by E. C. Tubb
Dephine said, shakily, "She's dead, Earl. Dead. But why put her into a box?"
Not a box, a coffin, her presence had turned a container into something special, but Dumarest didn't correct the woman. He leaned close, studying the lines of the dead face, the hollows of the cheeks and shoulders. The body was wrapped in plain white fabric from beneath the armpits to a little above the knees. The feet, long and sum, were bare, blotched as were the shins, the thighs.
"Earl?"
Dumarest moved, seeing the play of refracted light on the hair, silver strands which shimmered beneath the plastic envelope into which the body had been placed.
"For God's sake, Earl! Answer me! What's all this about?"
Dumarest said, slowly, "I'm not sure. Let's open another crate. One with the same markings."
Like the other it contained death, this time an elderly man, his face seamed, the brows tufted, the knuckles of his blunt-fingered hands scarred. Like the girl his body was marked with blotches. Like her he had been sealed in a plastic bag.
"Another." Dephine stared at the rest of the marked crates. "They're all coffins. I don't understand. Why stack them in a warehouse?" Her voice rose to hover on the edge of hysteria. "Earl, we've stolen a load of dead meat. A bunch of corpses. How the hell are they going to make us rich?"
"Stop it!" His hand landed on her cheek, red welts marking the impact of his fingers. "You aren't a child. You've seen dead men before, women too, so why be stupid?"
"You're right." She rubbed at her cheek. "It was just that I didn't expect to see corpses in those crates. They must have been packed away for later cremation or burial. But why do that?"
"The war."
"People die in war."
"Dephine-it depends what they died of."
"Earl?" She frowned, not understanding then said sharply, as he attacked the rest of the boxes, "No! If they contain more dead I don't want to see them. Leave it, Earl. Let the captain open them if he wants to."
Dumarest ignored the suggestion. The first two contained the bodies of a man and a woman, both middle-aged. The third held the shape of a slender man with a roached and dyed beard. The backs of his arms were heavily tattooed. Among the lurid designs was a name.
"The Varden." Dumarest sat back on his heels. "This must be the missing steward."
"Dead and sealed in a crate?" said Dephine blankly, then, as she realised the implication, added, "No, Earl! My God, not that!"
It couldn't be anything else. Dumarest remembered the stacked crates, the soldiers on duty, the Lieutenant's suspicions. And the gunfire he had thought a distraction which had come too late.
"Plague," he said. "It was in the city. Maybe the steward carried it or maybe he picked it up, either way he fell sick and died. The dead needed to be disposed of but with the city at war that wasn't too easy. A soldier could have seen something, put two and two together, and there would have been a riot. As it was the news must have leaked out."
"How can you say that?"
"I forget, you couldn't know. The officer at the warehouse, Lieutenant Frieze, fell sick and had to be taken from his post. I thought he was Lofoten's man, then I didn't, but he must have had the disease. The police summoned his superior to a conference. Maybe they wanted soldiers to ring the field. If the populace grew panic-stricken they would have rushed for transport away from Hoghan. The gunfire we heard was to beat them back, men firing into the air-it doesn't matter."
"Lofoten-the bastard!"
"I don't think he knew until the end."
"He wanted to come with us, Earl. To escape."
Perhaps, but he could have had another reason. And no sane man would willingly have placed himself in the position they were now in. It took a few moments for the woman to realise it.
"Earl! If the steward contracted the disease?"
"He died of it."
"But where? Here in the ship? Even if he didn't actually die in the vessel he could have brought it into the Varden with him. He slept here. And Remille. He didn't want to stay. He wouldn't even answer the radio-summons. He must have guessed that the authorities on Hoghan intended to seize the ship and place it in quarantine. And we thought they were, worried about a little loot. A mess." She looked at her hands, they were trembling, little shimmers darting from her nails. "And you, Earl. You were in the warehouse where that officer fell sick. You could have touched what he did. Even now-"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "It's possible."
"My God, Earl! What should we do?"
