Eye of the Zodiac

by E. C. Tubb

  He said, "Put down the deck, Lekard."

  "What?"

  "Put it down." Steel flashed as Dumarest lifted his knife and slammed the point through the pasteboards into the table beneath. To a man standing at his side he said, "Pull them from the top. I want no seconds or bottoms-just deal them as they come."

  The man was uncertain. "Elg?"

  "Do it." Sonef was confident. "Just deal them as he says. How many do you want, Earl?"

  Dumarest dropped the nine, the deuce and one of the aces. "I'll take three."

  He heard the incredulous suck of breath from a man behind him, a kibitzer who had seen his hand, saw the sudden hardening of Sonefs face, the accentuated pallor on Lekard's thin features.

  He didn't have to look at his cards, he knew what they had to be. An ace followed by two cards of the same suit, either of which would have completed Sonefs running flush. If he had taken one card or two, he would have held four aces against a winning hand.

  He said, flatly, "I bet a hundred. You want to see me? No? Then I've won."

  He rose, dropping his cards face upwards, sweeping the money into his pocket. To Leon he said, "Get your gear. It's time for us to go."

  Chapter Three

  They reached the city at mid-afternoon, dropping from the raft which had carried them, the driver waving a casual farewell as he drifted away. The area was bleak, a mass of warehouses and rugged ground, huts and offices showing hasty construction. An extension of the old town which lay in a hollow, at the head of a strait leading to the sea.

  The field lay beyond on a stretch of leveled ground, ringed with a high perimeter fence topped with floodlights. On Tradum the authorities maintained a check on all arrivals and departures, a policy backed by the Zur-Sekulich as a precaution against contract-workers leaving before their time.

  Leon said, "What now, Earl?"

  "We find somewhere to stay. Then we eat, then I'll look around."

  "Can't I come with you?"

  "No, you'd better rest those ribs."

  "Nygas!" The boy scowled. "That animal! He had no right-"

  "You were warned," said Dumarest curtly. "You knew what to expect."

  He glanced at the sky. Walking would save money, but be costly in time. He waved as a pedcar came into sight, the operator a slender man with grotesquely developed thighs. Leon sighed with relief as he slumped into the open compartment at the rear. His face was pinched, the nostrils livid, dark shadows around his eyes. He clutched a small bag, the sum total of his possessions, a cheap thing of soiled fabric which he rested on his lap. Dumarest had nothing aside from what he carried on his person.

  "Peddling," the operator asked, "You from the workings? I ask because I was thinking of getting a job up there. A friend of mine, my sister's second cousin, he reckons a man could do real well. You think it's worth me trying?"

  "No harm in that."

  "I could handle a machine given the chance. And I can take orders-hell, in this job you do it all the time. Say, you boys looking for a little excitement?"

  Dumarest said, dryly. "What had you in mind?"

  "There's a new joint opened on Condor Avenue. Young girls, sensatapes, analogues, all the drinks you can handle, and all the games you can use. Fights too, if you're interested. Real stuff, no messing about, naked blades and no stopping. Interested?"

  They were from the workings. Men from a long bout of hard, relentless labor would be interested.

  "Condor Avenue," said Dumarest. "What's it called?"

  "The Effulvium. Crelk Sugari runs it. If you want, mister, I'll take you straight there. Why waste time?" His chuckle was suggestive. "Get in while the fruit is unspoiled, eh?"

  "We'll drop in later."

  "You do that." The operator handed back a card. "Hand this in when you arrive. It'll get you a free drink. A big one, and you won't have to pay entry. Don't forget now."

  Dumarest took the slip of pasteboard. Handed in, it would ensure the man his commission.

  "You know a good hotel? Something not too high and with available service?"

  "Service?" The man twisted his head, grinning. "I get it. Sure, Madam Brandt runs a nice, clean, interesting place. Just don't make too much noise and everything will be fine. You want me to take you there?"

  "Just drop us close by. You got a card for me to give her? Thanks."

