Eloise

by E. C. Tubb

  An exercise in sheer intellect aimed at the one, sole object of trapping a man.

  Dumarest-who held the secret which, once regained, would give the Cyclan total domination.

  An exercise which had been conducted before, but which, as yet, had always failed.

  Nequal sharpened the edge of his mind. From the agricultural worlds a trader would, most logically, move on to Ookan, to Narag or Guir, and then?

  A moment as factors were weighed and evaluated. "Tynar," he decided. "We shall find him there."

  Chapter Two

  It was a harsh world with a ruby sun casting a sombre light, the air heavy with the stench of sulphur, ammonia, methane; the natural exudations augmented by the fumes from the smelters, the acrid gases rising in plumes from the pits and craters of the mines. An old world, dying, ravaged by exploiters eager for its mineral wealth.

  The city hugged the field, a rambling place of raw buildings and great warehouses against which the shacks of transients clung like fetid barnacles. A nest of lanes gave on to wider thoroughfares, streets flanked with shops, inns, places of entertainment. Narrow alleys led to secluded courts faced with shuttered mansions.

  A normal city for such a world, the early residents withdrawn; hating the brash newness, the greed which had shattered their peace. From barred windows they watched as the great trucks headed towards the field loaded with precious metals; the workers thronging the city eager to spend their pay. Noisy men who had brought with them their own, familiar parasites; gamblers, harlots, the peddlers of dreams, the fighters and toadies, the scum of a hundred worlds.

  Seated in a corner of a tavern close to the field, Dumarest sipped slowly at his wine.

  He was a tall man with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, dressed all in neutral grey, the collar and cuffs of his tunic tight against throat and wrists. He wore pants of the same, plastic material; the legs thrust into knee-boots, the hilt of a knife riding above the right. Common wear for a traveler, the metal mesh buried beneath the plastic an elementary precaution.

  As was the place he had chosen, the wall which rose at his back.

  A woman hesitated before him; aged, dressed in bedraggled finery, face plastered with cosmetics, eyes hard with experience. They searched the planes and contours of his face, the line of his jaw, the mouth which she sensed could so easily become cruel. For a moment their eyes met and then, without speaking, she moved away.

  Another, younger, confident in her attraction, took her place.

  "Hi, mister!" She smiled, resting her hands on the table and leaning forward so as to display her wares. "You lonely?"

  "No."

  "Just come in?" She sat and reached for the bottle, the empty glass resting beside it. "On that trader, maybe?"

  "Maybe."

  "Where you from?"

  "Kalid," Dumarest lied. "Did I offer you a drink?"

  "You begrudge it?" Her eyes, over the rim of the half-filled glass, were innocently wide. "Hell, man, are you that strapped? If you are, maybe I can help."

  Dumarest lifted his own glass, touching it to his lips, eyes narrowed as he looked past the girl towards the others in the tavern. A motley collection of spacemen, field workers, pimps and entrepreneurs. None seemed to be paying him any attention.

  "I can help," repeated the girl. "You've a look about you-you've been in a ring, right?"

  "So?"

  "I can tell a fighter when I see one. If you're broke I could arrange something. Ten-inch blades, first cut or to the death. Big money for a fast man if he wants it. I've a friend who could line it up if you're interested."

  He asked, knowing the answer, "Is there much of that going on?"

  "Fights?" She shrugged. "Plenty, but you'll need a guide to the big money. You don't want to be cheated. Why don't I call over my friend and let him make the proposition?" Without waiting for an answer she turned, mouth opening as if to shout a name. It closed as Dumarest leaned forward and closed his fingers about her wrist.

  "What the hell!" She stared at the clamping hand. "Mister! You're hurting me!"

  "We don't need your friend," he said flatly. "And I don't want company."

  "Not even mine?" She smiled as she rubbed her wrist, the marks of his fingers clear against the flesh. A mechanical grimace, as if she had remembered to play a part.

  "You're strong. Damned strong. And fast; I never even saw you move. You'd be a joy to watch in a ring. How it it, mister? We could make a deal. My cut wouldn't hurt you."

