by E. C. Tubb
He sprang, the knife lifting, moving forward as he landed, umber and emerald flashing from the blade as it left his hand. Immediately he stooped, snatched up the laser and, turning, lifted it, his finger tightening on the release as he aimed. The ruby guide beam illuminated the scarred face, added a deeper hue to the blood seeping from cheek and nose, found the eye and ruined it as the projected heat burned its way into the brain.
As the giant fell Dumarest spun, laser lifted, finger poised on the release. His arm fell as he saw the huddled shape at the woman's feet.
"You killed it," she said blankly. "You threw something and it fell."
"A knife." He recovered it, drawing it from the throat, wiping it clean on the matted fur before thrusting it back into his boot. Are you hurt?"
"So fast," she whispered. "You moved so fast. One second you were facing that man and then, the next, you'd turned and thrown and-" She looked at her hand, at the smears on her fingers. "Blood! It tore at my throat!"
"Scratched it," corrected Dumarest. "The skin is barely broken. Why didn't you use the net and the club?"
"I tried but I couldn't seem to move fast enough. I guess I'm a coward," she admitted. "And perhaps a fool. I was warned but-" She broke off, looking at the dead. "Why did they want to hurt me?"
"For what you are and what you carry. For fun. Even, perhaps, for food. Was this yours?"
She looked at the laser he held out to her.
"Yes. I drew it when they frightened me but one knocked it from my hand. Then I ran but they followed. If it hadn't been for you I would have been helpless." She shivered then said, "Please, will you take me home?"
Chapter Two
Her name was Sardia del Naeem and she lived in a small and luxurious apartment set on the slope of a hill in an area graced with flowering trees. A safe and protected place but not her home. That was on Tonge and she had come to Juba on business. Things she told Dumarest when preparing him a drink. Vanishing into the bathroom when he took it not so much, he guessed to remove the grime of the day as to lave away the recent contact with vileness.
"Earl!" Her voice rose above the gush of the shower. "When you said those men could have been after food-did you mean it?"
"Yes."
"Literally?" The roar of water died, her voice loud and strained in the contrasting silence. "To hunt and kill their own kind as if they hunted an animal?"
He said dryly, "Have you no slums on Tonge?"
"Slums, yes, but-"
"No desperate? No starving?"
"Perhaps, but nothing like the Maze. Surely it is unique."
"No." Dumarest sipped at his drink and tasted ice and astringent bitterness. "Take a world like this and you have a place like the Maze. One with the same or a different name but one holding the same dangers. Fools go into them for amusement. The wise stay well away."
"As I should have done?"
"Yes."
"And you, Earl?"
"I was on my way to the field."
"And so saved my life." There was a click as the shower door opened. "And now, Earl, please pour me a drink."
She stepped from the bathroom as he turned, the tall glass in his hand, and they stood facing each other in the warm intimacy of the chamber. She had changed, the fuzz of hair tamed now to rest in a thick, glistening tress of shimmering jet over one rounded shoulder, the strands held by a coil of gem-set gold. Her face was oval, the eyes pools of limpid brown fringed with a fan of lashes, her skin the hue of sun-kissed olives, a brownness which held the depth of chocolate, of creamed coffee, of leaves turning from russet to umber.
Her nostrils were flared a little, matching the fullness of the lips in betraying sensuality, the eyes enigmatic beneath their upswept brows. Her ears were small, the chin smoothly rounded, the neck a column of grace.
Beneath a simple gown of multicolored silk her figure held the ripeness of maturity.
A woman no longer young but one who moved with the grace of a trained dancer. One who smiled as she took the proffered glass then sobered as she stared with frank appraisal at her guest.
Taller than she was by almost a head, his body hard and firm beneath the long-sleeved, high-collared tunic he wore, the smooth grey plastic marred now by minute stains. His face was hard, lines and planes presenting a mask of iron determination, the mouth alone touched with sensitivity yet one which could easily become cruel. A man who had long since learned to live alone, to rely on no one but himself.
Would he, if starving, eat what came to hand?
"My lady, is the drink not to your liking?"
"Of course." She blinked and sipped aware of the path her thoughts had taken. One guided by his presence, the aura of masculinity he radiated and to which she felt herself respond. "Help yourself to another drink if you want."
She watched as he crossed to the table and added ice and water to the glass in his hand. It was hard to remember that only a short while ago he had killed; that the stains on his tunic and matching pants were dried blood, that the knife riding in one of the knee-high boots had cut and slashed and hurtled through the air to sink into yielding flesh. A knife fighter, she decided, such men knew better than to stab, and yet such men did not throw their blades. To do so would be to disarm themselves and, should the throw miss, death would be inevitable.
She said, as their eyes met, "You said you were on your way to the field. To join your ship?"
"To find one."
"To book passage?" Then, as he nodded, she added, "But why go through the Maze?"
