by E. C. Tubb
"You will be paid," said Ishaq.
Avro, more discerning, said, "All expenses will be met as promised together with the agreed fee. In addition certain advantages will come your way." Commissions, fees, advantages, opportunities to partake of certain profits-the Cyclan could be generous when it chose. "Your report?"
"Negative, my lord. Dumarest is not on the Thorn."
"Are you positive?"
"Captain Krogstad listed each and every member of his crew together with all passengers. Most of the passengers and all of the crew are known. Of the rest none fits the description you provided. The man you are interested in is not on the ship."
Ishaq said, "Was he ever?"
Amontabo shrugged, shoulders lifting, hands rising, palms upward in a gesture which was an answer in itself.
"Assuming the man was on the ship and is not there now the conclusion is that he must be one of the two men dumped on that planet," said Avro. "What is its name?"
"Velor, my lord." The Hausi added, "A harsh and barren world."
"There is no need to elaborate. Concentrate on the men. What is known about them?"
"One, younger than the man for whom you are looking, is known to the gambler who has seen him before. His name is Angado Nossak and he was the one who fell sick. The other could have been a mercenary or a miner. Five people swear to that impression."
"His name?"
"Earl, my lord. The younger man was heard to call him that and he was so registered."
Earl! Earl Dumarest! Avro felt the mind-opening euphoria of the proof of his prediction. He had been right. The quarry he hunted had been exactly where he had said it would be.
Ishaq said, "There is no doubt?"
"None, my lord. Krogstad uses a lie-detector as a check against possible trouble. Most vessels in the Burdinnion follow the practice. With worlds so close and markets available the temptation to steal a ship is high."
And so the precaution, the risk Dumarest had been forced to take. A small one; who would be looking for him so far from Baatz? Who would have questioned the sworn testimony of his death?
The answer was reflected in the window Avro faced; his own shape limned against the darkening sky. An unanswerable demonstration of his efficiency; if it hadn't been for Krogstad's action Dumarest would have been taken and on his way to interrogation.
And now?
Avro knew the answer to that too-the hunt must go on.
Chapter Six
The generator was stubborn. Stripped, cleaned, reassembled, it held the beauty of functional design but remained inert. Before the Erhaft field could be created to swathe the Guilia in its blue cocoon and let it traverse the void at a velocity far greater than that of light the similarity components had to be aligned to near perfection. Not true perfection, that was impossible, but 99.9999999 percent of perfection, the nine nines which was the aim and dream of every engineer.
Angado didn't even try to get it. Instead he aimed for the lowest workable alignment of five nines. It took a week to achieve it. Another two before the Guilia completed its journey to Yuanka.
They landed in a storm of wind and dust; minute grains of sand and dirt which eddied like a fog and settled in a gray coating over the town, the field, the warehouses along the perimeter. Within seconds the Guilia was a copy of the other vessels standing on the dirt, a gray ghost standing like a shadow among the roiling dunes, detail lost in the diffused sunlight of a dying day.
Ryder was blunt. "You're fools to stop here," he said to them both. "Stay with the ship. I can use a good engineer, a handler too." His eyes moved toward Dumarest. "And from what I've seen you'd make a good assistant to your friend."
"Thanks for the offer," said Dumarest. "But no thanks."
"You?" Ryder grunted as Angado shook his head. "Well, I guess you know your own business, but take some advice. Watch yourselves-Yuanka is a bad world on which to be stranded. If you are then mention me to a few of the captains. Some of them know me. All of them could use a good engineer."
"We'll remember that," said Dumarest. "And thanks again." He held out his hand. "The rest of the fee, Captain? We'd like to leave with the monks."
They alone were disembarking, loaded with bales, bundles, assorted supplies. Brother Dexter smiled his appreciation when Dumarest offered to help, frowned when he added a stipulation.
"Robes? You both want robes?"
"Just the loan of a couple," said Dumarest. Then added, as explanation, "For protection against the wind. Also it'll be easier to wear them than carry them."