  Leon staggered a little as he left the pedcar, leaning on Dumarest for support as the vehicle moved away, the operator waving and pointing to the front of a house with shuttered windows and gaudy streaks of paint on the walls.

  Dumarest watched him go, then turned and headed in the other direction.

  "Aren't we going in there, Earl?"

  "No."

  "But I thought-" Leon frowned. "That man thinks we'll stay there."

  "Which is why we won't." Dumarest stared at the pale face. "Can you hold up until we find somewhere else?"

  "I guess so." Leon made an effort to stand upright. "I guess I'll have to."

  "That's right," said Dumarest. "You do."

  He settled for a small place in a quiet street, run by a woman long past her prime. The room had twin beds, a washbasin and faucet, a faded carpet on the floor, frayed curtains at the window. The panes were barred and faced a narrow alley. The walls were cracked and the ceiling stained. From a room lower down the passage came the sound of empty coughing:

  "Chell Arlept," she explained. "He worked with my husband up at the site. They got caught in an explosion. Chell ruined his lungs. My husband-" She broke off, swallowing.

  "It happens," said Dumarest. "I'm sorry."

  "They just left him there," she said bleakly. "Piled dirt over the place where he fell. I didn't even get compensation."

  Dumarest said nothing.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you, but you did ask about Chell. If there's anything you need?"

  "I'll let you know," said Dumarest. "There's a bath at the end of the passage? Good." He looked pointedly at the door. As the woman left he said to the boy. "Get stripped. I want to look at those ribs."

  Nygas had been savage, or perhaps he had misjudged his victim. Leon winced as Dumarest's fingers probed his side, the strappings that had been hastily applied lying to one side on the bed. One rib was broken, others cracked, the flesh ugly with bruises.

  "How bad is it, Earl?"

  "Bad enough." Dumarest picked up the bandages, soaked them in water from the faucet, bound them tightly around the slender torso. "Just lie there and get some sleep. Don't move unless you have to and, when you do, don't bend. Hungry?"

  "I could eat."

  "I'll get the woman to bring you a meal. If she wants to feed you, don't argue."

  "You leaving, Earl?"

  Dumarest smiled at the look of concern. "Don't worry, Leon. I'll be back."

  * * * * *

  Finding the hotel had taken time, taking care of the boy still more. It was dusk as Dumarest neared the heart of the city, the square where the market was located. Beyond it lay the wharves from which boats were already putting out to fish the turbulent seas. Around it, running along the avenues to either side, were the palaces of pleasure, the casinos, dream parlors, brothels, the places in which men could pander to their inclinations. Establishments for the rich, or those with money to burn. The market was for the poor.

  Beggars were prominent, men with crippled limbs and scarred faces, discarded veterans of mercenary wars. They jostled women selling dubious pleasures, others offering lucky charms, vials of aphrodisiacs, pods of narcotic seeds. In the market proper, traders displayed their wares on stalls illuminated by brightly colored lanterns which fought the encroaching darkness with pools of red and green, yellow and amber, pale blue and nacreous white.

  In the kaleidoscope of brilliance heaps of tawdry jewelry, gaudy fabrics, and cheap adornments looked like rare treasure stolen from fabled temples.

  A crone called out as Dumarest passed where she sat before a table brilliant with cabalistic symbols.

&
nbsp; "Your fortune, my lord? Told with skills won from an ancient race and passed down through seventeen generations. Learn of the dangers which may lie in your path, perils which can be avoided."

  Another swung a small bag suspended from a gilded chain which, she assured him, would give full protection against the diseases of love, poisoned waters, and wild radiation.

  A man sat like a brooding idol over an assembly of finger rings holding vibrant darts, needles tipped with venom, artificial fingernails of razor-sharp steel, brooches which could blast a stunning gas; subtle mechanisms for dealing death and pain, things much used by the harlots who needed such protection.

  Dumarest paused at a stall from which rose tantalizing odors, buying a skewer of meat and vegetables seared over a flame. The food was hot, pungent with spice, crisp to the tongue. The woman who served him was tall, darkly attractive, the cleft in her blouse doing little to hide the swell of her breasts.

