Prison of Night

by E. C. Tubb

  Dumarest glanced at it as he passed, seeing the gnarled old tree in whose branches a dead man sat and talked at times; a suicide who returned during delusia to warn others against the end he had chosen. Rocks were heaped at the base of the trunk and some night-mist, lingering in the protected shade, hung like wisps of gossamer.

  Chelhar turned in his saddle, smiling, and pointed at the lace-like stuff with his whip.

  "Food for your mysterious Sungari, Earl? It seems they had little appetite last night."

  He smiled, impeccable in his clothing, rich fabrics adorned with gilded thread. His hands were bare, heavy with rings, the nails smooth and neatly rounded. His spurs were rounds of metal rimmed with blunted spikes.

  As Dumarest made no answer he said, "I am irritating you, my friend, and for that I apologize. For the informality also if it should offend. I ask you to be generous with my failings-last night we drank deeper than was wise."

  Deep, but not too deep for caution and Dumarest wondered if they both had played the same game. As Lavinia had talked enthusiastically about her herd, the dealer making appropriate noises, he had watched with casual attention. Did the man lift his goblet too often and drink too deeply for the amount of wine it contained? Were his gestures a little too wide, his speech a little too hurried? Once he had risen and stumbled as he had crossed the floor and once his hand, as if by accident, had knocked over a glass. Had he pretended to be fuddled?

  An old trick for one in his profession but others who dealt in more lethal business could have adopted the same camouflage. As the man rode ahead Dumarest brooded over what he had heard. A ship found drifting in the Rift-the Sleethan? The news was old now, the man found would have talked had he been able. It could only have been the captain or the engineer but either, if questioned, would have said too much for his safety. The trail he had thought safely buried would be clear to any with the intelligence to see. And Dumarest had no doubt as to who that would be.

  "A fine day, Earl." Roland had ridden to his side. Behind them attendants conveyed mounts loaded with packs; bales of meats and wines for the midday meal which Lavinia intended to make a social occasion. A raft would have provided better transportation but the vehicle would have frightened the beasts. "Comfortable?"

  "I can manage."

  "Of course. I didn't mean-" Roland broke off, flustered. Rising in his stirrups he looked back, then ahead to where Chelhar was riding close at Lavinia's side. "I'd better join them. There are things I want to say to her in private. Perhaps you would engage the dealer for me, Earl?"

  He was being discreet and offering an opportunity to break up the couple. A mark of his jealousy or he could have genuinely had something to tell the woman. Dumarest watched him ride ahead then urged his own mount to a faster pace. Chelhar pulled to one side and waited for him to catch up.

  "The Lord Acrae tells me you have the gambler's spirit, my friend. Shall we have a wager? Ten eldrens that I reach the clump of shrub at the edge of the foothills before you. A bet?"

  One he couldn't lose. The man rode as well as Lavinia and Dumarest knew himself to be hopelessly outclassed. Chelhar shrugged as, bluntly, he refused.

  "I understand. No man wants to appear less than his best before his lady. But we must do something to beguile the journey. For the fun of it, then. I will give you a start. Ride ahead and, when you reach that heap of yellow boulders to the left, I will follow and do my best to win."

  Nodding Dumarest touched his heels to the flanks of his mount. The animal started a little, felt the firmness of the hands on the reins and stretched its legs into a gallop. Dumarest, riding with lengthened stirrups, standing so as to clear the jouncing of the saddle, watched as the ground streamed past. He would lose, that was certain, but he would not lose by much. His manner of riding, learned while on Ebth, made for comfort but not for continued bursts of speed. The dealer would win.

  But Chelhar was slow in catching up.

  Turning Dumarest saw him as he urged on his mount, lying low over the saddle, body rising and falling in perfect synchronization with the movements of the beast. As the patch of scrub came nearer he could hear the thud of hooves, the creak of leather, the pant of the animal's breath.

  "Earl!" Lavinia called, waving as she rose in her saddle. "Wait, Earl! Wait!"