And, robed, they would merge among the monks, becoming members of the party. A thing Dexter realized even as he nodded to Pollard to supply the garments. Normally he would have refused the request; the Church took no part in deception practiced by others, but neither did it refuse needed help. And here, on Yuanka, the Church needed all the help it could get.
The wind caught them as they trudged from the ship, dumping their goods and leaving monks to guard them as they went back for more. Three trips and they rested, faces grayed by the dust, eyes stinging, nostrils blocked. As they waited, backs to the wind, the Guilia headed again into space, spurning the dust and dirt of the planet for the clean emptiness between the stars.
"Ryder's a fool." Angado shouted over the wind. "That generator's shot and needs replacing. He didn't even wait to hire another engineer."
A replacement for Sadoria now lying in a shallow grave on Velor.
Dumarest said, "He knows what he's doing."
"Like hell he does. He didn't even wait for passengers or cargo."
An assumption which displayed Angado's ignorance of free-trader operations. Ryder was impatient but neither crazy nor a fool. He would have contacted the field-agent by radio, have learned there were no passengers or cargo bound for his next world of call, and have decided not to waste time. A gambler risking that the generator would hold and that he could get profitable commissions if he beat other vessels.
Things Dumarest didn't bother to explain; the problem at hand was enough.
To Dexter he said, "Where is this stuff to be taken? Where is the church?"
"We have it with us." Brother Dexter gestured at the bales. "We have none established here on Yuanka as yet but the authorities have given us permission to stay."
"And build?"
"Yes. Beyond the field. In sector nine." The monk pointed to where the wind fluttered a tangle of pennants; strips and fragments of cloth and plastic adorning a sleazy collection of hovels. "Over there, I think. In Lowtown."
On every world they were the same; the repositories of the stranded, the deprived, the desperate. Dumping grounds for the unwanted and differing only in the degree of filth, stench and squalor they displayed. Shacks made of rubbish; mounds of dirt roofed with discarded sheets of plastic, hammered tin, cartons, the remains of packing cases. Huts fashioned of any scrap material to hand. The home of vice and crime, of degeneracy and poverty.
The monks' new home.
Brother Dexter set to work as soon as the wind eased and by the time it had died the church had taken shape. A tent firmly held by stakes, ropes and pegs. One containing space for a communal kitchen, a dispensary, accommodation for the monks and the all-important cubicle containing the benediction light. The portable church now incorporated into the main structure but with its entrance outside. Even before it was finished the line had begun to form.
"Patience." Brother Galpin, young, trying hard to practice the virtue he preached, held up an admonishing hand. "Give us time to get established."
"You have food?" The woman was in her thirties and looked twice as old. A shawl was draped over rounded shoulders and hugged to her hollow chest. "Please, Brother, you have food?"
"And medicine?" Another woman, almost a twin of the first, thrust forward, her face anxious. "My man is sick, dying, medicine could save him. You have medicine?"
"Some. Antibiotics and-"
"You will dispense it?" The woman's voice rose with kindled hop
e. "Give it free? We can't pay and my man is dying!"
"And my child!"
"My brother and…"
"Food! I'm too weak to work!"
"Give me… Give… Give…"
Brother Galpin retreated from the sudden clamor, the outstretched hands and avid faces. A man beyond his depth and almost overwhelmed. He hit one of the ropes holding the tent, tripped and would have fallen if Dumarest hadn't caught his arm.
"Back!" He confronted the mob, face framed by the thrown-back cowl of his borrowed robe, blazed with a harsh determination. "Back, all of you! Get about your business!"
"But, Brother-"
"Come back tomorrow." Dumarest glared at the speaker, a thin runt of a man with a face like a weasel. "If you want to stay you can work. Grab a shovel and start clearing away this grit. We need a trench running over there. A wall built just here. Who will volunteer?"
"I'd help but I'm sick." The weasel-faced man coughed and spat blood. "See? My lungs are gone. The mines did that. I need medicine or I'll die."
