Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

by E. C. Tubb

  Rearing, the olcept screamed.

  It was a thin, high, shrilling sound, one born of rage and designed to freeze prey into immobility by the grating harmonics. The instinctive reaction of a beast which had been hurt and one which gave Dumarest the chance to climb to his feet.

  The flashlight had been knocked from his hand and lay to one side, the beam throwing a cone of brilliance over the ground, one edge touching the side of the raft. A guide to the weapons within, but to try and reach them was to risk too much. To run from the olcept was to invite swift and sudden death.

  "Navalok! Can you hear me? Navalok!"

  A chance, the boy, if dazed, could be recovering and with the gun he could at least provide a distraction, but he made no answer and Dumarest knew that he was alone. As the olcept rushed he moved, darting backwards, lunging forward, the knife a blur in his hand, the point reaching for the snout, the edge rasping over scales, sliding to cut at the side appendage, to send the severed tissue to the ground.

  Like an uncoiling spring the beast spun, tail whining through the air, lashing beneath Dumarest's boots as he jumped high into the air. Landing he threw himself forward, the knife like a sword as it stabbed at the junction of a rear leg with the body, the point reaching the soft portion and burying itself deep in the gut.

  A savage stab which freed a shower of blood, a shower which gushed into a flood as, twisting the blade, he jerked it free.

  Again the olcept screamed. It reared high on its back legs, turning, tail and snout and talons ripping the air in a circle of rending destruction. Dumarest felt the blow across his chest as, too late, he hurled himself backward. A blow which stripped plastic from the buried mesh as the claws gouged deep.

  He landed hard against the side of the raft and threw himself over it, snatching at a spear and lifting it as the creature, vicious with pain, came after him. The long blade stabbed at the jaw, sank into the soft flesh beneath the chin, was torn free as the beast shook its head, stabbed again at the eyes.

  Stabbed and hit and sank deep into a socket as the front talons ripped splinters from the shaft, smashing the weapon from Dumarest's hands as, desperately, he jumped from the far side of the raft.

  The knife was gone, the spear, the gun lying beside the boy was probably empty. And facing him was a half-blind animal savage with pain and determined to kill. One which paused and, with head cocked, snuffed at the air.

  One eye was gone, its sense of smell impaired, only its acute hearing remaining intact. Cautiously Dumarest stooped and, sheltered by the body of the raft, gathered up a handful of stones. Rising he threw one to land beyond the creature. It hit with a harsh rattle and, as the head turned towards it, he threw another with the full force of arm and back and shoulder.

  A primitive missile which hurtled through the air as if flung from a sling to hit the remaining eye, to pulp it, to leave the olcept blind.

  Dumarest was moving as it reared, screaming. Rounding the raft he snatched up the spear and lunged forward, the blade lifted, extended, the point held at an angle to the ground. As it pricked the underside of the throat he dropped, ramming the butt against the side of his boot, forcing it hard against the ground. The shaft bent as the weight of the creature drove the point up and into its throat, its brain, the weakened shaft snapping as, threshing, it flung itself from side to side.

  Releasing his grip on the spear Dumarest threw himself to one side, rolled, climbed to his feet. In the glow of the flashlight he could see the glimmer of his knife and, as the beast turned away from him, he snatched it up. The olcept was badly hurt, perhaps dying, but it could still take revenge. Dirt rose in plumes from beneath its feet as, the shattered spear dragging from beneath its jaw, it spun and twisted in blind agony. Blood sprayed to spatter the raft, the ground, the limp figure of the boy. Another step and it would be on him, claws ripping at the unconscious figure, tearing the flesh as they tore at the ground.

  Dumarest shouted, moved, shouted again, drawing the thing towards him, backing, darting in to sting with the knife, to back again until, at the edge of the promontory, he gave a final yell then darted aside as, blindly, the olcept rushed, to fall over the edge, to crash down the sheer slope and pulp itself on the ground far below.

  * * * * *

  Navalok groaned, stirred, suddenly reared where he lay in the body of the raft.

  "Earl! I-Earl!"