  Her voice was thin, barely heard over the thud of hooves, the rush of wind, but Dumarest slowed a little, swinging his mount to the side as Chelhar came up level. The man turned, smiling, teeth flashing against the ebon of his skin, eyes bright beneath the curved line of his brows.

  "Fifty eldrens if you catch me, Earl. We are almost at the scrub. Fifty-"

  "No."

  "Then follow me if you can!"

  A stupid challenge, one born of the excitement of the moment and belonging more to a juvenile academy than to the world of grown men. Dumarest slowed even more as the other lunged ahead. He saw Chelhar reach the scrub, vanish into the patch of vegetation and heard again Lavinia's call.

  "Stop him, Earl! There are crevasses-broken ground-stop him!"

  A man galloping into the unknown, risking his life and that of his mount-for what?

  And why?

  Dumarest slowed to a walk and edged into the growth. Bushes lay ahead, broken by the passage of the other beast, leaves and broken twigs strewing the ground. Beyond lay a slope scored with shallow gullys, deeper slashes invisible until reached. A blur of movement revealed Chelhar as he urged his mount up a slope. At the crest he turned, waved, vanished from sight as he plunged down the other side.

  Dumarest heard the scrabble of hooves, the ring of metal against rock, the shout and then, rising above all, the ghastly sound of the animal's scream.

  It was lying at the bottom of a gully, legs kicking, head rearing, eyes suffused with blood. More blood lay thick around the intestines which bulged from its ripped stomach. Jagged stone, now smeared with carmine, showed where it had hit on the way down, tearing open its belly and breaking its back. Leaving it to kick and scream in helpless agony.

  Chelhar lay limp and silent on the edge, a patch of bright color against the drab stone. One hand was thrown out to reveal the empty palm the other, equally empty, lay at his side. He appeared unconscious. He was also unarmed.

  The crippled animal screamed again and Dumarest urged his own mount away from the edge. Dropping over the rim he slid down to a narrow ledge, moved along it, dropped again and, slipping, sliding, braking himself with hands and boots, skidded down the steep slope to the bottom of the gully.

  The animal reared as he approached, catching his scent, realizing, perhaps, what he intended to do. A man might have been grateful but a beast knew only the need to survive, the drive to avoid extinction. It snapped as Dumarest knelt behind the head, catching it, holding it as, with one quick movement, he plunged his knife into the throat and sent the edge to slice the pulsing artery carrying blood to the brain.

  An act of mercy which showered him with blood from the fountain gushing from the wound. A time in which he held the dying beast, easing its pain, giving it what comfort he could. Only when the eyes dulled and the head sagged did he rise, wiping the blade on the dappled hide, thrusting it back into his boot.

  Turning he saw Chelhar.

  The man had descended the wall of the gully with the agility of a cat, picking his path and drifting down as soundless as a falling leaf. Now he stood, watching, shaking his head as Dumarest stepped from the dead beast.

  "A pity, Earl. That was a fine animal."

  "It's cost will be put on your account."

  "Am I responsible for its death?" The shrug was expressive. "It started, threw me, jumped for some reason and fell. Something must have alarmed it. Almost it killed me-and you want me to pay?"

  "Not I-the Lady Lavinia. It was her animal."

  "But what is hers is yours, is it not?" The dealer's smile was expressive. "I know the situation, my friend, there are those who have no love for it and they are loose with their mouths at times. How did it happen
? A jaded woman, an engrossing stranger-well, such things are common. But do they last, my friend? Have you thought of that? And when the novelty has died-what then?"

  Dumarest looked at the man, past him, eyes lifting to study the edge of the gully, seeing nothing but the glowing light of the twin suns. Magenta and violet which blended to cast a strange, eerie light in this shadowed place.

  "You do not answer." Chelhar stepped forward, his right hand lifting, fingers extending as if he intended dropping his hand on Dumarest's shoulder. On the index finger the polished mound of the stone set in the wide band of a ring glowed like a lambent eye.

  Glowed and dissolved as something spat from it in a winking thread of flame.

  A dart which hummed and sang with a thin, shrilling vibration which grated at the nerves and created a blur of distortion in the air.

  One which thudded home in the sleeve of Dumarests tunic as he flung his left arm upwards to protect his face.