"Get the captain. Let him see what we've found then dump the crates into space."
"And?"
"Wait," he said grimly. "And, if you've a mind to, pray."
Chapter Five
Allia Mertrony did the praying, kneeling before a disc of polished brass, the bright orb wreathed in plumes of fuming incense. Her voice was a high, keening ululating chant, echoing from the bulkheads, scratching at the nerves.
"Listen to her!" Charl Tao scowled as he faced Dumarest in the corridor. "Can't you put a stop to it, Earl? Praying's one thing but this howling is getting me down."
"It's her way."
"Maybe, but it isn't mine." Chart rubbed the backs of his hands, a common gesture now, as was the quick glance he gave them. "A pity she had to know."
Dumarest said, flatly, "She had the right."
"And she would have found out anyway." Charl shook his head as the sound rose to grate at the ears. "Who would have thought an old crone like that had such powerful lungs? It comes with practice, I suppose, Earl?"
"Nothing."
"As yet." Charl rubbed his hands again, halting the gesture with an obvious effort. "To hell with it. If it gets me, it gets me. Come to my cabin later, I've a special bottle we might as well share while we can enjoy it."
"Later," said Dumarest.
He walked through the ship, stood in the hold, totally empty now aside from the caskets used to transport beasts and which, more often than not, held men. Those traveling Low, doped, frozen and ninety per cent dead, risking the fifteen per cent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. He had ridden that way too often, watching the lid close firmly over his face, sinking into oblivion and thinking as blackness closed around him, "this time… ?"
A gamble he had won so far, but no luck could last forever.
Aside from the lack of crates nothing seemed to have changed. The same, blue-white light streamed down from the bulbs and threw the stained paint and shabby furnishings into sharp relief.
As familiar a scene as were the cabins, the salon, the corridors and appointments of the ship. As was the faint vibration of the Erhaft field which sent the vessel hurtling through space. He had traveled on a hundred such ships and worked on many of them. They were a form of home, a pattern into which he could fit. But the Varden was different now. Something had been added. Something small, invisible, unknown.
The threat of the final illness.
Each had met it in their own way.
To Allia Mertrony it was a time for prayer. God was good and would help, but first God had to be aroused and informed of her need. Lars would see to that. Ten years dead now he would be waiting. Drifting in a state akin to sleep, until she should join him, so that together they could continue their journey into the infinite. A mating for life and eternity, so her sect was convinced, and two-thirds of her life had been spent making certain she had found the right man. The cap she wore to hide the temptation of her hair was a public announcement that she was sworn to another.
The bulkheads quivered to the force of her wordless ululations.
The disc before which she knelt was not an idol but a focus for her thoughts. The incense was a sacrifice blessed by tradition. Her prayers were to inform Lars of her condition, to prepare him for her coming if that was to be. To wake him to intercede on her behalf. Not to be saved, for death was inevitable, and to live beyond the allotted span a sin, but to die bravely. So let there be no pain. Let her face and figure escape further ravishment, not for
the sake of pride but for the dignity a man expected in his mate.
Soon now, soon-if God willed, they would be together.
In the engine room the handler and the engineer sat at their board playing endless games of chess, snarling at any who came to close. Firm in a limited area of isolation, they ate food from cans and drank from bottles sealed with heavy gobs of wax. Nurtured stores bought with past gains; small luxuries which normally would have been doled out a little at a time, now used with wanton extravagance for a double reason. Sealed they would be uncontaminated, used they would not be wasted.
Dephine remained in her cabin, taking endless mist-showers, anointing her body with salves Charl provided, adorning herself with the gems they had found.
She turned as Dumarest entered the cabin, tall, sparkling with jewels and precious metal. Her hair, dressed, provided a cradle for the tiara. The earrings fell from her ears to almost touch her shoulders. At throat and wrists reflected light shone with the lurid glow of trapped fires, green and red, amber and azure, the clear blue of sapphires, the splintered glow of diamonds.
