World of Promise dot-23

by E. C. Tubb

  God help Charisse if they did not.

  She touched the glazed panel and pulled it toward her then froze as she saw the broken spot at the edge near the catch, the glass shattered to form an opening ringed with jagged shards-evidence she recognized immediately for what it had to be.

  Somehow, incredibly, Dumarest had managed to elude the guards, to climb the wall and to break a hole in the window to gain entry into her room. She had returned too soon for him to have closed it and drawn the curtains. She wondered what he would have done had she screamed. She had no doubt of what would have happened had she been Charisse.

  Chapter Ten

  He stepped from the bathroom where he had to be and she sucked in her breath at the sight of the blood masking his face. The blood was not wholly his own but some had oozed from lacerations on his scalp, and the hand which held the knife poised to throw was bruised, the nails stained with ugly purple, rimmed with fresh carmine.

  "You're safe," she said quickly. "I won't scream. I'm long past the age when a man in my bedroom is a cause of fear." He failed to appreciate the humor, and she regretted having made the comment. "You're hurt. Bleeding. Strip and get under the shower." As he hesitated she added, "I won't betray you. I give you my word on that."

  One he felt she would keep and he remembered her support at the contest, her attitude at the banquet. She had no love for the owner of the laboratories. And there was an indefinable something which he had known before: an attitude, a concern, a betraying tenderness even though masked by a brusque efficiency. As the water drummed on his head to lave his body with paling streams of carmine, she washed his clothing free of dirt, pursing her lips as she saw the damage.

  "What happened out there, Earl? Did you have an argument with tigers? Some of Charisse's pets? And the dogs-did you tangle with them?"

  "One. It was enough."

  "Is that how you got that arm? You'd better let me take a look at it."

  She touched it gently as he stepped from the drier, frowning as she examined the ugly bruises, the mangled skin. Even though dying, the beast had summoned strength enough to have severed the limb had it not been for the protective mesh.

  "It's cracked." Her fingers dug deeper. "I'm no doctor but I've worked with animals long enough to have picked up some knowledge. Move your fingers." She grunted her satisfaction as he obeyed. "You were lucky. How the hell did you manage to climb that wall?"

  Because, she knew, he'd had no choice. No way of avoiding the pain, the danger, the risk of being spotted, of falling. Now she understood the condition of his hand, the bruises and blood rimmed beneath the nails. The knife would have helped; rammed into cracks, it would have provided holds, but the rest had stemmed from raw courage and determination.

  "Here." She handed him a glass of wine, ignoring his nakedness as she ripped fabric into strips to bandage his arm. "What made you pick this room? Luck?"

  That and the carvings which alone had made the climb possible. They had led him to the window and his failing strength had left no choice.

  As she finished the bandage Linda said quietly, "I suppose you intend killing her now. I can't blame you for wanting that, but, Earl, be careful."

  "Guards?"

  "If I was Charisse I'd be surrounded with them and I'd have a laser in each hand." She frowned at his untouched wine. "Get that down-it'll do you good."

  "I can manage without it."

  And what it could contain. She smiled, guessing his thoughts, and reaching for the glass swallowed its contents. Proof only that she had introduced nothing lethal into the wine.

  As she set down the glass she said, "Earl, I'm leaving tomorrow. I've a chartered vessel and it'll leave as soon as loading is complete. There's room if you want to come along."

  "To where?"

  "Souchong. I'm delivering there." Her fingers lingered on the bandage. "Just think about it. Help yourself to wine while I get your clothes."

  They were damp but clean and he dressed, ignoring the pain from wrenched muscles, the throb of the cracked bone in his forearm.

  As he slipped the knife into his boot she said, "Well? Have you decided? Will you ride with me?" Without waiting for a reply she added, quickly, "No strings. No demands. You can pay if you can afford it or work as a handler if you're broke. I want nothing you're not willing to give. It's just that I hate to see a good man wasted. God knows there are few enough of them."