  "No," he said dryly. "But it could hurt me." He saw by her expression that she didn't understand. To her the fights were a spectacle to be enjoyed, something by which to make a profit; but to those engaged it was something far different. Dumarest leaned back, remembering; the bright lights, the crowd, the stink of oil and sweat and fear. The smell, too, of blood; and the savage anticipation of those who watched others kill and maim, to cut and bleed and die for their titillation.

  It was always the same. In an arena open to the air, where men fought in the light of the sun; or in some small back room filled with shadows, the risks were the same. A slip, a momentary inattention, an accident, a broken blade or a patch of blood; all could bring swift and painful death. Only speed and skill had saved him, that and luck-and who could tell how long that luck would last? Already, perhaps, it had run out.

  "Mister?" He felt the touch of her hand, saw the puzzled expression in her eyes. "Did I say something wrong?"

  "No." He moved his hand away from her touch. "But you're wasting your time."

  "So what? It's my time." But even as she shrugged, she had turned to look at the others. "Nothing," she said, reaching for her glass. "Let the others have the pickings-those old crows need it more than I do. Anyway, it makes a change to talk. What's your name? Where are you from? How long have you been on the move?"

  Too many questions from a harlot who should be intent on business; watched, probably, by a ruthless pimp who would not be gentle. And there were more.

  "Did you really come in on that trader? When are you pulling out?"

  He said, "Drink your wine."

  "You don't want to talk?"

  "No."

  "Well, it's your business." She refilled her glass and drank half at a gulp. "How about a different kind of a deal then? You and me-you know?"

  "I told you you were wasting your time."

  "I've a nice little place close to here. We could get some food and I'd cook you a meal. You'd like that. I'm a good cook and it wouldn't cost you all that much. We could sit and drink a little and eat and talk, if that's all you want. How about it, mister? I'm not that bad for a man who wants company."

  She was trying too hard, wasting too much time, and it didn't fit the pattern of her kind. There could be others like her in every tavern, more in the hotels; a host of watching eyes. He felt the prickle of warning which had so often saved him before, the primitive caution reacting to the possibility of a trap.

  It was time to move.

  Rising he dropped money on the table; enough to pay for her time, to save her from a beating if she was exactly what she appeared to be. A cluster of men stood at the bar and he circled them at a safe distance. The door was low, forcing him to duck as he stepped into the street.

  Outside, they were waiting.

  * * * * *

  It was almost dark, the great ball of the sun a sullen glow on the horizon; the street filled with smoky shadows patched with blobs of luminescence from windows and lanterns set behind tinted panes. In such light details were lost; but Dumarest could see the hulking patch of darkness to his right, another to his left, a third facing him from across the street. Loungers, perhaps, casual wanderers or some of the familiar predators of the night; the thieves and muggers always to be found in such places, pimps offering the bodies of their women.

  But such men would not work in harmony, would not all ease forward at the same time, their pace accelerating as he moved from the low doorway.

  Three of them at least, and o
thers could be within easy distance.

  Dumarest stopped, rose, knife in hand; a beam of stray light catching the nine-inch blade, winking on the honed edge, the needle-sharp point. Even as he drew the knife he had turned, was running back the way he had come, past the doorway of the tavern towards the man who loped towards him.

  From behind came an urgent voice. "Get him!"

  The man was tall, lithe, a fighter with accustomed reflexes; hampered now by his clothing, the unexpected speed of the attack. Even so he was fast. As Dumarest lunged forward he backed, lifting his hand, something whining from the weapon he carried.

  Dumarest felt it rip at his shoulder as he ducked and then he was on the man: knife lifting in a blur, the edge biting, dragging through the flesh and bone of the wrist so that hand and weapon fell in a fountain of blood. Even as the man opened his mouth to scream the point was rising, slashing to hit the throat, to sever the arteries feeding the brain.

  "Mineo!"