Slamming the door he said, "You fool!"
"Why? Because I like what we found?" She turned before him, her dress stained, the jewels making her appear tawdry and, somehow, cheap.
"What if someone else had come into the cabin?"
"They wouldn't. I had it locked."
"You didn't."
"Then I forgot. But who would dare to walk in like you did? No one owns me, Earl. Not even you."
He said, cruelly, "The Lady Dephine de Monterale Keturah. A woman who comes from a family which values pride above all. Isn't that what you told me?"
"So?"
"They should see you now. Not even the cheapest harlot would dress herself like that."
"You bastard!"
He caught her hands as they rose towards his face, halting the nails as they stabbed towards his eyes, his fingers hard around her wrists, tight against the bone. She strained, spat into his face, jerked up a knee in a vicious blow to the groin. He twisted, taking it on the thigh, then pushed her back and away to slam hard against the far wall.
"Do that again and you'll regret it," he said coldly.
"You'd do what-slice off my fingers?" Her sneer turned to trepidation as she looked at his face, saw the cold eyes, the mouth grown suddenly cruel. "You'd do it," she said. "You'd really do it."
He said nothing, wiping the spittle off his cheek.
"Earl!" Afraid now, she was contrite. "I-you shouldn't have said what you did. You had no right."
"Look at yourself, woman!" Catching her shoulder he turned her to face the full-length mirror. "Dressed in gems looted from the dead. Have you no sense?"
"They didn't come from the dead! Earl, you know that! They were in a separate cache. I-" She broke off, a hand lifting to touch the tiara. "You don't think that girl wore this before she died? Some cultures destroy personal possessions with the dead. Earl?"
"No." To frighten her further would serve no purpose and the damage, if damage there was, had been done. "Get rid of those things. Hide them."
Slowly she removed the gems, letting them fall into a glittering heap on the bunk.
"Fren Harmond was talking, Earl. He can't understand why Remille doesn't return to Hoghan. They could have a vaccine there by now. He wanted Charl to join him in a deputation."
"He's wasting his time."
"Maybe, but Remille's only human and what good is a ship to a dead man? He might decide to take a chance on the penalties. If he does we're in trouble, Earl. Kan Lofoten would have spilled his guts about what we did. If they ever got us they would kill us. Atlmar's Legion isn't noted for being gentle." Pausing she added, "They could even follow us. Have you thought of that?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"You don't tell a captain to change course unless you have good reason," said Dumarest. "I've tried and he isn't interested. He needs more than words."
Fren Harmond provided it. He sat in his cabin, his bandaged leg supported before him, his face seamed and graven with lines of pain. A stubborn man, refusing the drugs Dumarest had offered which would have eased his anguish. A fanatic who believed that the body would heal itself if left alone.
"It's killing me!" The leg twitched as he moved it, beads of sweat dewing his forehead. "The pain-Earl, help me!"
Charl Tao stood at the other side of the sick man. Meeting Dumarest's eyes he shrugged.
"My friend, I have done my best, but what use is skill when dealing with a fool? I've offered him the surcease of dreams. I have a salve which will knit bone and abolish scars, add muscle and strengthen tissue if used in the correct manner. I-"
"You're not in a market now, Charl. Be serious." Dumarest touched the flesh above the bandages. It was febrile, the skin scabrous to the touch. "How did you do this?"
"I was out climbing. I slipped and hurt the ankle. Yield to a small pain and it will get worse so I made my way back home. The ship was due and I had to get to the field. A local man applied the bandage."
"A doctor?"
"A tradesman-he had the cloth."
"And it hurt then as it does now?"
"It hurt, but not as badly. Pain is the signal that the flesh is healing itself and to be expected in case of injury. But it is getting worse, more than I can bear."
Which should mean, following the man's own logic, that the injury was almost well. An anomaly which Dumarest didn't mention as he removed the bandages.
Charl Tao sucked in his breath at the sight of the wound.
"Harmond, my friend, you have a problem."