  "Steady." Dumarest was beside him, one arm thrown comfortingly about his shoulders. "It's all right, Navalok. It's all right."

  "The olcept?"

  "Dead." Dumarest added, casually, "You killed it."

  "I killed it?" The boy echoed his incredulity. "But how? The gun? Did I shoot it?"

  "No. You missed each time."

  "The light was bad and it came so fast there was no time to aim. I remember it coming for me and then there was a blow and I saw stars and… and… ?" He frowned, trying to remember. "My foot twisted under me. I remember that. Then-I killed it, you say?"

  "Yes."

  "But how, Earl? How?"

  Dumarest lifted a canteen wet a cloth and held it to the injured temple. The raft hovered thirty feet above the ground and a dozen from the edge of the promontory where the beast had fallen. It was late, the stars bright in the sky, the air still with a sleeping hush.

  "Earl?"

  "Lie back and relax. Just do as I say." As the boy obeyed Dumarest switched on a flashlight and, in the reflected light of the beam, lifted each eyelid in turn and studied the whites of the boy's eyes. They were clear of bloodclots and the bone at the temple was unbroken. "You were lucky, Navalok. No real damage and nothing but a minor concussion. Can't you remember what happened?"

  "Only that I was hit, Earl and that I fell."

  "Then you managed to get to your feet again and-" Dumarest broke off, shaking his head. "Are you certain you can't remember killing the olcept?"

  "Did I?"

  For answer Dumarest lifted the tunic he had removed from the unconscious youth. It was smeared and stained with blood. More blood marked the hands, resting in the quick of the nails, lying thickly on the boots. Traces he had purposely made.

  Frowning the boy shook his head. "Earl, I-"

  "You were hurt and probably dazed," said Dumarest quickly. "But I had no time to worry about that. The thing came for me after you'd been hit and I had to run. When I turned you had a spear and were moving in to the attack. I yelled out, but you didn't answer, and the next thing I knew you were stabbing at the beast. You got it in the guts and then, as it reared, you managed to get the point under the chin. The shaft snapped then and the olcept charged. It was dying and must have been desperate. Anyway, it went over the edge. You'd collapsed and, at first, I thought you were dead. I guess we were both lucky."

  "And you carried me into the raft and lifted?"

  "Yes, there could have been others." That, at least, was no lie. "I washed you down as best I could and made you comfortable. You were breathing so all I could do was to wait."

  Wait and whisper in the unconscious boy's ear, his voice directed at the subconscious, implanting the suggestion of false memories and bolstering the story he had just been given. Words spoken and reinforced as the lad had turned and muttered prior to waking.

  A lie which had given him the proof of manhood he craved.

  "You've won your trophy," said Dumarest. "When it's light we'll collect the head. Now I want to get back to the cave."

  Nothing had changed. Outside there had been blood and death, pain and violence, but within the chamber silence still held sway and the ghosts of the past thronged close as if to whisper their message.

  Dumarest stood at the foot of the dirt blocking the opening, the beam of the flashlight bright as it impacted against the rayed disc of the depicted sun. A symbol which he was certain held more than it seemed.

  For a long moment he studied it, hearing the small sounds from outside where Navalok, in the raft, washed the blood from his clothes and body. Happy sounds, the boy was vibrant
at his gain, the trophy, the gun he could now wear with authority, the place which soon would be his as a leader of the Family. A happiness Dumarest had given; one he wished he could share.

  The sun.

  Guardians of the Sun.

  The message, if there was one, had to be connected with the symbol dominating the chamber. Again he stepped close to it, seeing the play of light over the surface, the interplay of shimmering colors as the beam was refracted from the grating.

  A code? Tiny dots formed to spell out words? An equation of some kind? A set of coordinates? A recording hidden somehow in the disc itself?

  Fallen stone lay heaped at the foot of the debris. Dumarest gathered it, formed a pile, mounted to its summit and found his hands still inches below the disc. Heightening the pile he rested the flashlight in the dirt so the beam shone full on the disc, his shadow occluding the light as he climbed. The thing was thick, heavy, held firm against the wall. Lifting the knife from his boot he thrust the point beneath the lower edge and heaved. The tempered blade bent a little but he thought he detected a trace of movement. Lifting the steel he jerked at the side of the disc, felt a resistance, jerked again and went tumbling backwards as, suddenly, like a door the rayed orb swung towards him.