"A shortcut." A lie, but it would serve and there was no need to explain that, in the winding streets, anyone following could be thrown off his trail. If anyone had been following. "And you?" He frowned as she told him. "To look for a man? In the Maze? At night?"
"I was stupid," she admitted. "But I was impatient to see him and I was armed and thought I could take care of myself."
"And?"
"I got lost in the alleys. I asked a man for directions-the small one called Feld. He said something obscene and touched me." Her free hand rose to her breasts. "I stepped back and drew the laser but he laughed and came toward me. I dodged and someone knocked the gun from my hand. The big man, I think. Then I ran."
And would have died had Dumarest not saved her.
He said, "You made a mistake. Once you drew the laser you should have used it."
"Killed without warning?"
"Why warn if you intend to kill? Why draw a weapon if you don't intend to use it?"
Simple rules and ones which, perhaps, governed his life, but she was used to a more gentle environment. Like a tamed dog she had bared her teeth hoping the sight would protect her, unwilling and unable to do more. A pathetic defense and useless against the predators she had met.
The things they could have done to her.
Ice tinkled in the glass as she emptied it with convulsive swallows, searching for the anodyne the alcohol would provide, meeting Dumarest's eyes as she lowered the container.
"It's over," he said quietly. "All over. Now you can forget it."
Men dead, blood spraying, the touch of claws at her throat. The thought of what could have happened-forget it?
Numbing she took the refilled glass Dumarest handed to her and drank and lowered it half-empty and then took a deep, shuddering breath. Was she a girl to be so afraid? A young and silly creature finding refuge in hysteria? Amil had died in her arms after his greatest performance, his heart bursting beneath the strain, blood seeping from between his lips, marring their last kiss. And Verecunda, after the leap, when she had fallen so badly and all had heard the ghastly splinter of bone- no, she was not a child!
Dumarest said, "Better now?"
"You think I am weak?"
"No, a woman who is human."
"A fool?"
"A person." He set down his own glass. "Is there anything I can do for you before I leave."
"Leave?"
He said, patiently, "You are home now. Safe. Take something if y
ou must but don't dwell on the past. It's over. Finished. Just forget it."
"You keep saying that. Do you think it so easy?"
"No," he admitted. "But sometimes it needs to be done." Then, as she made no comment, he added, "Do you need medical assistance? The shock-"
"Is one I can handle. She inhaled, inflating her chest, automatically throwing back her shoulders and tightening her stomach. Rising on her points she spun in a graceful pirouette then crossed the floor to where a cube glowed in kaleidoscopic shimmers. As she touched it the shifting rainbows stilled and music softly filled the air.
"Poisanard's Suite," she said. "You know it?"
"No."
"It's quite recent, the last thing he ever did. He composed it a month before he died. Some say that it holds the sum total of his life, but I disagree. He was too boisterous for that. He lived and, having lived, moved on. The music holds what is to come not what has gone. Listen and you will appreciate what I mean."
Listen for how long? And, while listening, what would he lose? From the window Dumarest could see the distant field, the ring of lights around the perimeter fence bright against the clouded sky. Even as he watched a ship lifted, seeming to hang poised for a moment, a shimmering bubble which darted upward wreathed in its Erhaft field, to dwindle, to vanish as it drove into space.
A ship he had missed because a woman had chosen to walk into danger.
A passage lost because of a coincidental meeting.
It had to be that. There had been no way of telling which route he would take or the time he would take it. The woman, as far as he could tell, was genuine and there had been nothing contrived about the way those who had accosted her had died.
His eyes shifted focus, looked at her reflection on the pane, the smooth, olive features, the eyes which looked into distance and not at his back. An intelligent woman-too intelligent to risk walking the Maze at night unless driven by a desperate need. Or perhaps she was simply ignorant-Tonge was not Juba and those accustomed to gentle worlds found it hard to accept the savagery normal on harsher planets.
Without turning he said, "What are you?"
"A dancer."
"A what?"
"A dancer. Ballet. On Tonge I was the prima ballerina of the Corps Mantage. You have seen ballet? You know something of it? A harsh discipline, Earl, and endless exercise. It takes skill and stamina and suppleness. It takes time and dedication. And then-" She shrugged and gestured, hands fluttering like pale moths against the pane. "I grew old. It is as simple as that."
"And came to Juba." He turned and stared into her eyes. "To dance?"
"To deal. When you are old in ballet, Earl, you are finished. Continue too long and bones grow brittle, sinews lose their elasticity and applause turns into derision. Now I deal in works of art. With luck fortunes can be made."
"How?"
"Not by finding rare and costly treasures, Earl, though that, too, at times. No, the thing is to find an artist who has yet to be appreciated. To buy his work cheap and then to sell it dear. To hold it, build his reputation, to display it, have it enhanced by select critical praise, then to cash in on the created demand."
"To rob," said Dumarest. "To pay the artist a pittance and then to make a pile. And you call the Maze a jungle?"