  She watched as he ate with the fastidious neatness of a cat, her eyes roving over his face, his body, noting the tall hardness of him, the instinctive wariness. A man who had learned to survive the hard way, she decided. One without the protection and benefit of Guild, House or Organization. His face was somber, the planes and contours revealing an inner determination, the mouth hovering on the edge of becoming cruel. He met her eyes as he dropped the empty skewer on a tray.

  "You like it?"

  "It was good," he admitted. "How's trade?"

  "It's early yet." She turned to stare at the Hyead who worked at the back of the stall. "Better start another batch, Kiasong. Set them up and leave them to soak." To Dumarest she said, "He's willing but he has to be watched."

  "And comes cheap?"

  She shrugged, quivers manifest beneath the thin material of her blouse, the breasts, unbound, moving like oiled balloons.

  "I give him food and a place to sleep. I had a man once, but he wanted more than I was willing to give. Now I operate alone." Pausing she added, deliberately, "Maybe, if he had looked like you things would have been different."

  Dumarest smiled at the compliment.

  "Well, that's the way it goes," she said. "You looking for something?"

  "A healer."

  "You sick?" She shrugged again as he made no answer. "Try Bic Wan, he's two rows over, three stalls down. Not the cheapest, but you can trust his goods. Tell him Ayantel sent you, he'll treat you fair."

  He was a small man, wizened, his eyes like jewels in the meshed contours of his face. A round hat hugged his skull and his hands were thin, the fingers long, the nails sharpened to points. He sat behind a display of vials and containers of tablets and pills. Bunches of dried herbs hung beside clusters of seeds, withered fruits, strands of sun-dried kelp. A skull bore a tracery of lines, hollow sockets staring at the crowd. Metal chimes made small tinklings in the rising breeze.

  "Ayantel," he said. "A fine woman with a shrewd mind and a discerning eye. She guided you well. What are your needs?" He blinked as Dumarest told him. "The salve I can supply, the bone mender also, together with a syringe. But the other? My friend, what you ask is not easy."

  Dumarest produced coins, let them fall from one hand to the other.

  "A compound to erase the barrier between truth and falsehood-how often have husbands asked for the same? Deluded men and suspicious women, eager to quell their fears or discover their rivals. If I had such a thing my fortune would be made."

  "Then you can't help me?"

  "My friend, I am honest with you. I could give you what seems to do as you wish, but the resultant babble would be meaningless, the product of hallucination. You wish advice?"

  "I am always willing to learn."

  "A wise man, and a humble one. That is well. Many would throw it back in my face and therefore compound their stupidity. There are means to induce sleep and, when used, there is a period during which questions may be asked and will be answered. It will not last long and the drug can only be used once. There are better methods, but they are the prerogative of the authorities. I am only a poor man, a seller of salves and healing compounds, what would I know of such things?" His shrug, his gesture, were timeless.

  "Give me what you can," said Dumarest.

  He turned as the old man busied himself with items taken from beneath his counter. The market was growing busy, the scattered wanderers reenforced by workers from the field, others on leave from the site. Locals too, gaily dressed men and girls seeking recreation. From one side came the steady beating of a drum, the wail of a flute, a troupe of dancers spinning, flesh glowing in the multicolored illumination. Cunningly they stooped to pick up thrown coins, each gesture a titivation.

  Life, brash, gay, abandoned, ruled the market square. It would grow to a crescendo, peaking at midnight when the stalls closed, the revelers wending their way home, others moving on to more decadent pursuits.

  Against them, the monk stood like a faded statue in somber brown.

  * * * * *

  He stood before the exchange, an ornate building facing the square in which fortunes were made and lost, merchants gambling on cargoes which had yet to arrive. He was tall, thin. The face shielded by the cowl was emaciated with deprivation. A beggar without pride and having little success. The chipped bowl of plastic in his hand was empty. The sandals on his bare feet were scuffed, a strap broken and held together with twine. His voice was a droning murmur.

