by E. C. Tubb
"God!" The steward was sweating. "What's going to happen, Earl? I could lose the arm, become a cripple. Regrowths cost money I haven't got."
"Take it easy, man. It isn't as bad as that. I can fix it." Dumarest held out his hand. "Just give me the keys to the medical cabinet and I'll get what's needed and do what's to be done. Or do you keep your drugs in here?".
A chance, on small ships stewards tended to maintain their own medical supplies. The Sivas follower the custom.
"In that drawer. You'll find the key in the one below." The steward wiped his glistening forehead. "There isn't much."
An understatement. Dumarest looked at the neat rows of packages all bearing recent dates. He selected ampules and loaded a hypogun.
"Give me the arm." He fired local anesthetics directly through the skin and fat into the area around the wound, the hiss of the driving air blast a sharp sibilance. "Better?"
"Yes." The steward flexed his fingers. "You think that'll do it?"
"For now. Is Renzi or the captain around?"
"Damned if I know. Renzi should be helping Sharten and I guess the Old Man's busy in the town." The steward winced as he moved. "Are you sure you gave me enough?"
"Give it time. What's the latest on the repairs?"
"Nothing. Sharten's still not sure if he can manage without a replacement. Check with him if you want to know more. Me, all I want is to get rid of this damned pain. You sure you've done enough?"
"This will take care of it." Dumarest fired the hypogun at the man's throat "In three seconds you'll be asleep."
A sleep which he made sure would last by trebling the dose. Pocketing the hypogun Dumarest helped himself to various packages from the drawer, then, locking it, replaced the key where he had found it. Outside the cabin he closed the door then turned to face it as footsteps sounded from the higher reaches of the passage.
"Earl?" Renzi came toward him, his eyes vague. "A surprise to find you here, but life seems to be filled with many surprises of late. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, I came to see how the steward is getting on." Dumarest rapped on the door. "This is his cabin?"
"It is." The navigator pushed open the panel. "And he appears to be asleep. It would not be kind to wake him, my friend. You were not, I trust, thinking of seeing the captain?"
"No."
"You are wise. He is not in the best of moods. His pet has had the bad grace to destroy itself though I must admit I am not displeased. Only the manner of its passing disturbs me." Renzi smiled and steadied himself with a hand pressed against the bulkhead. "Did I say disturb?"
"What happened?"
"Borol is dead. The spined, horrible thing is no longer with us, but in dying it left its mark. You see, Earl, for some unaccountable reason, the creature decided to chew and tear its way into the radio. Perhaps it needed to eat and if so was doing well until it formed a bridge between two sources of power. Now, cremated, it is no more." Renzi smiled again then added, "And neither is our means of communication. Earl, my friend, I would advise you to find an amiable host-we could all be a long time on Ath."
Chapter Ten
From where she sat on the dais Sardia said, "I'm getting stiff, Cornelius. May I move now?"
"Later." He was being unfair and knew it. Setting down his brush he said, "I'm sorry, of course you may move. I've been thoughtless but time has passed so quickly. Forgive me?"
"For what? Asking me to model for you? That is a compliment. I shall live forever immortalized by your genius."
"You exaggerate."
"No."
Deliberately she drew in her breath before rising to stand, to stretch with arms upraised, the light from the great window adding richer tints to the smoothness of her flesh. She was nude aside from a drape around her hips, the proud contours of her breasts now catching the glow from the painted, sunset sky, the brown of her skin accentuating the shimmer of diverse color. Beauty personified, he thought, watching her. The loveliest creature he had ever seen. Why was it so hard to capture her image in paint?
He looked at what he had so far accomplished and fought the inclination to tear the canvas from the easel and destroy the mockery it contained. Were these lines and daubs the best he could do? Did those scrawls and dabs depict the loveliness which now stood before him?
Was his talent so small that he was unable even to convey what was real to the world where he had thought himself a master?
"No," she said quickly as his hand lifted. "No!"