  The back was hollowed, ringed with a series of patterns, dots arranged as were the artificial stars. In the centre, held by clips, rested an oblong strip of plastic.

  It sprang free as Dumarest tugged at it and he examined it as he stood on the floor of the chamber. An almost opaque strip of material bearing nothing in the way of figures or words. He held it before his eyes and saw only a murky coloration. A scrap of plastic without any possible intrinsic value yet it had been kept in the most sacred place of this shrine.

  An object of veneration-but what?

  The reflected light was dim and he looked at it again as he held it before the lens of the flashlight. In the bright illumination the colors became clear, a swathe stretching from red to violet marked with dark lines of varying intensity.

  A spectrum?

  Dumarest turned the flashlight, his hands quivering a little, conscious of the sudden acceleration of his heart. Placing the strip over the lens he shone the beam on the floor. An adjustment and he corrected the focus a little, not much and the pattern shown was far short of that thrown by a projector, but it was clear enough for him to be certain as to what he had found.

  The plastic held the spectroscopic record of a source of illumination and that source could only be a star.

  It had to be a star.

  A sun.

  Each had its own spectrogram and no two were alike. As a thumbprint would identify one man from millions so a spectrogram would identify one star from those that thronged the galaxy. And this pattern, he had no doubt, belonged to the sun which had warmed him as a child.

  Sol.

  Earth's primary.

  He held the clue which could guide him back home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There were nooks in the House, small places set in secluded ways, some graced with delicate carvings, others the repository of lichens and vagrant beams of light which threw soft illumination over stone and bench and the worn flags of the floor. The roof too was a series of flat spaces, some edged with crenelations, others flanked with high walls so that for most of the day they were filled with shadow.

  Places which were the favorite rendezvous of lovers and to which Dephine was no stranger.

  "Look, Earl." She pulled at his arm and led him across worn stone to where a buttress made a private spot in the corner of a scented garden. Massed in pots a profusion of herbs made an enticing aroma, their fronds hanging down over the walls and trailing on the ground. "I used to come here often as a child. There was a bench and I used to sit and scratch at the wall. See?"

  The bench had gone but the scratches remained; thin lines drawn with a childish hand; a crude picture of a bearded man, a stylized vessel of space, a verse which held within its stanzas an empty yearning.

  "Even then I wanted to get away," she murmured. "To escape. The House was like a cage and I was a bird pining to be free. Well, I did get free-and found the entire galaxy was nothing but a larger cage. Can freedom really exist, Earl? Is there any world on which a person can stand and be subjected to no restraint devised by man? Is there no place devoid of the power of those who are consumed with the desire to rule?"

  He said, quietly, "If there is I haven't found it."

  "And you've traveled further than most and seen a greater variety of worlds." She pressed close to him, her hand resting on his arm. "And you know how to handle men. Navalok will be your friend for life."

  "I did nothing."

  "No?" She turned and smiled and let her fingers trace the scars on his tunic, the ripped plastic beneath which the protective mesh shone with a metallic gleam. "You gave a boy his ambition. You took a cripple and turned him into a man. Is that nothing? How many on Emijar would have done as much? To kill and give another your trophy."

  "No." Dumarest was firm. "Navalok made the kill."

  "Or so you made him believe. And he does believe it, Earl. As do others. They can't conceive of anyone relinquishing a trophy to another when he has yet to gain one for himself." Again her fingers traced the scars on his tunic. "But I know better. You are kind, Earl. Gentle and kind. A boy would do well to have you for his father."

  And her for his wife. The implication was clear as was the invitation in her eyes. To marry, to settle down, to rear strong sons and lovely daughters, to grow old and leave his seed to continue his line on this world. To forget his dreams and accept the warm and solid comfort of present reality. To cease his search for Earth and to take what she offered. Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Earl?"