  Dumarest spun at the sound of the voice. The man at his rear was close, the one opposite halting as he raised his gun. At a distance of forty feet he thought he was safe, taking his time as he aimed. He took too long. Even as he aligned the barrel Dumarest was moving, his arm lifting; the knife was a shimmer as it lanced through the air to bury its point in an eye, the brain beneath. Unarmed he leapt to one side, forward as the remaining assailant hesitated, undecided whether to fight or run. The delay cost him his life. Even as he fired Dumarest was on him; the stiffened palm of his right hand cutting at the side of the neck, the fingers of his left gripping the hand which held the gun, crushing flesh against metal. Again he struck, felt the impact, heard the dull snap of bone and turned; poised as a man came running down the street towards him.

  "Earl! What goes on?"

  Branchard, the captain of the Tophier, the vessel which had brought Dumarest to Tynar. He pursed his lips as he saw the dead; watching as Dumarest recovered his knife, wiping it clean on the man it had killed before thrusting it back into his boot.

  "Earl?"

  "They were waiting for me. There could be others."

  "Then we'd better get out of here." Branchard scooped up a discarded weapon. "Let's go!"

  They found a place in a small inn towards the center of the town; a discrete place with a troupe of dancers moving gracefully to the tap of a drum, gossamer fabrics catching varicolored light so that they seemed to move in a kaleidoscope of subtle luminescence. The wine was worth less than a tenth of what they paid, but the price was for entertainment and privacy. In the glow of an emerald lantern, Branchard examined the weapon he had found.

  "A dart gun," he commented. "Vibratory missiles which throw the central nervous system all to hell. They can cripple, but rarely kill. Whoever was after you, Earl, didn't want you dead. Robbers, maybe?"

  "Maybe." Dumarest looked at his shoulder. The plastic was torn, the mesh beneath bright. Unable to penetrate, the missile had left him unharmed.

  "But you don't think so." Branchard was shrewd. "You could be right. Three men, armed like they were; it doesn't make sense. One would have been enough, but I guess they wanted to make sure."

  Dumarest said, "I waited. What kept you?"

  "I had trouble finding Eglantine."

  "And?"

  "I found him," said Branchard heavily. "Earl, you're crazy. His ship's a wreck. If you want to commit suicide there are a hundred more pleasant ways. Listen," he added urgently, "there's no need for going off like that. Stick with the Tophier. We're doing well, mostly thanks to you, and we can do better. Why waste all you've made on chartering a vessel which won't be able to hold air for much longer, let alone get where you want it to? Why not use the Tophier! Hell," he said dryly, "we can use the trade."

  "Where are you heading when you leave Tynar?"

  Branchard shrugged, "It depends on what we can get as cargo, Earl. Maybe Lochis with metals, or Hemdalt with stones. Branch, even if we can get nothing but local products. Anywhere which will show a profit. You know that."

  "Yes," said Dumarest. "And so do others."

  "Those after you?" The captain frowned. "I've not asked, Earl, because it's your business. I figured that if you wanted me to know you'd have told me. But I can guess. You've got powerful enemies, right?"

  Dumarest nodded.

  "And I can make a guess that they are fond of wearing scarlet. That's why you had to leave Chard in a hurry. Well, no matter; as it turned out they did me a favor. Now I want to do you one. To hell with profit. Give the word and I'll take you anywhere you want to go. I mean it, Earl. Anywhere."

  For any captain to make such an offer was rare, for a Free Trader unknown. Dumarest poured Branchard more wine.

  "Thank you, but no."

  "Why the hell not?"

  For reasons Dumarest didn't want to explain. Already he had stayed with the Tophier too long; but the last port of call had been bad as regards easy shipping, the one before even worse. Now they had found him: the city was alive with potential enemies and, once they learned of the cargo the ship would be carrying, any cyber would be able to predict where it would next land. And that would not be necessary. Already the ship would have been planted with detectors, arrangements made to negate any plan of escape he might have considered, using the ship as a vehicle.

  He said, "If I leave with you we'll be followed. Burned out of space, maybe. You want to risk that?"

  Branchard glowered at his wine.

  "Well?"

  "No, Earl, I'll be honest. The Tophier is all I have. Once it's gone I'll be no better than a stranded traveler. But would they really do that?"

  "They'd do it."

  For the sake of the secret he carried. The correct sequence of units which formed the affinity-twin. The means by which one mind could dominate another, to the extent of literally taking over mind and body. To use a subjective host to gain a new existence; to see and taste and feel, to enjoy a completely new life. A bribe no old man could refuse, no aging matron resist.

  "All right, Earl." Branchard accepted defeat. "You'll do as you think best, but I still think you're crazy to ride with Eglantine. What else do you want me to do?"

  "Nothing." Dumarest looked towards the stage. The dancers had gone, replaced by three women who sang like angels; the thin, high notes of their song rising like the sigh of wind, the thrum of harps. "Just be honest. Make a point of telling people what you're carrying and where you are going. Someone will ask for passage-give it to him. If anyone asks about me, tell them the truth. I've shipped out, but you don't know where. Tell them about Eglantine if they press. Remember that you've got nothing to hide, nothing to answer for."

  And, if he was lucky, nothing would happen to him or his vessel. He would be watched, followed perhaps; checked for a while and then forgotten as no longer being of importance. Forgotten-and safe.

  Branchard finished his wine.

  "So this is it, Earl. Goodbye. I guessed it would have to end. Do I have to tell you that, anytime we meet, you've always got a friend?"

  "No." said Dumarest. "You don't have to tell me that."

  "We'd best not leave together, in go out the front door and you take the one next to the stage. It leads to a back alley. Turn left and climb the wall. Go right and you're heading towards the field. Eglantine is expecting you." Branchard blew out his cheeks. "Look after yourself, Earl."

  * * * * *

  Eglantine was small, fat: his face creased like a prune, his eyes twin chips of agate, his teeth startlingly white. His ship was like his clothes; patched, worn, soiled with stains.

  "Earl Dumarest." He gestured to a chair in the dingy room used as a salon. "Branchard told me about you. You want to charter the Styast, right?"

  "You know it."

  "But the terms of charter were a little vague. And, as yet, I've seen no money."

  "The terms are what I say." Dumarest was curt. "Ten thousand ermils to the next planetfall."

  "Which will be?"

  "Where I say after we have le
ft Tynar." Dumarest jingled the money; thick, octagonal coins each set with a precious gem, accepted tender on any world. "If you've changed your mind say so now. There are other ships."

  "But none as cheap," said Eglantine quickly. "And, perhaps, none available. But let us not be hasty. All I know is that you want to charter my ship. To the next planetfall, you say; but that could be a world on the other side of the galaxy. Where's the profit in that? A man has to know what he's selling."

  "And buying," snapped Dumarest. "From what I hear your vessel is a wreck. Maybe I'm making a mistake."

  "Maybe," Eglantine shrugged and spread his ringed hands. "What man can claim that never in his life, has he made a mistake? And yet why should we quarrel? You need my vessel and I am available. All I ask is for a little information. What cargo will you be carrying?"

  "None."

  Eglantine hid his surprise. No cargo, which meant that Dumarest was in a hurry to get away and had no wish to travel on a normal ship. Charters were never cheap, but had certain advantages; and why should he object when the money was in plain view? Yet old habits died hard. A man willing to pay so much might be pressed to pay even more.

  Then he looked again at the man before him, and changed his mind. In any game of bluff Dumarest would be the winner. In any confrontation he would never lose. There was that look about him, the hard sureness of a man who had never known the protection of House, Guild or Organization; who had early learned to rely on no one but himself.

  But still he had to assert his position; as captain he was in command.

  "Our destination," he said. "I must know it. Surely you can see that."

  "As I said, you will be told it after we leave."

  "That will be tomorrow at sunset."

  "No," said Dumarest. "It will be now. Is your crew aboard? They should be. It was part of the deal. Now let's get down to it. Is the ship mine or not? Make up your mind."

  Eglantine said, "I expect you would like to examine the crew."

  Like the ship and the captain, the crew left much to be desired. An engineer with a blotched and mottled face, who reeked of cheap wine and had a withered hand. A handler, a boy; star-crazed and willing to work for bed and board, filling in as steward. A navigator, with rheumed eyes and a peculiar, acrid odor which told of a wasting disease. And a minstrel.