  And few women who would offer help as unhesitatingly as she had. Dumarest stepped toward her, halted, lifted his hands to touch her cheeks, the palms resting lightly against her ears as, gently, with no trace of physical passion, he kissed her lips.

  "Earl!"

  "You have my gratitude," he said. "Now increase my debt by telling me where to find Charisse."

  The place was filled with murmurs, soft susurations which hung like ghosts in the air; words uttered and relayed to be amplified and distorted by corners and angles and long galleries of wood carved into a multitude of shapes. Beasts and reptiles and things from dark places which seemed to watch with jeweled eyes and move at the edge of vision to freeze when stared at directly. This illusion came from the subdued lighting which left the upper parts of the corridors in shrouded darkness.

  Dumarest paused as sound increased to turn into words slurred with intoxication. Enrice Heva, late leaving the party, calling a farewell to Corm. One tinged with bitter envy.

  "Sleep well, my friend-if Glenda will let you. And remember, my dear, if he bores you I shall be waiting."

  Her reply held the brittle indifference of a wanton.

  "Wait on, Enrice. I'll try not to let it worry me."

  "Bitch!"

  "Old goat!"

  "That's enough!" Krantz called a halt to the exchange, his voice breaking to echo in fading, reverberations. "Tomorrow is another day and remember our decision. We all agree-"

  The thread of sound died, cut by a closing door, the soft thud of the panel a sonorous drum in the whispering silence. A trick of acoustics turned the stairwell into a whispering gallery. An accident or something created by design. Had Armand Chetame stood at its head listening to the unguarded comments of his guests? Did Charisse?

  Dumarest reached it, looking upward, seeing only a spiraling band of pale luminescence. Illumination seemed controlled and directed as was the rest to leave the upper layers in shadow.

  He wondered at the absence of guards.

  Linda Ynya had warned him against them and he had expected to find them but, as yet, he had roved unchallenged and unmolested along the passages and past the blank faces of endless doors. A search at random; the woman had not been able to tell him where Charisse was to be found.

  "I swear it, Earl," she'd said. "I'm only a guest here, remember. A business acquaintance. She could be anywhere or not in the building at all."

  A hope he didn't share but if Charisse was absent he could still find the library and, with luck, the secret it might contain.

  But, first, the woman.

  He moved on, halting as fresh murmurs echoed from the air. Deep masculine tones gave orders barely discernible and Dumarest placed his ear against the paneling to gain clearer definition. A waste, the contact resulted in a total loss and when he backed and cocked his head the murmurs had gone.

  Up?

  Should he go higher?

  He moved on, stepping carefully on the treads, his shoulders prickling as if they were the target for watching eyes. The house was too silent, too deserted, the lighting too odd. There should have been servants if not guards but he had seen no one since leaving Linda's room. Heard nothing but vibrating echoes. Had she given the warning after he'd left?

  A gamble he had taken and one he had calculated to win. She had delayed him but for obvious reasons and he had been willing to spend time in relative safety. She had confessed her attraction, had a chartered vessel ready to leave and was willing to give him passage.

  He opened a door and looked at shadows broken by points of brightness; reflections
from assembled equipment set on benches. The pressure of a switch brought them into sharper distinction; microscopes, constructs of glass and metal, the blank face of a machine covered in a host of dials. A laboratory? Armand would have worked in the house before the main laboratories had been built. His study? If so the library could be close.

  "Raske!" The tone was deep, one he had heard before in a fading whisper, now coming loud and strong from the passage outside. "Take up position here and keep alert. The man is armed and dangerous."

  "I know that, sir."

  "Don't forget it. Levie has a broken skull and Epel's spitting blood. Both are lucky to be alive. The next time he might kill." A pause then, "I'd better check the doors."

  Dumarest had killed the light at the first sound and now he leaned against the panel, fingers searching for the latch. He found it, slid it home as something pressed on the panel from the other side. The guard or his officer-who was unimportant. All that mattered was that he was trapped.