"It isn't the same," she protested. "A work of art is valueless until it has found a buyer. And once the artist is known he will get his reward. Once he is known," she added bitterly. "Once he is found. That's why I was in the Maze. To find a man who might know a man who-but why go on? It's hopeless."
"The prima ballerina of the Corps Mantage," said Dumarest softly. "Yet once you were a small girl leaning on a barre and trying to stand on your points. Did you think it was hopeless then? A waste of time even to try?"
"This is different. Have you ever looked for a needle in a haystack?"
Looked and was looking, but he said nothing of his search for the world of his birth.
"You must have clues, Sardia. The artist, for instance, you must have samples of his work. It is a man?"
"I don't know, Earl. It could be a man or a woman but I think it likely to be a man. A matter of instinct, I'll admit, and I could be wrong." Rising from where she sat she stilled the music and poured them both fresh drinks. Handing a glass to Dumarest she continued, "I'm following a rainbow and hoping for a pot of gold. Some paintings were offered to a gallery on Tonge and I was fortunate enough to be the one approached. I was an associate, but never mind that, the thing is I recognized the genius of their creator. Naturally I wanted to know more but the vendor could only tell me he'd bought them from a man on Juba. Someone here, in this city, who owns a shop close to the field. I saw him and he claimed ignorance of the origin of the paintings. I tried a little bribery and gained the address of a man who worked for the dealer at times. He lives in the Maze. I went to find him-the rest you know."
"How long have you been on Juba?"
"A couple of weeks. This place is rented. Why?"
"Two weeks. Did it take you that long to find the local dealer?"
"He was away and it took time to check him out. I had to scour the galleries and find out what I could before I approached him."
"And?"
"He admitted nothing, but that's normal, he'd want to retain his source of supply. Naturally I was casual in my approach. I acted the part of a tourist looking for an interesting souvenir. Luckily he had two parts of a triptych and I asked for the address of the artist so as to obtain the third. He wouldn't give it to me. The artist, naturally, wasn't the one I am looking for but it shows the man's caution. I'd hoped to learn more from his assistant."
And had failed and had almost lost her life and lacked the courage to try again. But Dumarest?
She said thoughtfully, "You could help me, Earl."
"No."
"Please." His refusal increased her desire to gain his aid. "I need you to help me. All it will take is a little time. You are accustomed to dealing with men like the dealer. He will respect you. And once we find the artist I promise you will not regret it. A share of what I make. A third of the clear profit."
"No."
"How much then? A half? A half of all we make, Earl. Equal partnership. I'll advance all expenses which will later be deducted." Hesitating, she added, "This agreement to be for the first items obtained. I-why do you smile?"
"As a dancer, Sardia, you make a good dealer."
"I am a dealer, and when you work for the Corps Mantage you learn to keep your wits about you. A deal, Earl?"
"No."
"But why not? Can't you spare the time? Don't you trust me?" Her voice hardened a little. "Is that it? Do you think I've been feeding you a pack of lies."
"Not lies, Sardia. But perhaps a dream."
"The coordinates of the world of solid treasure. The clue to a fabulous fortune. The whereabouts of Bonanza, maybe, or El Dorado, or Jackpot, Avalon or even Earth. I've heard them ail before. Men who try to cash in on ignorance or greed or who try to buy favors with a list of figures. Fools for trying it and bigger fools for thinking others can be so gullible. But I'm not trying to sell you a legend, Earl. Not the location of some mythical planet. My artist is real and I can prove it!" She vanished into a room which held a bed, reappeared holding a canvas which she thrust toward him. "Here!"
The painting was that of a child crying, and the artist had caught all the pain and torment of the universe in the young and innocent face.
"It's good," said Dumarest.
"Good? It's superb! Look at it, damn you! Look at it!"
A thing of ten by twenty inches, the background dark, the central figure luminated by a glowing, mottled ball. The child dressed in a nondescript gown so that it could have been of either sex. The face round, the eyes luminous, liquid with tears which fell over the cheeks, the little hands clenched, one holding a thorned rose, the other a tattered thing of rag and buttons. A doll which had given pleasure as the flower had given pain. On the hand gripping it, touches of red sho
wed where blood had seeped from wounds caused by the thorns. Pleasure and pain-the summation of existence.
"Look at the detail," whispered the woman. "Study it. You can see every thread, every stitch, every grain of the sand on which the child is sitting. You can almost smell the scent of the rose. You can almost feel the pain of the thorns. Look at it, sink into it, feel it-Earl, feel it, man! Feel it!"
And, suddenly, he was a child again sitting on a harsh and barren slope with the bitter wind stinging his eyes and filling them with tears, while, in his hand, the small creature he had caught squirmed and wriggled and fought for its life as he was fighting for his. The lizard he would shortly eat, biting it, chewing, swallowing it raw. