by E. C. Tubb
Worsley said, "That's Gengiz. The small one is Birkut. He keeps the accounts and tallies the score. The two big ones are his bodyguard."
"The take?"
"A zobar a person a week."
"How much is a zobar?"
"The price of half a day's work at the field-if you can get it."
"And if you don't pay?"
"You know the answer to that."
"I know," said Dumarest. "But he doesn't." He gestured toward Angado. "Tell him."
"You pay or your shack gets ruined. Your things get stolen. Your food spoiled. After that you start getting hurt." Worsley was bitter. "He calls it insurance. He'll even lend you the premiums but, after a while, if you still don't or can't pay, he collects."
"Nice," said Dumarest. "Just think of all the good things that money would have provided. Your wife's sick-she would have liked the soup and drugs you didn't get because you avoided trouble and paid."
"I paid," said Worsley tightly. "But I didn't like it. And you're wrong about one thing, mister. My wife isn't sick- she's dead. And to hell with you!"
He strode away and Dumarest looked at his companion.
"You see?"
"See what? I-"
"The reality of that garbage you were spouting. The rubbish about people sharing a common misfortune and making the best of it. You live in a jungle and you'd better realize it. You can't stop violence. All life is a continual act of violence. In order to survive you have to fight every step of the way and keep on fighting. Against disease, starvation, thirst, heat, cold, nakedness. Against the parasites wanting to feed off you. Lice and insects and ordinary predators. And against scum like Gengiz."
"He should be stopped."
"Maybe, but not by you. It's none of your business."
"But-"
"Forget it."
Dumarest held a broom, a pole tipped with a wide fan of bristles, and he used it as he followed Angado as the man moved toward the group of monks. Curious, he wanted to hear what was being said. Dumarest had already guessed.
"So you see, brothers, what the position is." Gengiz had made the preliminary spiel, his voice soft, devoid of threat, almost gentle as he urged cooperation. "In order to maintain the peace we must abide by the rules and as Mayor it is my duty to see that everyone complies. As intelligent men you can see that. As you can see that to patrol the area requires men who have to be paid. A form of tax per head of the population takes care of that. It is small, a zobar a head a week, but in your case-well, perhaps we could discuss it in private?"
Dexter shook his head. "That will not be necessary."
"It would be best."
"No. We have permission to establish our church here. That permission was granted by the authorities. The tax you mention is unlawful."
Gengiz said, softly, "Brother, answer me one thing-have you ever been in this situation before?"
"Many times."
"And must have learned from your experience. Now, if we could go somewhere to be alone?"
Seclusion where the mask could be dropped and the naked threat revealed. Pay or suffer. The structure of the church damaged, monks beaten up, suppliants threatened, stores and supplies ruined or stolen. Even a demonstration could be given-a broken arm or shattered kneecap a hint of what was to come if refusal continued.
Things Dexter knew, as he realized that to yield was to destroy the aim of the Church. To bow to the threat of violence was to condone it. To pay the levy Gengiz demanded was to buy peace at too high a price-yet to refuse was to invite harsh retribution.
Dexter looked at the sun, the sky, aware of the monks at his back, of the watching faces all around. The moment of truth he had known so often before; the hardest thing for any monk to take. Those who served the Church could not be weak in either spirit or body yet that strength had to be sublimated to the greater ideal. To be meek. To be humble. To trust that, by example, they would give rise to a protective concern.
"Well?" Gengiz was becoming impatient. "Have you nowhere we could be alone?"
"There is nothing to decide. Therefore no good purpose would be served by further conversation."
"I see. Birkut!"
The small man stepped forward as Gengiz and his bodyguard moved away. A toady, basking in the reflection of the other's power, as poisonous as a serpent. His voice held an oily note of subtle menace.
"The Mayor is being kind," he said. "He understands your problems and is eager to accommodate you. Think it over. Discuss it with the others. It could end as a matter of a percentage-a share of donations." His smirk was as oily as his tone. "You have until sunset."