"And me! I need it more than him. He's lying, anyway, that blood came from a bitten cheek." Another man, stocky, his face bitter, thrust the other to one side. "Help those who need it most, Brother. My wife is dying. You can save her."
"Maybe." Dumarest looked at him. "Name?"
"Worsley. Carl Worsley. You want help I'll arrange it. But my wife-"
"Get the help," said Dumarest. "The quicker we get settled the sooner we can start helping." He added, "But your wife needn't wait. Bring her as soon as you can."
She was thin, emaciated, with huge, luminous eyes. Her hair, once rich and dark with the sheen of natural oil, hung dull and lank over bony shoulders and shriveled breasts. Her cheeks, hollow, held the flush of fever and when she breathed her chest echoed to a liquid gurgling.
Looking at Dumarest, Brother Kollar shook his head.
"No!" Worsley had seen the gesture. "No, she can't be beyond help! Dear God, no!"
"I'm sorry." Kollar had seen such scenes too often but always he felt the pain as much as those more personally involved. "The tissue degeneration is too far advanced for anything we can do. I can ease her pain and give her hypnotic conditioning but-"
"What's that?"
Dumarest said, "She will be in a subjective world in which there will be no pain, no fear. Suggestion will give her as much happiness as she could hope for and the trance will last until she no longer needs it."
"Until she dies, you mean?" Worsley clenched his fists as Dumarest nodded. "You thinking of passing her out?"
"No, but if she was my wife I wouldn't hesitate."
"You? A monk? Why, you bastard I-"
"I'm not a monk," said Dumarest sharply. "And watch your mouth. You came here begging, remember. Pleading for what help could be given. Well, that's it. All of it. Did you hope for a miracle?"
"I…" Worsley swallowed, his eyes filling with moisture. "I thought, I'd hoped-God! Dear God don't let her die!"
A useless prayer and he knew it. Surgery could save the woman; cryogenic storage while new lungs were grown from fragments of her own tissue. Her body laved with selected antibiotics, strengthened with intravenous feeding, bolstered with supportive mechanisms. A long and tedious process even with the aid of slow time but she would live.
All it took was money.
Money Worsley didn't have. What no one in any Lowtown had. The stench which filled the air was the reek of abject poverty.
* * *
The dust storms were intermittent and happened only when strong winds blew from the northeast after a dry period. The grit they carried was abrasive, fretting the thin coverings and opening roofs to the sky. Even as the church was being constructed men were busy patching their hovels.
Watching them Angado said, "They remind me of bees. Always working, never still, yet what they do can be wiped out in a single day. As a hive is robbed of the honey it may have taken months to store. Yet they go on doing the same old thing again and again." He glanced at the church. "Like our friends the monks. Preaching, giving aid, comfort, food when they have it. And for what?"
"Do they need a reason?"
"They claim to have one."
"A goal," said Dumarest. "They want to change the way men behave. Those who preach peace have always wanted that. And, always, they have failed."
As the monks on Yuanka would fail. As they would on all bleak and hostile worlds. Jungles in which to be tolerant was to be dead.
Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he studied the men Worsley had gathered. Volunteers all, but some had subtle differences from the majority. They worked but accomplished little and seemed too interested in the area leading toward the heart of Lowtown. Watching for something, he guessed, or waiting for someone. He had a good idea of whom it might be.
"It looks good." Angado nodded toward the church. "Big and clean and it stands out a mile. A nice position too, it can be seen both from the field and the town. Brother Dexter knows his stuff. I'll bet this isn't the first time he's set up a church. Brother Lloyd was telling me something about him. Old, stubborn, but clever."
A man shrewd enough to have selected the best spot available and surely he must know what could well happen? Dumarest turned as the monk came toward them. Dexter was genial but firm.
"It is time you returned your borrowed robes," he said. "Brother Kollar reported the incident in the infirmary. I do not blame you but your attitude is not ours. A suppliant could have gained the impression that we terminate the lives of the sick placed in our care."
"I told Worsley I wasn't a monk."
