by E. C. Tubb
"Too few marrying too close," he said. "Too much fighting, too many feuds, too much good blood wasted in futile quarrels. And, always, there is the fury from the suns-the Chandorah is rife with dangerous radiation." The tuft of feathers fell from his hand and he turned to look at Dumarest. "We are dying, Earl. The Quelen is dying. Too few children are born to us and of those, too few survive. Once we were strong, now we are weak, decadent." His shrug was expressive. "You have seen those who haunt the Mart."
The product of inbred frailties accentuated by progressive degeneration; moronic, viciously cruel, retarded, sterile, insane.
"New blood is needed," said Vruya. "But the Quelen are proud. They think that to marry outside is to demean their status."
"But not you, my lord."
"A start must be made. Once the children arrive-strong, healthy offspring, the sense will be obvious. A matter of fashion, Earl. Of reeducation." Vruya glanced at the woman's portrait. "Unless it is done and soon the Quelen will cease to exist within five generations." He shook himself as if to fight off a sudden chill. "But enough of that. Pour more wine, Earl, and let us enjoy the moment."
She had the hair, the blood, the saliva gathered when he had dabbed her handkerchief against his wounded mouth. She had skin caught beneath the fine-edged nails of her hand; small flakes of dead epidermis but it was enough. Her skill would provide the rest-and the doll would take little time.
It grew beneath her hands, the puttylike substance formed to an ancient recipe, mixed to the incantation of esoteric spells, fashioned into a male likeness, its body containing the blood, hair, skin and saliva won from the man who had saved her life.
One she was now making her own.
Smoke rose from the ornament of brass and Eunice sucked it deep into her lungs. Pungent fumes scented with strong herbs, blended with selected chemicals, drugs, compounds which aided the direction and detachment of the mind. Already the world had taken on a blurred image, lines and planes distorted as if seen through flawed crystal. On the open tome the skull stared at her with sympathetic amusement.
The doll was finished, the lineaments of face and body carefully detailed with the skill of an artist. One bearing grey garments, hastily made, but good enough to emphasize the similarity.
"Earl," she whispered. "Come to me. Come to me, my darling. Come to me."
A command repeated until it took on the monotonous drone of a chant-conducted to the soft pound of her fist on the floor as, squatting, she yielded to the miasma spreading from her mind.
"Come… come… come to me, Earl. Come… come… come to me, Earl."
A command he must obey for she had his blood, his hair, his skin and saliva. And, as the whole was a sum of its parts, so a part was representative of the whole. Ancient magic culled from the tomes she had studied, applied with studied art, backed by a rigid conviction.
"Come… come… come to me, Earl. Come… come… come to me, Earl."
And he came.
He stood within the door of her chamber looking down at her where she squatted on the floor.
"My lord!" The woman who had guided him was of the Ypsheim-of middle age with a smooth, round, emotionless face. "It is not a good time. Perhaps it would be better for you to leave and return later."
Dumarest said, "Is this common?"
"It happens, my lord."
When the sun was close or the stars in a certain order or the wind from the sea. A madness which struck as a fit would strike and then he saw the doll and recognized the similarity and knew that this madness was a thing as ancient as time.
"Earl!" She rose and stepped toward him, arms extended, the doll lying forgotten on the floor. "Earl!"
A woman with the face of a child, empty now, vacuous, the lips moist with the saliva which had dribbled down her chin. Her eyes held secret torments.
"Please, my lord." The woman who had guided him touched his arm. "It would be best for you to leave."
A maid, an attendant-one who now acted the nurse. Dumarest watched as she moved toward Eunice, her voice low, soothing. A voiceless croon which the other obeyed as, like a rag doll, she allowed herself to be led from the chamber.
Alone Dumarest looked at the dolls, the limpid pool of the mirror, the fuming incense, the ancient tomes. Echoes of the woman who owned them. One soon to be married. To Urich Sheiner-who knew of Earth.
Chapter Six
"Nothing," said Ysanne. "You went crawling and got nothing but the promise to see you later-three days after we've got to meet the repair bills." Her hand rose to touch his mouth. "The gratitude of princes," she said. "Well, at least you got a kiss."
And perhaps more; Dumarest remembered the way Vruya had acted, the way he had spoken. A message without words built of silences, allusions, innuendos. A promise hinted at and probabilities displayed. And then, at the last, the unmistakable direction to visit Eunice.
Did he know she practiced witchcraft?
Did he care?
"A fool," said Ysanne. "He's an old fool. I've been asking around and learning a few things. And he made you a bigger one."
Wrong-Vruya was no fool. Old, yes, a little afraid of what he knew was to come, but far from stupid. And he had made it plain what he hoped for. Good blood-that proved by combat. Fresh seed to revitalize the Quelen using Eunice as a beginning. A woman rejected by others of her kind, willing to marry an outsider for the respect children would give her. The power and prestige she hoped to gain by the practice of esoteric arts.
Urich was a good choice. Old enough to present no problems should he sire sons; he would be past all dynastic ambitions, eager to gain the security Vruya had mentioned, the rewards he had emphasized again and again.
A bribe dangled before a second possible choice?
Gain to be won in blood?
Dumarest said, "We've wasted enough time. The ship has got to be made ready to leave."
"We?" Ysanne pursed her lips. "I'm not so sure about-" She saw his expression and broke off to add, "Andre's working at it. He's trying to find an engineer."
In a tavern shrouded in gloom at a table now used as a desk. The man facing him was small, thin, with furtive eyes. The hand which held his beaker was stained, one finger missing from the second joint.
"I can handle an engine," he insisted. "I rode with Captain Breece and he used to operate near the Rift. An old ship which needed nursing every inch of the way."
Batrun said, "The Brannhan Rift?"
"That's right. I quit maybe a year ago. Fell sick and tried my hand at fishing for a while. The Shendorh left without me and I haven't seen her since. If you know the Rift you can guess why."
"But you know your trade. Papers?"
The man shook his head. "Lost when I fell into the water. That's when I got this." He held up his damaged hand. "But I can do the job."
"If you don't you'll breathe vacuum." In the dim light of the tavern Batrun's hair shone with a soft, silver luminosity, but there was no mistaking the harsh determination of his face. He looked up to where Ysanne and Dumarest stood behind him. "What do you think?"
"It's up to you, Andre." Batrun was the captain and needed to maintain his pride. "Right, Earl?"
"No question as to that," said Dumarest. "But the Erce's a free trader and we all have a stake in what's decided." To the man he said, "Can you handle a Belmonte gauge?"
"Sure."
"And a Vicks-Conway vernier?" As the man hesitated Dumarest said, "Lie again and that's the last drink you'll ever taste. There's no such thing as a Belmonte gauge. Beat it!"
Batrun sighed as the man obeyed. "He was the last of the bunch, Earl. As useless as the rest of them but he helped to advertise our interest."
And had been desperate enough to take a chance on a bluff. One which could have killed them all had he got away with it. Dumarest took a seat and looked up as a girl set down a flagon and thin glasses.
"A gift, sir," she said before he could question. "From the gentleman over there."
It was Vosper and he came t
oward them, smiling.
"Drink," he said. "Celebrate. I bring good news."
"Such as?"
"A proposition." The entrepreneur lowered his bulk into a chair and busied himself with the flagon. "To you, my dear. And you, Captain. Earl!" He lifted his own glass. "To health!"
Dumarest said, "What is the proposition?"
"Money in hand to pay the cost of repairs. Good, eh?"
"So far. And?"
Vosper drank some of his wine, turning the glass so as to study the color, pursing his lips as if to savor the taste. He was taking his time, enjoying the moment.
Dumarest said patiently, "You were saying?"
"Nothing, but I was thinking of how appreciative you might be. Unless the repairs are paid you will lose your vessel, right?"
"So?"
"It seems you are in my debt, Earl. And you must acknowledge that."
"Yesterday that would have been true," admitted Dumarest. "Today it is not This afternoon I took wine with the head of the Yekatania. Vruya-you may have heard of him." He set down his untouched wine. "I am also friendly with Eunice-again she is of the Yekatania. I was able to do her a small service. You may have heard of it." Rising he said, "A pity you came too late."