Chapter Seven
Yuanka's sun was a sullen ball of smoldering ochre edged by a flickering corona of orange. Colors which combined with the murk in the atmosphere to produce a purple haze as sunset drew near. In it the perimeter fence surrounding the field showed as a misty web topped by lamps which, later, would illuminate the mesh with a vivid glow.
The fence encompassing Lowtown was less obvious but just as restricting. Dumarest looked at the cleared strip encircling the area, the deep ditch dug beyond it, the huts set at strategic points. Those controlling the planet had taken precautions against the danger residing in the hungry and desperate.
"Nice." Angado had accompanied Dumarest. "Try to break out and they'll gun down anyone reaching the ditch. I'll even bet they've got a curfew."
A gamble he would have won. As Dumarest led the way to where a plank bridge crossed the ditch men stepped from a hut at its end.
"Hold it!" The officer, like his men, wore a uniform and was armed. "It's late-you got business in town?"
"Nothing special." Dumarest glanced toward the field. "Just wanted to check on the chance of getting a berth."
"Leave it until tomorrow." The officer rested a hand on the pistol holstered at his waist. "Curfew runs from an hour before sunset to an hour after dawn. You should know that."
"We've been helping the monks," said Angado. "Do you police inside?"
"Hell, no." The officer echoed his contempt. "You scum take care of yourselves."
In more ways than one.
Dumarest heard the shout of pain as he neared a hovel sprouting like an ugly growth at the edge of the cluster. A man answered it as it came again.
"Steady! Hold still, you fool! Damn it, Susan, get help!"
A woman burst from the door and stared at them with wild eyes. She was gaunt, dressed in rags, an ugly blotch marring one cheek. Flecks of blood stained her hands and naked forearms.
"Please!" She looked from Dumarest to Angado. "My man! He's hurt bad! Jacek is trying but needs help! Please!"
Inside the gloom was thick, relieved only by the guttering light of a wick floating in a cup of oil. On a heap of rags a man lay writhing, another kneeling at his side. Like the woman, his hands and wrists were stained with blood.
"Hold him!" he snapped after one glance at the visitors. "Grab him tight."
Dumarest said, without moving, "What's wrong with him?"
"He tripped and fell into a bed of feathers." Jacek's tone was sarcastic. "That's how he got that face."
The nose was broken, the lips split, the chin caked with blood. The eyes were puffed and the forehead bruised. Whoever had beaten the man had done a vicious job.
"Gengiz?"
"His boys. Breck fell behind on his payments. They warned him once but he still couldn't find the cash. So they worked him over. Smashed his face, cracked some ribs and twisted his arm out of its socket. I'm trying to get it back."
The hard way, working with strength but little skill. Dumarest gestured him aside, took his place, examined the injured limb. The dislocation was severe, the joint badly swollen. The injured man groaned as Dumarest moved his hands.
"How long?"
"Since noon. I had to wait for Jacek to get back."
Angado said, "Couldn't you have sent for trained help?"
"Medics won't come into Lowtown. They'll treat you if you can get to them bu
t first they want paying." Breck was patient despite his pain, talking as if to a child. "I can't pay. If I had money I wouldn't be in this mess."
The woman said, "Can you help him? If you can for God's sake get to work."
"Hold his legs, Jacek. Angado, you hold his other arm. Keep him turned on his side." Dumarest picked up a mess of rag and wadded it into a ball. "This is going to hurt," he warned. "But it'll soon be over. Just try to relax. Take some deep breaths. Got anything to bite on?"
"Here." The woman thrust a stick between Breck's jaws. "Don't hurt him too much, mister."
Dumarest placed the wadded ball between the upper arm of the injured man and the torso, setting it high beneath the armpit to act as a fulcrum. Checking its position he adjusted the limb then, without warning, thrust down hard on the elbow.
Breck strained, biting into the wood, a low, animal-like groan coming from his throat. Sound Dumarest ignored as he fought the pull of muscles, maintaining the leverage as he felt the swollen joint. A moment as he rammed the heel of his hand against the spot, then he felt the joint slip back into place.