"He may not have believed you."
"It may be as well for you if others don't either." Dumarest glanced at the men who seemed to be waiting. "There could be those who don't welcome your presence here. They might hesitate to object if they think you stronger than you are."
"Eight instead of six." Dexter shook his head. "You mean well but I must insist. Our foundation here must not rest on deception. Your robe, please." The old monk turned to Angado who had stood quietly by, listening. "And yours also. We are on this world by sufferance of the authorities and dare not risk the possibility of a misunderstanding. You both lack the training necessary to follow the philosophy of the Church."
"Peace," said Dumarest. "But that's something you have to fight for."
"To achieve," corrected the monk. "The robes?"
"Are they really that important?"
"The garments, no, what virtue lies in a piece of cloth? But as a symbol of what we are and are trying to accomplish-"
"The credo," Dumarest met the old monk's eyes. "There," he said softly, "but for the grace of God, go I. The thing you want all to remember; the rich, the whole, the comfortable when they look at the sick, the poor, the deprived. But it works both ways and, at times, you could forget that. The sick and maimed and hopeless you feel so concerned about look at the spoiled and pampered, the strong, the ruthless. They can see the benefits of being cruel and arrogant, and they too could think that there, but for the grace of God, they could be. And they might want to alter things a little. Correct the balance in their favor. Could you blame them if they tried?"
"The Church can never condone violence."
"Just accept it and preach that others should do the same? To be meek? To believe that to bend the head is to avoid the kick in the rear? How much punishment do you expect people to take?"
"There are worlds even now where criminals are maimed as a punishment for their crimes," said Dexter. "Once such things were common but now are rare. Soon that barbarism will vanish. As will other things." He held out his hand. "The robes, please. A monk, above all, must practice humility."
Angado watched as the monk moved away, the robes over his arm. Beneath his own he had worn clothing similar to Dumarest's, a knife thrust into his boot, the axe dumped with them riding in his belt.
He said, "You were hard on him, Earl. Why? Dexter does his best and isn't a bad man."
"He's too good for th
is world." Dumarest gestured at the huddle comprising Lowtown. "And for any other like it. He's a fool. He's done his stint in the past and should now be taking things easy."
"Monks never do that."
"They should."
"They can't. That's what dedication is all about. It was unfair you talking to him the way you did. Brother Dexter's not stupid, he knows human nature as well as anyone, but he has to keep doing what he believes in." Angado paused then added, "As you would in his position. But then I suppose you'd run classes in unarmed combat and teach suppliants to use a knife. All in the name of peace."
"No," said Dumarest. "Survival."
"Kill or be killed." Angado shook his head. "God, but you're hard. People don't live like that, not even in this slum. They share a common misfortune and make the best of it. Brother Dexter and the other monks know that. That's why they're so against violence. Once it starts who knows where it will end?"
Dumarest shrugged, not answering. He looked at the sky then to where a knot of men had gathered to the far side of the church. Among them he noticed those he had spotted earlier. All looked toward the heart of Lowtown.
To Angado he said, "Find Worsley and bring him to me."
"Why do you-"
"Do it! And don't get involved no matter what happens. Remember that, don't get involved."
"Trouble?" The younger man looked around. The monks had gathered in front of the church, Dexter still holding the reclaimed robes. "I can't see anything."
"It hasn't happened yet. Well, I tried to warn him but he wouldn't listen."
"Who?"
"Brother Dexter," said Dumarest. "He's due a visitor."
* * *
He came as such men always did, confident, smiling, enjoying the moment, the pleasure to come. A man middle-aged, middle-sized, his face bland, his clothing good and clean but not too obviously expensive. Heavy rings glinted on his fingers and his hair, thick and dark, framed prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes.
He wasn't alone. At his side trotted a smaller version of himself, thinner, older, the sharply pointed nose and darting eyes betraying the questing, curious nature of the man. Two others, big, stocky, followed at the rear. Both carried staves a yard long and, Dumarest guessed, loaded with lead.