  He turned as the pressure ceased to check the room in closer detail. The place was totally dark, no light coming past the edges of the door or from any gap below. A check he made before again switching on the light. A minor risk compared to the noise he would make if he stumbled against one of the glass fabrications. At the far end he saw a window and made his way to it while searching for other doors. One pierced the wall to his left and he opened it to see a multi-drawered cabinet lining one wall. A bench held delicate scales, containers, flasks and other equipment he guessed was used for the measuring and weighing of exact amounts. The cabinet would hold a range of chemical elements and compounds. The flasks to one side in padded racks held acids and other fluids. Everything was clean, free of dust and sparklingly bright, but he gained the impression that none of it had been used for some time.

  The room had no door, no window and he stepped back to the main room. The window was curtained and he carefully slipped beneath the fabric, opening the pane to check outside. On the ground lights shone, beams flickering from side to side revealing the figures of men and animals. One of the dogs reared, looking upward, small whining sounds coming from its throat.

  A moment and Dumarest had closed the window, setting the curtain back into place. A glance had been enough; the wall was sheer, even if he'd been willing to tackle a climb again the lack of holds made it impossible. That and the dogs and men watching from below.

  Quietly he paced back to the door and crouched, ear against the panel, listening.

  One guard? More?

  If so how would they be placed?

  He remembered the passage, the doors, the stairs he had climbed. One there, certainly, if the commander knew his job. One at the far end of the corridor-but why one outside this door?

  Coincidence?

  Or did they know he was inside?

  Dumarest straightened, spine prickling with a familiar tension, the deep-rooted primitive warning of danger which he had learned never to ignore. Treading softly he crossed to the inner room and propped the door open with a chair. A switch released a flood of illumination, brilliance which dulled as he wrapped a cloth around the globe. Another chair and some odd items of equipment draped with the curtain from the window made an indistinct shadow against the cabinet. Back at the door he killed the light in the main room, released the catch and lifting a heavy flask he'd taken from the inner room hurled it at the window.

  "Sir!" The guard outside called to his officer at the sound of shattering glass. "Sir-he's in here!"

  The door slammed wide as he flung his weight against it to stagger into the room. He saw the broken window, the vague silhouette of a man in apparent hiding-and collapsed as Dumarest stepped up behind him and struck at his neck.

  "Hold!" The guard at the stairs was armed. He raised the thick barrel of his weapon, the muzzle wavering as he tried to aim. Dumarest raced forward, dived low, rose to send the heel of his palm against the guard's exposed jaw.

  The treads of the stairs blurred beneath him as he ran up and away from the men mounting from below.

  "Hold!" The deep bellow sent echoes from the walls, the shadowed ceilings. "You can't get away!"

  The flight gave on to a landing, a narrow passage running to either side. Without hesitation Dumarest turned left, judging distance and position as he ran. The room he had just left faced east, the window set in the outer wall of the building. But a place so large must have an inner court with windows set around the enclosed space. If he could climb high enough, make his way out on the roof, he would be able to choose where and when he would reenter the building.

  A corner and he ducked around it. Twenty paces and a door yielded to the impact of his boot. A peaked dormer window looked out on a slope ending at a gutter, the slope continuing up and back to a flat ledge. Dumarest reached it as light shone from the window he had just left. Levering himself over it, he found a flat area broken with the bulk of spires, gulleys, narrow catwalks, all touched with the fitful light from clouded stars.

  The light deluded and robbed the eyes of clear perspective. He bumped into a cowled ventilator shaft, almost tripped over an upraised section of peaked tiles, halted barely in time to prevent stepping into the mouth of a dark cavity.

  In it something chittered and scrabbled as it rose.

  It was black, touched with the gleam of reflected starlight, chiton gleaming like oiled and polished iron. A creature he had disturbed now rose from its lair. Mandibles rattled like castenets and fitful light revealed gleaming, faceted eyes, a spined and rearing head. A mutated insect ready to rip and tear at the intruder. A beetle-like spider fully seven feet long which attacked with a sudden rush.