  "Let's go down," he said. "Hendaza will be waiting for us." The man was happy, seemingly relaxed, his smile coming with quick naturalness as he lifted his hands to touch those of Dephine and her companion.

  "Earl, the Family has much to thank you for. I add my own, special gratitude. Navalok is now, at last, a man."

  The ceremony was over, the notation made in the records, the youth now proudly bearing a gun at his belt Dumarest remembered how eyes had followed him as he had struggled beneath the weight of the severed head to hurl it down at the opening of the Shrine. Hendaza had radiated an almost tangible relief and Dumarest guessed that his previous contempt and acidity had been intended as a spur. One now withdrawn and a genuine concern taking its place. Fatherless, the boy had found a mentor. Hendaza would take the place of the missing parent.

  Lekhard had been edgy, sneering, turning away as he had met Dumarest's eyes. From him, later, there could be trouble but that was not Dumarest's concern. And Kanjuk, Lekhard's companion, had spoken to him and led the man from the assembly as if he had been a child.

  Hendaza shrugged as Dumarest mentioned it.

  "Lekhard is too ambitious and would have caused trouble had Navalok delayed obtaining his trophy for much longer. As you may have guessed I tried to spur him to courage in my own way. Now, as a potential Elder of the Family, he will crystalize various loyalties. Kanjuk knows that and will keep his friend in check."

  "And if he doesn't?" Dumarest was blunt. "Navalok can't meet a challenge."

  "He must if necessary." Hendaza was equally blunt. "That is the price he pays for being accepted as a man. But if Lekhard should challenge him without just cause he will face, not just one young man, but a line of others each of whom will challenge him in turn. Eventually he will fall. This he knows."

  A mad dog taken care of in the traditional manner, Dumarest could appreciate how it would be done. Other Houses he had known would have called on the aide of assassins, here on Emijar they were more honest-or naive.

  "And you, Earl?" Hendaza glanced towards Dephine. "When are we to celebrate your obtaining a trophy? Soon, I hope?"

  "Perhaps."

  "It will be soon, Hendaza," said Dephine firmly. "He would have had it by now but he had no wish to spoil
Navalok's moment of triumph."

  "A commendable attitude and one worthy of a man of proven courage. You should be proud, Dephine."

  "I am." She smiled with possessive affection. "Very proud. Earl-" The smile changed to a frown as he moved away. "Earl!"

  He said, without turning, "I'm going to see Navalok."

  * * * * *

  The boy was at practice. He stood at one end of a firing range, facing targets shaped in the image of a man, the gun in his hand lifting, to steady, to fire. A light set behind the targets showed where the bullets had struck.

  "I'm getting better, Earl. I can hit a man each time I fire now."

  "You can hit a target," corrected Dumarest. "A target can't shoot back."

  "Neither can a man if he's dead." Navalok lowered the gun, reloaded it, slipped it into his belt. "Watch this, Earl!"

  He was a boy, proud of his skill, a child eager to demonstrate his ability. The gun lifted from the holster, leveled, fired. On the target a light shone through a hole in the forehead.

  "There!"

  Dumarest said, dispassionately, "Navalok, you're a fool. Why aim for the head when the body offers a better target? And what if your opponent is wearing armor? If you want to play this stupid game then do it properly."

  "Stupid?"

  "If you want to kill a man then do it. Get in hard and fast and, above all, get in first. Don't give him a chance. To do that is to invite death. Don't waste time in talk. Just act and get it done with."

  "But Earl, the code-"

  "Is a game. Why else do you wear armor at times? To fight and not get hurt-so why fight at all. Now listen to me. Lekhard is no friend of yours and will challenge as soon as he can. How will he do it? Insult you?" Dumarest thinned his lips as the boy nodded. "Right, when he does make sure that witnesses overhear. Be polite and above all don't lose your temper. Look at him as you would vermin. Refuse to be pushed and he will try harder and then, when you've enough provocation, draw out that gun and kill him."

  "In public?" Navalok looked startled. "But, Earl a challenge has to be met with due formality."