"Good." He rested a hand on Breck's sweating forehead. "It's all over," he said. "Just relax now."
"It hurts."
"The pain will go but it'll be sore for a while." Dumarest ripped rags into strips and bound the arm and shoulder in a constricting web, tying the arm hard against the chest. "That'll help the ribs, too." He looked at Jacek. "The next time anyone gets into trouble take them to the monks."
"I did my best."
"I know, but you lack training. They've had it." Dumarest added, "I guess you know how to take care of his nose."
"I should." Jacek's own was twisted across his face. "I've had to fix mine often enough. The rest of the cuts too. It was just that shoulder which beat me. A neat trick that; you using the arm itself as a lever." He paused then said. "Not that it'll do much good."
"Gengiz?" Dumarest shrugged. "A few of you could get together and take care of his boys."
"There'll be others." Jacek's tone reflected his loss of spirit. "There are always others."
Angado said, "What happens if he still can't pay? Will they kill him?"
"Not unless they have to. There are mines to the north and a ready market for workers. Deliver a volunteer and collect a bonus. Gengiz has a habit of delivering volunteers."
Dumarest looked at the interior of the hovel. "Maybe a man could do worse."
"I'm not signing a contract!" Breck struggled to sit upright on the rags. "Once they get you they never let go."
"You'd eat," said Dumarest. "You and your woman. What better have you got here?"
"I'm free!"
"Sure," said Dumarest. "I'd forgotten. Maybe Gengiz has too."
He moved to the opening and stepped out into the thickening purple haze of the dying day. After a moment Angado joined him, falling into step alongside as Dumarest moved along the littered path. In the shadows rodents scuttled and, from a shack, came a snatch of discordant song.
As it died Dumarest said, "You gave Breck money, right? It was a mistake."
"It was my money."
"It was still a mistake. Now he's not as desperate as he was. He'll pay and buy his way out of trouble. But it'll return and he'll be back where he started."
"I've given him time, at least. His shoulder will heal and maybe he can find a job." Angado looked at his companion. "Would you pay, Earl? If Gengiz makes his demand will you meet it?"
"I might."
"Then how can you blame Breck and those like him for doing the same?"
"I'm not blaming them," said Dumarest. "They can do as they like. It's none of my business. But if I was starving and had a woman depending on me and she was starving too and some thug came and tried to rob me-well, who knows?"
They reached the end of the path, turned left, moved into a cleared space formed by the junction of crossings, headed up a slope to where the church rose against the sky.
Before it, silhouetted against the brightly colored plastic, two men were beating a robed figure to the ground.
It was a scene from nightmare, the men tall, broad, their clubs the yard-long weapons carried by Gengiz's guard. The monk was crouched, hands lifted to protect his face, body bowed as if he were a suppliant accepting a merited penance.
A stagelike vista broken as Angado yelled and ran forward.
"Stop that! Stop it! Leave him alone!"
A command obeyed only momentarily as the men turned at the shout, clubs lifted, contemptuous of the new arrivals.
Dumarest said, sharply, "Angado! Leave it!"
An order ignored if heard and he ran in turn, passing the other, heading to where he had left the broom leaning against the fabric of the church. Set far to one side of where the men stood over the monk he was ignored. As he snatched it up Angado came to a halt.
"Back off!" His breath was ragged, his voice hard but shaking a little. "You filth! Beating up a monk! Is that the best you can do?"
He was talking instead of acting, a mistake repeated by the thugs.
"Listen to the insect." The man on the right hefted his club. "Doesn't all that big talk frighten you, Rayne? Maybe we should get down on our knees and beg his forgiveness."
"Maybe we should, Kay." The other thug played along. "For all we know this thing could be his father." His foot kicked at the monk. "I've heard they have some strange ideas of how things should be done."
"We could make them show us, eh? If-"
Rayne broke off as Dumarest came running toward him, broom in hand, the wide fan of bristles aimed at his eyes. Spines which circled to avoid the sweep of his club and dug into cheeks and forehead. Lifting as Dumarest reversed the pole to send it rising sharply between the thighs to smash against the groin. As the thug doubled, retching, the end of the pole slammed into his throat, rupturing the larynx and filling the windpipe with blood and congested tissue.
As he fell Angado lunged at the other man.
He had his knife in his hand, the point slanted upward, thumb to the blade as he had seen trained fighters do in a dozen arenas. A hold, stance and motion designed to deliver a killing thrust. But he was slow. Slow!
Dumarest saw the lifted club, the practiced response of a man who had made violence his trade. Held like a sword the weapon gave him the advantage. Before he could drive the knife home Angado would be dead.
Dumarest yelled, throwing the broom as he yelled, the sound shocking in its harsh timbre. As the thug slowed his advance the pole, hurtling like a spear, glided between his legs causing him to stumble, to fall helplessly on the lifted blade of Angado's knife.
As the thug twitched, spilling his life in a carmine flood, Dumarest said, bitterly, "Well, I hope you're satisfied."
"It was him or me, Earl."
"It needn't have been either. You shouldn't have interfered."
"They were beating up a helpless man. A monk!"
"That makes them special?" Dumarest shrugged as Angado made no answer. "Well, it happened, let's get him inside."
Pollard had taken the beating but he wasn't the only one in the infirmary. Dexter lay on another cot, supine, his eyes closed, hands lying limp at his side. A bandage made a white swath across his forehead.
"Concussion," explained Kollar. "A cracked clavicle and a badly bruised elbow. In that he was lucky."
"When?"
"About thirty minutes ago. Two men arrived and demanded to see him. Brother Dexter guessed what they wanted and ordered us not to interfere. After the attack they left and we brought him inside. Then they returned and Brother Pollard went out to remonstrate with them. The rest you know."
Dumarest said, "You stood by while they beat up an old man?"
"We had no choice."
"You could have gone out there. Shouted. Gathered a crowd if nothing else."
"No," said Angado. "They couldn't. They were under orders and had to obey." He looked at the limp figure lying on the cot, at the groaning shape of the younger monk. "Gengiz chea
ted. He gave them until sunset. The attack took place before then. Brother Dexter must have thought they came to talk. In any case he would have wanted to avoid a battle."
Taking the beating himself. Willingly offering his own body as a sacrifice. A waste-the men who'd attacked him had lost the meaning of shame as had the man who'd sent them.
"It's the way of the Church," said Angado, "to follow a policy of nonviolence no matter what the cost. If the church here is to succeed then others must protect it. Those who value it and find comfort in its teachings. Once a congregation has been established there'll be no need for the monks to prove themselves. They'll have been accepted. After that the rest will follow."
"Until it does?" Dumarest didn't wait for an answer. "Never mind. I wanted us to stay out of this but now we have no choice. You took care of that. Those thugs are dead and others would have seen how they died. Now we're both marked men." He looked at the monk. "Find us two robes. Large ones."
Kollar shook his head. "I'm sorry, but Brother Dexter made it clear-"
"Look at him now," snapped Dumarest. "Do you want others to join him? But if your conscience troubles you let's do it this way." He spoke directly at the unconscious monk. "Brother Dexter, do you object to us using a couple of robes?" He waited, listening, then looked again at Kollar. "You see, he didn't object."
"But-"
"Get them!" Dumarest looked at the injured men then at Angado. "Violence," he said bleakly. "It's everywhere. The strong bearing down on the weak with demands and threats. Scum like Gengiz or some puffed up lordling or a faceless bureaucrat all issuing their orders. Pay or be punished. Obey or suffer fines, imprisonment, execution. Well, to hell with them. There's only one way they can be stopped." He looked at the robes Kollar had fetched. "Good. Now, Brother, go outside and bring in those clubs."
* * *
As Dumarest had expected the clubs were weighted with lead. Long, slender wands with the vicious capacity to shatter a skull or snap a bone. He hefted one, sent it whining through the air, lifted it in a curve, sent it darting forward to halt an inch from Angado's chest.