A bad one. The flesh around and above the ankle was puffed and streaked with ugly strands of red, parts of it so purple as to be almost black. A broken place oozed a thick, yellow pus and the wound held a sickly stench. The result of infection, gangrene, poisons, carried into the broken skin from stale clothing. The cause no longer mattered.
"Earl?"
"It's bad. Does this hurt? And this?" Dumarest pressed his fingers along the length of the leg. "Have you a swelling in the groin? Yes?" His fingers touched the spot through the clothing, meeting a hard node of swollen tissue in the crease between the leg and stomach. One of the major lymph glands acting as a defense against the poisons. "That will have to be lanced to ease the pressure. A drain fitted. The ankle needs to be cauterized-you've dead tissue there which must be burned away."
"No!" Harmond shook his head. "Not the use of drugs and fire. Not the touch of iron. The body will heal itself given the chance."
"You asked me to help you."
"Yes, to change the dressing, to ease the pain in some way. Some have that power. By the touch of their hands they can bring peace."
"Earl is one of them," said Charl dryly. "But the peace he gives is permanent. He does it like this." His hands reached for the sick man's throat; thick fingers pressed sharply and lifted as the head lolled. "Quickly, Earl! Give him the drugs before he recovers!"
Dumarest lifted the hypogun and blasted sleep-inducing drugs into the unconscious man's throat. Changing the setting and load of the instrument he fired it around the wounded ankle, heavy doses of antibiotics coupled with compounds to block the nerves and end the transmission of pain.
"Help me get him on his bunk," he ordered. "Strip and wash him and then you can operate."
"Me?"
"You have the skill," said Dumarest. "And the knowledge. The way you put him out-a trick taught to the monks of the Church of Universal Brotherhood. A pressure on sensitive nerves, as good as an anesthetic if applied with skill. You've had medical training, Charl. You deny it?"
The plump man shrugged. "A few years in a medical school, Earl, in which I gained a few elementary facts and some basic knowledge. Then something happened-a woman, but there is no need to go into detail. Just let me say that it became imperative to travel." He looked at his hands. "But I have never operated since that time."
"Then it's time you began. Tell me what you need and I'll
see if it's in the ship. If it isn't you'll have to make out the best you can."
"You'll help me?"
"No, I'm going to see the captain."
* * * * *
Crouched like a spider in its lair, Captain Remille sat in his great chair and dreamed. Around him the web of electronic, impulses searched space and hung like a protective curtain about his ship. From an outside viewpoint the shimmering field of the drive would have turned the scarred vessel into a comet-like thing of beauty but inside where he sat only the glow of tell-tales, the brilliant glory of the screens, relieved the gloom.
A buzz and he tensed, a click and he relaxed. The warning had been taken care of. The ship had made a minute correction in its headlong flight and a scrap of interstellar matter, perhaps no larger than a pea, had been safely avoided.
Sinking back, he looked at the screens. Always he enjoyed the spectacle of naked space, the blaze of scattered stars, the sheets and curtains of glowing luminescence, the haloed blotches of dust clouds, the fuzz of distant nebulae. Stars uncountable, worlds without end, distances impossible to contemplate with the limited abilities of the mind.
Remille didn't try it. More than one captain had been driven insane by contemplation of the cosmos, fantasies born in distorted minds, the product of wild radiations and wilder rumors. Things lived in space, or so it was hinted, great beings with gossamer wings which caught the light of suns and carried them like drifting smears of moonlight across the voids. And other creatures which no one living had ever seen. Ravenous beasts which lurked in space as great fish lurked in seas, waiting to rend ships and men.
The proof had been found in wreckage ripped plates bearing unnatural scars, crews which had vanished without apparent cause, empty hulks which had been gutted and robbed of life. If living entities hadn't done such things then what had?
Questions asked by old men in taverns, echoed by romantic fools. Space, to Remille, was something to be crossed. Dangers to avoid. All he had in life was the ship-he could do without imagination. "Captain?"