"Wait!" Vosper caught Dumarest by the arm. "I-damn it, man, you can't blame me for trying! At least hear what I have to offer."
"You mentioned money."
"Enough to pay all repair bills. The pressure will be off and you-" Vosper broke off, shaking his head. "An opportunity," he mourned. "A golden opportunity. One lost because we can't agree on a trifle of commission. Did I mention the repair money was just an advance?"
"In return for what?"
"I can't tell you that. Not here. But you're interested? I'm not wasting my time?"
Dumarest said, "Come to the Erce in an hour-and bring who you're working for with you."
He came cloaked and muffled to stand in the vestibule beyond the lock as Dumarest made it fast. Vosper, looking anxious, said, "I don't think we were seen, Earl, but if we were?"
"You came with Ysanne and stayed to talk. Your friend can be hidden." Dumarest looked at the cloaked figure. "Do I know you?"
"No. We are strangers."
"But we've met before. When the Nairn left-you were at the edge of the field. Am I to know your name?" Then, as the man hesitated, he added, "I told you before-the next time we spoke I would see your face. Now be open or leave!"
"I am Leo Belkner." The cloak opened and swung back over the man's shoulders. "As you see I am of the Ypsheim."
"So?"
"It seems I must tell you exactly what that means."
He explained in the salon, seated at the table, Vosper at his side. The entrepreneur, uneasy, gave added emphasis to his words.
"We are captives," he said. "I use the word in its truest sense. Not slaves or victims of war but a people held in bondage, who now have a special place in the social structure of Krantz. You may already have gained some idea as to what that place is."
Servants-Dumarest remembered Vruya's casual dismissal of the deaths of two of them. And yet they seemed to have freedom of movement. The underprivileged? The despised?
Belkner said, "It happened a long time ago. When the Ypsheim came to Krantz they came as beggars, bringing nothing and needing all. In return for aid, succor and sanctuary they promised servitude. The Quelen, too occupied with their feuds and strife, were glad to be freed of the bulk of essential labor. So the bargain, was agreed and sealed by both parties of that time. In return for labor the Quelen gave food, homes, care, the protection of law and the benefit of an established society. As payment the Ypsheim made a contract of debt. Until that debt has been paid we cannot leave this planet."
"So pay it," said Ysanne. "And be free."
"It isn't as simple as that." Vosper cleared his throat. "Accumulated interest has made the total debt astronomical. Even split it's far too much for any individual to pay."
"So leave anyway." Ysanne added, meaningfully, "There's more than one way to settle a debt."
As the Quelen must know. Dumarest leaned back, thinking, remembering the faces of the Ypsheim. Placid for the most part. Calm. For generations they had been trained to serve-what chance would they have against those steeled in conflict?
To Belkner he said, "You can't get permission to leave and you'd be slaughtered if you tried to rebel. So you are willing to meet our repair bill in return for giving you transportation away from Krantz. Correct?"
"Yes."
Batrun said, "It can't be done. There are too many of you."
"Not all." Vosper was quick with his interjection. "Just a full load. This ship's geared for it and you have staples to provide rations. Carry them under quick-time and-" His gesture completed the sentence. Men whom he thought were slavers should have no trouble. "Just the one run."
Carrying a proscribed cargo-one slip and they'd be blasted from the sky.
She had been dreaming but now it was over and it was good just to lie and watch the patterns on the ceiling. The mesh of lines which blurred to reform and take the shape of faces and things. Julienne whom she had known as a child and Franz who had been spiteful when he played and old Jehel, faithful old Jehel, who had looked like a tree with her face all wrinkled and dark and a voice which sounded like the rustle of leaves.
These memories yielded to other things, vistas of emptiness, the hurt of knowing her own inadequacy. The sneers of those around her and the gradual retreat into a world of her own, where she had found the secret of power. The ability to command and to be obeyed.
"Eunice?" She blinked at the face above her. "Eunice darling." Urich pressed the hand he held between his own. "Do you feel better now?"
A stupid question-when had she ever been ill?
"Eunice?"
"Go!" She smiled as the face vanished. "Come back!"
"Here." He had stooped to pick up a glass of juice, sweet yet with a tang. With, too, a sedative to calm her nerves. "Drink a little." His voice hardened as she refused to obey. "Drink, Eunice! Drink!"
"Go to hell!" Amusement bubbled within her at his shocked expression. "I don't need you, Urich. Not now. Not ever again. I just don't need you."
She saw his face crumple, a paper-mask falling to reveal his hurt. A confession of weakness which she found repulsive. One which caused her to rear upright on the bed, to fight a sudden nausea, to feel rage come with its hot and strengthening fire.
"Leave me! Get out!"
"Eunice, please, I-"
"Get out, you fool! Get out… out… out… out…"
"My lady, please rest." Wilma was all over her, ready with her comfort as she was always ready, smothering her with concern. The scent of her hair was born of soap and brushing. "Rest, my lady. Please rest."
"Leave me alone, you cow! You sent him away. He was here and now he's gone."
"And will return, my lady. When you have rested he will return. Now take a little of this." The woman lifted the glass she had taken from Urich. "A little more. That's better. And again. There's a good girl."
Eunice sagged and fell back, her face smoothing as the drug took effect. At the last, before sleep claimed her, she smiled.
"Urich! It's good to see you. Soon, darling. Soon."
Drugs could sedate her and surgery could give a forced calm to the tormented brain but nothing could change the heritage bequeathed her by forebears now gone-the taint of madness which possessed her at times to make her alien.
Would their children carry the same taint?
That was a gamble he was prepared to take-one he couldn't avoid. To refuse what had been offered would be to ruin the efforts of a lifetime. And yet, looking at her, he was gripped by the fear that he had no choice. That it was already too late.
"Dumarest." Wilma didn't look at him as she spoke. "He was here. Vruya sent him. Eunice was-" Her gesture was expressive-"unwell."
A friend in a world where friends were few. Urich rested his hand on her shoulder and squ
eezed to relay his thanks. And yet her concern was for Eunice, not for him. Once safely married perhaps the madness would die. Once with child it could vanish-stranger things had been known.
He said, "If he should call again do your best to send him away. It would be better if they didn't meet."
Better still if Dumarest should die.
A thought he carried with him as he left the tower and headed toward the field. The plaza was almost deserted, those present aware of the patrolling guards, even the spacers with their propensity for coarse jests and ribald suggestions. One called out a suggestive invitation to a woman passing close. Another echoed it and she broke into a run, halting as he stepped before her.
"My lord." She looked at Urich and he felt the shock of recognition. Ava Vasudiva whom he'd seen at the Wheel and again in the Mart. He had no doubt as to the first meeting. "You are leaving early, my lord."
"Leaving?"
"The tower of your fiance." She was bold with the explanation. "I had thought you would have stayed longer. Especially under the circumstances. I intended to wait for you at the door."
"Why?"
"To talk." She took his arm and moved toward the edge of the Plaza, forcing him to accompany her if he hoped to avoid undue attention. "It is late and none who see us will think it strange we are together. They will think we are engaged in a private enterprise." Her hand lifted in a gesture toward her hair. "See?"
A broad, red ribbon bound the tresses in an outthrusting mass at the back of her head. The reason, he realized, why the spacers had acted so lewdly. On Krantz harlots advertised their profession with just such a ribbon.
"No." The sight offended him. Halting he tore the ribbon from her hair and threw it aside to lie like a streak of blood on the stone. "It makes you cheap."
"You care?"
"Yes, I care! You're too-" He broke off, seeing her eyes, the amusement he suspected they masked. How to tell her that she was too young, too lovely, too vulnerable to wear such a thing? "Have you no pride?"
"Can the Ypsheim ever be proud?"
"I'm talking about you. Don't demean yourself."
"As you did when you refused drink to a dying man?" For a moment he doubted his hearing then, with sudden anger, snapped, "Watch your tongue, girl! You forget yourself!"