  "Of your charity, brother, remember the poor."

  Few looked, less lingered, none threw money into the bowl. A plump trader, his hands heavy with gems, his face oiled with good living, laughed as he flung a harlot a coin.

  "That for your smile, Mayelle. Today I cleared a big profit. Tomorrow-who can tell?"

  "Thank you, my lord." Deftly the coin was slipped beneath a gown slit to reveal glimpses of what lay beneath. "If a smile brought so much, then surely a kiss would bring more?"

  "Don't tempt me, girl. I cannot afford the delay. Even while talking a fortune could be made."

  "Brother," said the monk, "remember the poor."

  "You remember them." The plump man was indifferent. "I'm too busy."

  Brother Sayre made no comment, felt no anger at the cynicism. To have done so would have been to verge on the sin of pride, and that would have been a refutation of what he was and what he stood for. Pride and self-indulgence had no place in the Church of the Universal Brotherhood. Each monk shed all thought of personal comfort when he donned the plain, homespun robe, took the bowl of plastic, accepted the privation which would be his normal lot.

  A hard life, but none who joined the Brotherhood expected otherwise. To stand, to beg, to give aid when aid could be given, to comfort always. To follow the creed of the Church, to extend the teaching which alone would end all hurt, all pain, all despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanitatis. The anguish of one is the torment of all. If all men could be brought to recognize one basic truth, to remember as they looked at another-there, but for the grace of God, go I-the millennium would have arrived.

  "Of your charity, brother, remember the poor."

  Halting before the monk Dumarest said, "Brother, I need your help."

  "You are in distress?"

  "No." Dumarest dropped coins in the bowl. He was generous, but both knew it was not a bribe. "I need information."

  "There are places where answers may be found."

  Taverns, shops, agencies, the field itself, the records, the complex which sold computer-time, the men who traded in nothing else. But each question would leave a trail, arouse curiosity, focus unwanted attention on him.

  "There is a young man," said Dumarest. "A boy. Leon Harvey. I wondered if you know of him."

  "Does he belong to the Church?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "A casual?"

  It was possible. A young man, on the run, lonely and perhaps afraid. The Church would have offered him comfort and more. The bread of forgiveness given to all who sat beneath the benediction light when, hypnot
ized, they eased their souls and suffered subjective penance. There were many who joined the queues for the sake of the wafer of concentrate. The monks regarded it as a fair exchange-food in return for the instilled conditioning which made it impossible to kill. The reason Dumarest had never sat beneath the light.

  He said, "Leon is a runaway. He might have been reported and your aid sought."

  "A boy, one of so many, how would we know of him?"

  "You know, Brother. We both know."

  By means of the hyper-radio incorporated into each benediction light. Monks were everywhere, tolerated and befriended by those in high places, in constant touch with the great seminary on Hope. And a parent, desperate, would have asked for help, or at least eased their hearts to listening ears. A small hope, but one which had to be followed.

  Dumarest was not disappointed when, after a moment, the monk shook his head. "We have been asked to look for no one of that name. Where did he originate?"

  "Nerth. You know it?"

  "An odd name-no, I have no knowledge of any such world. The boy, of course, could be lying. You have considered the possibility?"

  "Yes."

  "Your name?"

  Dumarest gave it, adding, "I am not unknown to the Church. If Brother Jerome was still alive he would vouch for me, but you can check the records."

  "There is no need." The monk's eyes were direct. "As you say, you are known. If I could help you I would, but that does not seem possible. However, there is one thing perhaps you should know. Cyber Hsi has landed on Tradum."

  Chapter Four

  Manager Loh Nordkyn was disturbed. His reports had always been on time, work was progressing according to schedule, and the powers ruling the Zur-Sekulich had no reason for dissatisfaction, yet they had sent a cyber to Tradum.

  He was housed in an upper suite of the company building, the windows giving a fine view of the town and space field, a view which meant nothing to Hsi as he sat at a desk studying the mass of data provided by the manager's aides.