by Keith Laumer
CHAPTER EIGHT
Drope was a lone world, circling a tired old star the color of sunset in Nevada. No hostile interceptors rose to meet me, but there was no welcoming committee either. We grounded at what Srat said was a port, but all I saw was a windblown wasteland with a few hillocks around it, under a purplish-black sky without a star in sight, Center being below the horizon. The air was cold, and the wind seemed to be whispering sad stories in the dusk. I went back aboard; I dined well and drank a bottle of old Ahacian wine and listened to music, but it seemed to be telling sad stories, too. Just before dawn Srat came back with a report that a H’eeaq ship had called-about a century ago, Earth time.
“That doesn’t help us much,” I pointed out.
“At least,” Poor Srat got down and wriggled in the dust, but I sensed a certain insolence in his voice-“at least Master knows now I speak truly of the voyages of the H’eeaq.”
“Either that or you’re a consistent liar,” I said, and stopped. My tone of voice when I talked to the midget reminded me of something, but I couldn’t say what it was.
Srat’s informant had mentioned the name of the H’eeaq vessel’s next port of call: a world known as E’el, ten lights farther out into intergalactic space, which meant a two weeks’ run. I set ship time up on a cycle as close to Earth time as I could estimate, and for a while I tried to sleep eight hours at a stretch, eat three meals a day, and maintain some pretense of night and day; but the habit of nearly six years in space was too strong. I soon reverted to three on, three off, with meals every other off-period. We picked up E’el on our screens at last, a small, dim star not even shown on the standard charts. I set the yacht down on a grassy plain near a town made of little mud-colored domes and went into the village with Srat. There was nothing there but dust and heat and a few shy natives who scuttled inside their huts as we passed. An hour of that was enough. After that we called at a world that Srat called Zlinn, where a swarm of little atmosphere fliers about as sturdy as Spads came up and buzzed us like irate hornets. They refused us permission to disembark. If any H’eeaq vessel had been there in the last few decades, it was their secret. We visited Lii, a swamp-world where vast batteries of floodlights burned all day under a dying sun, and Shoram-nath, where everyone had died since Srat’s last visit, and we walked around among the bones and the rusted machines and the fallen-in buildings, and wondered what had hit them; and we saw Far, and Z’reeth, and on Kish they let us land and then attacked us, just a few seconds prematurely, so that we made it back to the lock and lifted off in the middle of a barrage of HE fire that burned some of the shine off the hull. Suicide fliers threw themselves at us as we streaked for space; they must have been tough organisms, because some of them survived the collisions and clung to the hull and I heard them yammering and rat-tat-tatting there for minutes after we had left the last of the atmosphere behind.
On Tith, there were fallen towers that had once been two miles high, lying in rows pointing north, like a forest felled by a meteor strike. We talked to the descendants of the tower builders, and they told me that a H’eeaq ship had called; a year ago, a century ago, a thousand years-it was all the same to them.
We pushed on, hearing rumors, legends, hints that a vessel like the one I described had been seen once, long ago, or had visited the next world out-system, or that creatures like Srat had been found, dead, on an abandoned moon. Then even the rumors ran out; and Srat was fresh out of worlds.
“The trail’s cold,” I told him. “There’s nothing out here but death and decay and legends. I’m turning back for Center.”
“Only a little farther, Master,” Poor Srat pleaded. “Master will find what he seeks, if only he presses on.” He didn’t have quite the whimpering tone now that he used to use. I wondered about poor Srat; what he had up his sleeve.
“One more try,” I said. “Then I turn back and try for Center, even if every post office this side of Earth has my picture in it.”
But the next sun that swam into range was one of a small cluster; eight small, long-lived suns, well past Sol on the evolutionary scale, but still in their prime. Srat almost tied himself into a knot.
“Well do I remember the Eight Suns, Master! These are rich worlds, and generous. After we filled our holds here with succulent lichens-”
“I don’t want any succulent lichens,” I cut off his rhapsody. “All I want is a hot line on a H’eeaq ship.”