"It's useless!"
"It's a beginning." She moved with her dancer's grace to stand at his side, eyes narrowed as she studied what he had done. "A good beginning."
Nonsense and she knew it-who could tell what a good beginning was in the realm of art? A scrawl which would not dignify the literary status of an idiot could be nursed and nurtured to form an epic when handled by a master. A few lines, a scatter of notes, an insignificant chord and a symphony could be born. And even though the canvas held little of apparent worth the feeling was there, the striving, the reaching out and the aspiration.
As she was the inspiration.
"It doesn't do you justice," said Cornelius. "Nothing created by human hands could ever do that. You are sublime in what you are. The ultimate of perfection; flawless in every way."
"I am a woman, Cornelius."
"So?"
"No woman is without fault and never make the mistake of believing you have found one who is. May I dress now?"
A request he could not refuse and it had been polite of her to ask. A subtle way in which to let him know that he was the master as well as the host. A courtesy which he recognized and appreciated as he appreciated her willingness to pose for him. Had he asked or had she offered? He couldn't remember and the details didn't matter. It had happened. For the first time it had happened.
And, for the first time, he was in love.
Sardia could sense it as she dressed, recognizing the atmosphere, the slightest tension which ruled his every movement; the little gestures quickly controlled, the words which came a little too fast and were too plentiful; masks for their real meaning, the thoughts they covered. A familiar situation-always there had been those crowding her dressing room entranced with the glamor which accompanied her. Love born of illusion, those experiencing it confusing the performances for the reality. A madness which left most unharmed but which, badly handled, had caused pain and death to others.
Would he kill her if she should refuse him?
She said quietly, "Cornelius, don't misunderstand me, but I think it would be better if I were hosted by someone else. Ursula, perhaps."
"That bitch? No!"
"Would she have me if I asked?"
"Why should you do that?" He imagined he guessed the reason. "Is it because of Dumarest? Are you jealous of him?"
"No."
"No?" His eyes held her own. "I wish I could be sure of that. You traveled together and have been lovers. j__"
"Did he tell you that?"
"No." Me blinked at the interruption. "But it's true, isn't it?"
"Does it matter?" Her shrug gave the measure of the importance she attached to the subject. "I was thinking of your work, Cornelius. I feel I am a distraction. Don't misunderstand me, you are a genius, but with you art must always come first. This portrait, for example, you look at me too often and for too long."
"You are beautiful!"
"As is a flower, the sunset, the flight of a bird. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But your work holds more than beauty. There is an added dimension which must be maintained." The ingredient which set him above others and would make his work fetch fantastic prices. The thing he must not lose and she sensed that it had its roots in pain. She said, "Have you used live models before?"
"No."
"Because they create a conflict?" She knew the answer before he nodded. The fact at war with the impression, eye straining against brain, the observed data clashing with the subconscious awareness of what should be.
"Cornelius, you are not alone. Many artists produce their best work in isolation. They store up impressions, ideas, methods of treatment and then, when finally ready, they close themselves in a world of their own and become lost in the creative process."
He said flatly, "Are you telling me that you don't want to see me again?"
"Of course not!"
"For the sake of my paintings? The markets you spoke of? The money you said I would make?" His voice grew bitter. "What is money to me? What can it buy that I don't already own? Happiness? Only you can give me that. Sardia, don't leave me, please!"
He was a small boy crying in the darkness. One begging for the comfort she was too much a woman to refuse. A step and she was close to him, her arm around his shoulders, her free hand running over his hair as, smiling, she looked into his eyes.
"I won't leave you, Cornelius."
"You promise? You'll stay here with me?"
"Until the ship leaves, yes."
"And then?"
"I'll return, of course, often. Or better still, you could come with me."
"No."
"Why not? What is to stop you? Oh, I know, the Choud do not travel." She masked the impatience the answer had given, one she faced again. "But all the Choud? Couldn't you, at least, be spared?"