  Hitting it drilled; the plastic fuming into smoke, the protective metal mesh beneath fusing to rise in searing vapor, the flesh it covered bursting, pulping, oozing into slime.

  Dumarest felt it as his right hand snatched the knife from his boot, sent it slashing upward to rip the dart from its seat, to hurl it to one side where, smoking, it vented the last of its energy on the stone. Another had followed, hitting the tunic where it covered the stomach, falling as again the knife jerked it free.

  "Fast!" Chelhar backed, his hand rising to his mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. "I heard you were fast but never dreamed you could move so quickly. I-"

  He died as the knife spun through the air to hit, to drive its point into the soft flesh of the throat, to sever arteries and to finally lodge in the spine. A death too quick, too merciful-but Dumarest had had no choice.

  He swayed a little as he looked down at the dead man. His arm, and stomach bore pits of disrupted tissue. The fingers of the Jiand which had held the knife were bruised, the nails oozing blood, cells ruptured by the transmitted vibrations of the darts. The ring from which they had spat was empty now but Chelhar wore other rings, some as harmless diversions but at least one other must be carrying a lethal device.

  It was on his other hand, the one he had been lifting to his mouth when, by talk, he had hoped to engage his intended victim's attention. An assassin's trick. One which had failed.

  Dumarest looked at the walls of the gully. For an active, agile man they presented no real obstacle but he was hurt and knew he could never climb them. The darts had done more than disrupt tissue; toxins had been formed which even now were poisoning his blood and affecting his senses. To shout would be to waste time as no one was within earshot. His mount could have been found but a search for its rider would take time.

  He moved, stepping over the body, heading to one end of the gully where a wider patch of sky could be seen. The sides would be less steep there, the chances greater of finding an easy path. Then he halted, remembering, wondering why it had taken him so long to think of a better way.

  To try to climb would be to accelerate the action of the toxins, to shout would be to waste strength, but a fire would send up smoke which would attract any searchers.

  He lit one, striking sparks from the back of his knife with a stone, feeding them to fragments of frayed cloth from Chelhar's garments, adding more fuel, forming smoke with fabric dipped in blood. As the bottom of the gully there was no wind, the smoke rose high and straight, spreading only when it rose into the upper air. Even so stray wreaths of it flowered from the blaze and stung his eyes and caught at his lungs. Harsh, acrid fumes which held the stench of roasting tissue. Billows of smoke which veiled the area in a noxious haze.

  In it something moved.

  Delusia? The suns were too far apart for that. A predator? They were unknown in the Iron Mountains. The Sungari?

  Dumarest reared up from where he leaned against the wall of the gully and reached for his knife. It was daylight, the Sungari had no right to appear, by doing so they broke the Pact. Then the creature moved again, a foal which whinnied and ran from the smells and sight of death, leaving Dumarest alone to sit and drift and fall deeper into the pit at the bottom of which death was waiting.

  Chapter Eight

  "You were lucky," said the physician, "But then, without luck, how long would a man like yourself continue to live?"

  A question Dumarest didn't bother to answer. He stretched in the bed, feeling the tug of newly healed flesh on arm and stomach. His right hand, when he examined it, was clear of bruises. Aside from hunger and a consuming thirst he felt completely well. Slow-time, of course, the converse of the drug which made long journeys seem short. Beneath its influence his metabolism would have speeded so that he lived hours in a matter of minutes. Kept unconscious his body had healed while he slept.

  "You've been under for a week subjective," said the doctor. "I used hormone salves and gave you a complete blood-wash to remove the toxins. Forced growth of injured tissue and, naturally, intravenous feeding. I've had you resting under micro-current induced sleep for a while-I'm not fond of jerking my patients awake directly from slow-time unless there's a good reason. You're hungry, of course."

  "And thirsty. Some water?" Dumarest drank, greedily. "Thank you. What happened?"

  "You were unconscious when found. I was summoned and fortunately was able to get there in time. I gave you emergency treatment, had you brought into town and here you are." The doctor frowned as Dumarest helped himself to more water. "Do you always have such a thirst?"