I picked the nearest of the suns, swung in on a navigation beam from Drath, the ninth planet, with Srat doing the talking to Control, and sat the ship down on a ramp that looked as though it had survived some heavy bombardments in its day. A driverless flatcar riding on an airstream came out to pick us up. We rode in it toward a big pinkish-gray structure across the field. Beyond it, a walled city sprawled up across a range of rounded hills. The sky was a pre-storm black, but the sun’s heat baked down through the haze like a smelter.
There were rank, tropical trees and fleshy-looking flowers growing along the drive that ran the final hundred yards. Up close, I could see cracks in the building.
There were no immigration formalities to clear through, just a swarm of heavy-bodied, robed humanoids with skin like hard olive-green plastic and oversized faces-if you can call something that looks like a tangle of fish guts a face. Eureka stayed close to my side, rubbing against my leg as we pushed through the crowd inside the big arrival shed. Srat followed, making the ooffing sounds that meant he didn’t like it here. I told him to find someone he could talk to, and try for some information; he picked a non-Drathian, a frail little knob-kneed creature creeping along by a wall with the fringe of its dark blue cloak dragging in the mud. It directed him along to a stall at the far side of the lobby, which turned out to be a sort of combination labor exchange and lost-and-found. A three-hundred-pound Drathian in a dirty saffron toga listened to Srat, then rumbled an answer
“No vessel of H’eeaq has called here, says he, Master,” Srat reported.
“Drath trades with no world; the produce of Drath is the most magnificent in the Universe; he demands why anyone would seek items made elsewhere. He says also that he can offer an attractive price on a thousand tons of glath.”
“What’s glath?”
“Mud, Master,” he translated.
“Tell him thanks, but I’ve sworn off.” We left him and pushed on through to take a look at the town.
The buildings were high, blank-fronted, stuccoed in drab shades of ochre and pink and mauve. There was an eerie feeling hanging over the place, as if everyone was away, at-tending a funeral. The click and clatter and pat-pat of our assorted styles of feet were jarringly loud. A hot rain started up, to add to the cheer. It struck me again how alike cities were, on worlds all across the Galaxy. Where creatures gather together to build dwellings, the system of arranging them in rows along open streets is almost universal. This one was like a Mexican village, with water; all poverty and mud. I saw nothing that would pass for a policeman, an information office, a city hall or government house. After an hour of walking I was wet to the skin, cold to the bone, and depressed to the soul. I was ready to give it up and head back to the ship when the street widened out into a plaza crowded with stalls and carts under tattered awnings of various shades of gray. Compared to the empty streets, the place looked almost gay.
The nearest stall displayed an assortment of dull-colored balls, ranging from lemon to grapefruit size. Srat tried to find out what they were, but the answer was untranslatable. Another bin was filled with what seemed to be dead beetles. I gathered they were edible, if you liked that sort of thing. The next displayed baubles and gimcracks made of polished metal and stone, like jewelry in every time and clime. Most of the metal was dull yellow, lead-heavy gold, and I felt a faint stir of an impulse to fill my pockets. Up ahead, an enterprising merchant had draped the front of his stall with scraps of cloth. From the colors, I judged he was color-blind, at least in what I thought of as the visible spectrum. One piece of rag caught my eye; it was
a soft, silvery gray. I fingered it and felt a shock go through me as if I’d grabbed a hot wire. But it wasn’t electricity that made my muscles go rigid; it was the unmistakable feel of Zeridajhan cloth. It was a piece about two feet long and a foot wide, raggedly cut. It might have been the back panel from a shipsuit. I started to lift it and the stall-keeper grabbed for it, and cracked something in the local language, a sound like hot fat sizzling. I didn’t let go.
“Tell him I want to buy it,” I told Srat
The stall-keeper tugged and made more hot-fat sounds.
“Master, he doesn’t understand the trade tongue,” Srat said. The merchant was getting excited, now. He made an angry buzzing and yanked hard; I ripped the cloth out of his balled fists; then Srat was clutching at my arm and saying, “Beware, Master!”
I looked around. A large Drathian who could have been the same one who offered me the load of glath except for the white serape across his chitinous shoulder was pushing through the gathering crowd toward me. Something about him didn’t look friendly. As he came up, he crackled at the merchant. The merchant crackled back. The big Drathian planted himself in front of me and spit words at me.
“Master,” Srat gobbled, “the Rule-keeper demands to know why you seek to rob the merchant!”
“Tell him I’ll pay well for the cloth.” I took out a green trade chip that was worth six months’ pay back on the Bar Worlds, and handed it over, but the Rule-keeper still didn’t seem satisfied.
“Find out where he got the cloth, Srat,” I said. There was more talk then; I couldn’t tell whether the big Drathian was a policeman, a guild official, a racket boss, or an ambulance-chasing shyster, but he seemed to pull a lot of weight. The stall-keeper was scared to death of him.
“Master, the merchant swears he came by the rag honestly; yet if Master insists, he will make him a gift of it.”
“I’m not accusing him of anything. I just want to know where the cloth came from.”
This time the bully-boy did the talking, ended by pointing across the plaza.
“Master, a slave sold the cloth to the merchant.”
“What kind of slave?”
“Master . . . a Man-slave.”
“Like me?”
“He says-yes, Master.”
I let my elbow touch the butt of my filament pistol. If the crowd that had gathered around to watch and listen decided to turn nasty, it wouldn’t help much; but it was comforting anyway.
“Where did he see this Man-slave?”
“Here, Master; the slave is the property of the Least Triarch.”
“Find out where the Triarch lives.”
“There, Master.” Srat pointed to a dusty blue facade rising behind the other buildings like a distant cliff-face. “That is the palace of His Least Greatness.”
“Let’s go.” I started past the Rule-keeper and he jabbered at Srat.
“Master, he says you have forgotten his bribe.”
“My mistake.” I handed over another chip. “Tell him I’d like his assistance in getting an interview with the Triarch.”
A price was agreed on and he led the way across the plaza and through the network of dark streets, along a complicated route that ended in a tiled courtyard with a yellow glass roof that made it look almost like a sunny day. There were trees and flowering shrubs around a reflecting pool, a shady cloister along the far side. Srat was nervous; he perched on a chair and mewed to himself. Eureka stretched out and stared across at a tall blue-legged bird wading in the pool.
A small Drathian came over and took orders. He asked Eureka three times what he’d have; he couldn’t seem to get the idea that the old cat didn’t speak the language. The drinks he brought were a thick, blue syrup with a taste of sulfur and honey. Srat sniffed his cup and said, “Master must not drink this,” and proceeded to swallow his share in one gulp. I stared into the shadows under the arcade where my guide had disappeared, and pretended to nibble the drink. Rain drummed on the glass overhead. It was steamy hot, like a greenhouse. After half an hour, the Drathian came back, with a friend.
The newcomer was six feet tall, five feet wide, draped in dark blue velvet and hung with ribbons and tassels and fringes like a Victorian bonnet. He was introduced as Hruba. He was the Triarch’s majordomo, and he spoke very bad, but understandable lingua.
“You may crave one boon of His Greatness,” he stated. “In return, he will accept a gift.”
“I understand the Triarch owns a human slave,” I said. “I’d like to see him, if His Greatness has no objection.”
The majordomo agreed, and gave orders to a servant; in ten minutes the servant was back, prodding a man along ahead of him. He was a stocky, strong-looking fellow with close-cropped black hair, well-cut features, dressed in a plain dark blue kilt. There was an ugly, two-inch scar on his left side, just below the ribs. He saw me and stopped dead and his face worked.
“You’re a human being!” he gasped-in Zeridajhi.
His name was Huvile, and he had been a prisoner for ten years. He’d been captured, he said, when his personal boat had developed drive control troubles and had carried him off course into Fringe Space.
“In the name of humanity, Milord,” he begged, “buy my freedom.” He looked as if he wanted to kneel, but the big Drathian servant was holding his arm in a two-handed grip.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said.
