to save your share. Or maybe he's just grown tired of you." A shrewd guess and he saw the sudden tightening of her jaw. "You see what I'm getting at?"
"I see what you're trying to do." Zehava lifted her glass then paused with it barely touching her lips. Over the rim she said, "You're smart, Earl. Maybe too damned smart. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm a fool."
"Like Toibin?" Dumarest met her eyes. "Or does he think you a coward? A woman who hasn't the guts to want revenge?"
Sunken in his chair Sung Pember looked half-asleep; an old man taking his rest, barely aware of what was going on around him. Casually he touched his nose.
"Five." Catching the signal the auctioneer voiced the bid. "I have five. Who offers six? I must ask you not to waste time. Who offers six?"
Reluctantly a man touched his ear.
The ring at work, bidding slow, bidding low and keeping down prices. Cameron had seen it too often before and fumed with inward rage at the prospect of seeing it again.
"Six. I have six. Who offers seven? The lot is five vats of rare perfume in high demand on a host of worlds. Who offers seven?"
Zinny Monteil lifted a finger.
"I have seven. I'm looking for eight. Who will offer eight?" An empty plea and the auctioneer knew it. Another victory for the ring. The lot would be almost given away but those who had won it were eager for their reward, meager though it would be. "The bid is seven. I have seven. Seven once. Seven twice." He lifted his gavel. "Sev -"
"Eight!" called Dumarest.
He sat to the rear, back to the wall, his voice deliberately loud, sending echoes through the warehouse in which the auction was being held. At his side Zehava drew in her breath.
"Careful, Earl. You could get stuck." She sighed her relief as someone raised the bid, frowned as Dumarest topped it. "Ten thousand! Do you know what happens to those who can't pay?"
"I know what I'm doing." Dumarest nodded, smiling, as Molo Bain twisted in his seats to stare at him. "The ring will buy or I'll split the lot among the independents. It's a safe gamble."
One he pursued as the bids mounted, raising his voice, making himself known to the auctioneer, the assistants, others in the warehouse. At twenty thousand he withdrew from the bidding but others, stimulated by the contest, ran the final price up another three.
Zehava said, "I' in going, Earl. This kind of excitement I can do without. Just remember the penalty if you buy what you can't pay for."
&nbs
p; Stripped, flayed, impaled on a stake; Kaldar was not kind to outsiders who broke the rules. Dumarest took no further part in the bidding, once had been enough for his purpose. Only when a familiar carton was lifted on the display platform did he lean forward.
"Lot thirty-two. Two hundred units including the one on display." Cameron waited as assistants opened the carton and erected what it contained. Light glowed from the petals forming a mirror, creating a shimmering haze of rainbow brilliance. "A product of the Matsuki-Taru. Solar power units worth a fortune on any harsh world. The bidding will be in steps of five thousand. We start at thirty."
Low but a flurry of early bids would stimulate the sale and small units were more tempting than large. As the bidding commenced Dumarest rose, seated himself behind Sung Pember, leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
"Everything arranged?"
Pember nodded. "We'll get them dirt cheap."
"Don't be too greedy. Remember where you are."
"They need us."
"They need money," corrected Dumarest. "There are a dozen other dealers eager to take your place. Just remember how they got this stuff."
"Seventy," said Cameron. "And five. And five. Eighty thousand. Eighty. Eighty-five. Ninety. I have ninety." He frowned as the bidding slowed. It was too soon, the lot too valuable and he sensed the influence of the ring. "I have ninety thousand. And five." He caught the signal from a woman seated to one side. One topped by Molo Bain. "One hundred thousand." He glanced at the woman who could have been fronting for a rival group but she made no sign. "And five." Cameron invented a bid. "I have one hundred and five thousand."
Time slowed as he waited for a response. His action had been calculated but he was facing experts in their field who knew all the tricks. Again he felt the stir of anger. Those facing him were parasites feeding on the efforts of their betters. Those who had risked death and injury to obtain what they held in so low regard. If they wouldn't bid then he would take.