  "Recently, yes."

  "Strongly recurring? By that I mean you drink, wait, feel an intense thirst and then have to drink again. All in short intervals. Too short to be normal. Yes?" His frown deepened as Dumarest nodded. "Any vomiting, signs of nausea, double vision?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Persistent thirst is a symptom of brain damage. A symptom, mind, not conclusive evidence that such damage exists. Coupled with difficulty in moving and a general torpor it could signal a lesion in the base of the brain." His eyes narrowed at Dumarest's sudden tension. "Is anything wrong?"

  "No. Can you test for such damage?"

  "Of course. If you wish I'll make an appointment for you to come in later."

  "Now." Dumarest threw his legs over the edge of the cot and sat upright. He wore only a thin hospital gown. Rising he felt a momentary nausea which was the natural result of a body which had rested too long and had been too quickly moved. "I want you to do it now."

  As the doctor readied his instruments there was time for thought. The dominant half of the affinity twin which he had injected into himself had nestled at the base of the cortex. When Chagney had died it should have dissolved and been assimilated into his metabolism. But-if Chagney had not died?

  The concept was ridiculous. He had forced the body to step into space. He had seen through the borrowed eyes the naked glory of the universe. Had felt them burst, the lungs expand, the tissue yield to the vacuum. All had died, brain, bone, body-all dehydrated in the emptiness of the void, drifting now and for always in the vast immensity of space.

  Dead.

  Totally erased.

  Then why did he continue to hear the crying? The thin, pitiful wailing of a creature trapped and helpless and knowing he was to die?

  "Are you all right?" The doctor was standing before him, leaning forward over the chair, his eyes anxious. "Here!" His hand lifted bearing a vial, pungent vapors rising from the container to sting eyes and nostrils. "Inhale deeply. Deeply."

  Dumarest pushed it aside. "Doctor, how long can a brain live?"

  "Without oxygen about three minutes. After that time degeneration of tissue begins to set in and any later recovery will be attended by loss of function."

  "And if it could be preserved in some way? Frozen, for example?"

  "As it is when you travel Low?" The doctor pursed his lips. "Theoretically, in such a case, life is indefinite. In actual practice the slow wastage of body tissue will result in final physical
breakdown and resultant death. I believe, on Dzhya, they have criminals who have lain in the crytoriums for two centuries and who still register cerebral activity on a subconscious level. In theory, if a brain could be thrown into stasis, residual life would remain."

  In a brain suddenly exposed to the vacuum of space? One dehydrated and frozen before any cellular disruption could have taken place?

  Was the subjective half of the affinity twin still alive?

  "You're sweating," said the doctor. "You don't have to be afraid."

  Not of the machines and instruments ringing the chair but there was more. Was he still connected to Chagney? Would he continue to hear the man crying? Had he locked himself into a prison from which there could be no escape?

  How to find a drifting body in the void? How to destroy it?

  "Steady," said the doctor. "Just relax and close your eyes. I want to insert a probe and take some measurements. Just think of something pleasant."

  A dead man drifting, ruptured eyes scars in the mask of his face, blood rimming his mouth with a long-dried crust, his heart a lump of tissue, stomach puffed, lungs a ruin- but his brain? His mind? The thing it contained?

  "Easy," said the doctor. "Easy."

  A probe silling into his mind. Dumarest could imagine it, the slender tool plunging deep, touching the artificial symbiote nestling at the base of the cortex, stimulating it, perhaps, building a strengthened bond with its other half.

  Would his mind fly to that other body? Live again in dead and frozen tissue? Know nothing but the silent emptiness, the unfeeling void?

  A chance, but a risk which had to be taken. He had to know.

  "Steady!" The doctor drew in his breath. "There!" He let the moment hang as he checked the withdrawn probe and studied the findings. "Nothing. The scan shows no trace of a tumor and no excessive pressure. There is no scarring and no malformation. There is however a trace of an unusual compactness of tissue at the base of the cortex as if there was a slight concentration of molecular structure. Biologically it is nothing to worry about. It may barely, have given rise to your increased thirst but I tend to think the cause is more psychological than physical."