“Save me, Milord-and you’ll never regret it! My family is wealthy-” That was as far as he got before Hruba waved an arm and the servant hustled him away.
I looked at the majordomo.
“How much?”
“He is yours.”
I expressed gratification, and offered money in return. Hruba indicated that Bar money was hard to spend on Drath. I ran through a list of items from Jongo II’s well-stocked larders and storage hold; we finally agreed on a mixed consignment of drugs, wines, clothing and sense-tapes.
“His Greatness will be gratified,” Hruba said expansively, “at this opportunity to display his graciousness.” He aimed a sense-organ at me.
“Ah . . . you wouldn’t by chance wish to accept a second slave?”
“Another Man?”
“As it happens.”
“How many more humans have you got?”
“His Greatness owns many properties; but only the two humans.” His voice got almost confidential: “Useful, of course, but a trifle, ah, intractable. But you’ll have no trouble on that score, I’m sure.”
We dickered for ten minutes and settled on a deal that would leave Jongo II’s larder practically stripped. It was lucky the Triarch didn’t own three men; I couldn’t have afforded any more.
“I will send porters and a car to fetch these trifles from your vessel,” Hruba said, “which His Greatness accepts out of sentiment. You wish the slaves delivered there?”
“Never mind; I’ll take them myself.” I started to get up. Hruba made a shocked noise. “You would omit the ceremonies of Agreement, of Honorable Dealing, of Mutual Satisfaction?”
I calmed him down and he sent his staff scurrying for the necessary celebratory paraphernalia.
“Srat, you go to the ship, hand over the goods we agreed on, and see that the men get aboard all right. Take Eureka with you.”
“Master, Poor Srat is afraid to go alone-and he fears for Master-”
“Better get going or they’ll be there ahead of you.”
He made a sad sound and hurried away.
“Your other slave,” the majordomo pointed. Across the court, a Drathian servant came out from a side entry leading a slim figure in a gray kilt like Huvile had worn.
“You said another man,” I said stupidly.
“Eh? You doubt it is a Man?” he asked in a stiff voice. “It is not often that the probity of His Least Greatness is impugned in his own Place of Harmonious Accord!”
“My apologies,” I tried to recover. “It was just a matter of terminology. I didn’t expect to see a female.”
“Very well
, a female Man-but still a Man and a sturdy worker,” the majordomo came back. “Not so large as the other, perhaps, but diligent, diligent. Still, His Greatness would not have you feel cheated. . . .” His voice faded off. He was watching me as I watched the servant leading the girl past, some twenty feet away. She had a scar on her side, exactly like Huvile’s. Beside the horny, gray-green thorax of the Drathian beside her, her human breast looked incredibly vulnerable. Then she turned her head my way and I saw that it was the Lady Raire.
For a long, echoing instant, time stood still. Then she was past. She hadn’t seen me, sitting in the deep shade of the canopy. I heard myself make some kind of sound and realized I had half risen from my chair.
“This slave is of some particular interest for you?” the majordomo inquired, and I could tell from the edge on his voice that his commercial instinct was telling him he had missed a bet somewhere.
I sat down. “No,” I managed to croak. “I was wondering . . . about the scars. . . .”
“Have no fear; the cicatrice merely marks the point where the control drive is embedded. However, perhaps I should withdraw His Greatness’s offer of this gift, since it is less than you expected, lest the generosity of the Triarch suffer reflection. . . .”
“My mistake,” I said. “I’m perfectly satisfied.” I could feel my heart slamming inside my chest. I felt as though the universe was balanced on a knife-edge. One wrong word from me and the whole fragile deal would collapse.
The liquor pots arrived then, and conversation was suspended while my host made a big thing of tasting half a dozen varieties of syrupy booze and organizing the arrangement of outsize drinking pots on the table. I sat tight and sweated bullets and wondered how it was going back at the ship. The Drathian offered the local equivalent of a toast. While my host sucked his cup dry, I pretended to take a sip, but he noticed and writhed his face at me.