  Dumarest dropped to his left knee, steel whining as he whipped the blade from his right boot, the edge slicing up and outward to leave a questing antenna lying on the roof. One minor injury quickly followed another as again he slashed to hack at a hooked limb, to roll as mandibles snapped where he had been, to feel space opening beneath him as he halted on the edge of the pit.

  It wafted a noisome, acrid stench accompanied by thin stridulations. Sound drowned in the rasp of the creature's legs, the clash of its pincer-like mandibles. Dumarest rose, backing, his left hand extended behind him, searching for the railed catwalk he had spotted earlier. The fingers found metal, closed around the bar as the insect rushed at him. The charge would have knocked him down had it not been for the rail, which sent him hard against it as he ducked to rise under the jaws and send the knife sliding over the armored thorax. The point found a juncture, a softer fold which yielded beneath the thrust of the sharp steel. Dumarest straightened his arm, turning the knife into the metal extension of the spear he'd made of flesh and bone, the insect's own fury driving the blade deep into its body.

  The wound sent it backing, head lifted, to turn and dive back into the safety of its lair.

  "Dumarest!" The voice came from the window he had left. "Don't move, man. Stay where you are! Just don't move!"

  The warning had come too late but told him there could be other dangers. The roof made a good place for mutated creatures to stay and they, in turn, would serve better than human guards. Dumarest climbed over the rail and moved along the catwalk. It ended at a humped bulk and he edged around it, the tip of his knife rasping the stone as he sent it before him. Beyond lay triple ridges supporting flying tresses designed to hold the weight of the chambers below. He moved along them, eyes searching the far side of the courtyard, windows bright in the reflected glow from the light streaming from the dormer. As he watched it darkened as if occluded by a shape.

  Someone following him? If so he was wasting his time but if the man wanted to risk his neck it was to Dumarest's advantage. If nothing else he would provide a target for any lurking dangers.

  A second courtyard lay behind the first and Dumarest studied it. The small windows running along the edge of the sloped roof were all dark aside from one at the far end. A point of light which he used as a marker, crouching low as he moved along the tiles so as to
silhouette anything against it. A slender shaft came into view, passed, was replaced by a bulkier ventilator which, in turn, yielded to a humped and rounded mass.

  From it came the sudden hum of wings.

  Hornets, each as large as a pigeon, rising in a swarm from their hive as they sensed his nearness, the sweat or heat from his body, the vibration of his tread. Shapes which darted, seeming to hover, to vanish as they darted again, living missiles armed with strings oozing venom.

  Dumarest ran, risking a slip, a fall in the desperate need to find a place of relative safety. In the open he was too vulnerable-attacks could be made from all sides-but if he could manage to guard his back he could make a stand. A high coping reared before him, set with alcoves bearing figures of stone. He reached the nearest, tore it from its pedestal, sprang to take its place. As the statue went rolling down the slope of the roof to fall and crash into shards on the ground below, the first of the hornets struck.

  It came from above, aiming for the head, missing as Dumarest ducked, to hit the shoulder with the impact of a swung hammer, sting ripping at the plastic, poison staining the bared mesh beneath. The determined and vicious creature died in a mass of pulp as Dumarest threw himself back against the stone. As it fell another joined it, chiton broken, wings shredded beneath the swing of a hand stiffened to form a blunted axe. A weapon paired by the other hand, both weaving, slashing, lifting to stab, to strike, to beat off the mass of droning, spiteful menace.

  The coping saved him, that and his speed, the reflexes which allowed him to beat an attack from midair, to knock stings to one side, to send a rain of twitching, broken insects to fall and roll and plummet to the ground. But as fast as they fell others took their place, rising from the hive to wheel, to hover, to dart in with vicious intent. To die in turn beneath the edges of his palms, the thrust of stiffened fingers, to pulp against the shielding stone as he ducked and weaved to dodge and delude.