"No. It isn't that. I-" He drew in his breath and stepped away from her and said, looking at the window, "Why can't you stay here on Ath?"
"Business, Cornelius. I have to attend to the display of your work and achieve the recognition of your genius. I explained all that."
"Agents could handle it. You could send the paintings to friends who would do as you direct. Dumarest could take them. You trust him?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I left him at the lake this morning. We had a quarrel."
"Dumarest." Cornelius threw back his head and his eyes veiled. "He is with the Ohrm." He blinked. "Why should he be there? Ursula has been looking for him and he has neglected the obligations of a guest. Sardia, j___»»
"No." She sensed coming danger, a decision she would have to make. "We'll talk later. I've a slight headache and I'd like to rest for a while. The fact is I'm not used to posing and it was a greater strain than I imagined."
Her smile absolved him from blame. "Please, Cornelius, be a darling and understand."
"Later? You promise to talk later?"
"Of course." How often in the past had she handled just such an incident? But this was one suitor she dared not rebuff too harshly. "Later."
Alone, Cornelius looked at the easel and the work it supported. A waste; the marring of pristine canvas for no good purpose. The outline was wrong, the pose, the position of the head and arms. A woman seated at her ease and dreaming as she stared through a window. A lovely woman but there was more to beauty than the contours of the skin. And, sitting there, what did she see? What was she thinking?
And where was the suffering? The pain?
It guided his hand as he reached for the brushes. It decided the pigments used, the direction and intensity of the strokes, the fury of his application. Outside the sky darkened as the night conquered day, shadows adding their mystery to the vista beyond the window. Lights glowed to banish the inner gloom and still he worked on, sweating, his face taut with strain. A man obsessed. One in torment as, again, he entered his own private hell.
The path was uneven and twice Dumarest stumbled before mounting the final slope to stand on the summit of the ridge and stare down into the bowl which held the city. Behind, hidden from view and unable to spoil the jewel-like perfection of the terraces, the homes of the Ohrm sprawled in an untidy growth which reached toward the plains and the mountains beyond. A collection of low-roofed dwellings, clean and functional, but set too close and lacking the individual charm of those owned by the Choud.
"It's beautiful," said Pellia at his side. "So beautiful."
"No."
"But, Earl, how can you say that?"
"It's pretty," he corrected. "But that's all. It has no life, no warmth. Listen." He held up a hand, starlight glinting on his fingers, his nails. "No laughter. No noise. No sounds of people at play. No quarreling, no shouting, no passion."
"And no pain." Her tone was bitter. "No burned, flesh and dying men."
Too many men-those who had used the lasers hadn't all missed. Dumarest thought of those he had tended: men with charred holes penetrating vital organs; wounds which had been cauterized by the beams which had made them, each wound now a repository of pain. One had been burned across the eyes, another hit in the groin, a third lacked a lower jaw.
He had done what he could, injecting antibiotics, giving the balm of unconsciousness, easing pain and setting bones shattered by the blast. Rough surgery when skilled attention was needed but the best he could do.
And, in return, had learned almost nothing.
"I'm sorry, Earl." Pellia tore a leaf from a shrub and shredded it between her strong, white teeth. She had stayed at his side as he had worked and had grown, close. "Was it important to you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"All they know is that the handler allowed them to unload the ship. Then the guards arrived and the shooting started. One of the boxes must have been hit."
Hit to explode and kill those holding it and the handler too. The blast had spread to fling debris against the generator. Facts Dumarest was aware of but other questions remained to be answered.
He said, "Those wounded trusted you more than they did me. They could have told you something in confidence. There was more than one box?"
"Yes, Earl."
"And most of them had been moved before the guards arrived?"
"So they say, but not all of them saw the inside of the ship. They collected the boxes from the ramp."
"And took them where?" He reached out and gripped her shoulders as she made no answer. "We made a bargain, Pellia. I was to tend the wounded in return-"
"For a name. Well, you have it. The handler was the one who gave them permission to unload."
"And who ordered them to go to the ship?"
"No one!"
"Are you telling me that a group of men just decided to meet at a certain time and go to the ship and unload it all without anyone having any idea as to what they were to remove or where to take it? Someone must have given the instructions, Pellia. Who?"
"You're cheating!" She strained against his grip. "That wasn't in the bargain! Let me go!"
"Was it Balain?" For a moment longer Dumarest held her then dropped his hands. "Balain," he said thoughtfully. "The one who set you to watch on the path. Is he your leader?"
"What is that to you? We made an agreement-your help for a name. Well, you have it. The handler ordered the unloading of the Sivas"
A dead end. He had bought a certain amount of cooperation but now his credit was exhausted. Turning, he moved down the path toward the city. It was narrow and twisted across the steep slope, a rarely used way and one mostly used by the Ohrm. Bushes flanked it and cast deep patches of darkness. From one of them, lying ahead, came a faint rustle.
Dumarest slowed, eyes searching the starlit area. The path wended, curved, passed below him at the foot of a steep incline dotted with shrubs and toothed with boulders. Ahead lay the bushes, three clumps merging to throw the path into darkness. From one of them came the rustle. A soft breeze could have caused it or the stirring of some nocturnal creature but there was no wind and the animal which had caused the sound had done so for no apparent reason.
Dumarest took two more steps, planting his boots firmly on the path, creating an impression of steady progress then, abruptly, turned and was racing down the slope. It was too steep to maintain balance and he doubled as he fell, turning himself into a ball as he rolled over the ground. A shrub lashed at him, a boulder scraped his shoulder, then he had reached the path, had risen and was running down it as from behind came the pound of feet.
Two men who ran silently after him and another who sta
yed high and sent the cry of a bird into the night,
A signal answered from lower down the slope.
Fools, had they remained silent he might have run into the trap; alerted, he was on his guard. Dumarest slowed, looked to one side and saw a clear expanse protected by a serrated wall. To jump over it would mean a long drop and the risk of a broken leg. To continue would be to run into the waiting men, to be caught between them and those closing the space at his rear. To remain still was to present a target and, already someone was shooting at him.
He heard the thrum of a released string and the spiteful hiss of an arrow. One which flashed through the air where he'd been standing to sink quivering into the ground. Short, thick, feathered with metallic glints; a bolt from a crossbow. A primitive weapon but as effective as a laser when used by skilled hands at close range. As effective but not as fast; such a weapon took time to reload.
Turning, Dumarest ran back up the path, weaving as he ran, body stooped low, his hand reaching for the knife in his boot. Three men, two close, one who could have a weapon and one more sophisticated than a crossbow. An unknown number now behind him but they would hesitate to move and be slow to fire for fear of hitting their companions. The ones now close would have to be the first targets. Hit them and the darkness would shield him as well as those lying in wait.
Dumarest dodged, sprang to one side, heard the hiss of the air as a club swung at his head then dived in, the blade extended in his hand, the point hitting, ripping, slicing across a muscular torso to open a long gash across the ribs. A thrust converted into a cut as his momentum carried him past the man, the knife dragging behind, turning, jerking forward, upward to hit the club-loaded arm, to cut across the inner flesh, to sever muscle and open the arteries and release a shower of blood.
"God! I'm cut! Wilkie!"
The second man who was too slow and died, eyes startled, throat opened so as to present a grinning mouth to the stars.
"Wilkie! Flavian!" The voice came from above, changed as the speaker saw the two sprawled bodies, the figure of Dumarest running back up the path. "You, down there! Get him!"
He stepped into the open, one hand lifted, a ruby beam guiding the fury of the laser. Dirt smoked to one side and a bush flared into burning life as Dumarest threw himself to one side beneath the shelter of a boulder. He heard the pound of running feet and turned to see two men running from where they had lurked. One carried a crossbow.
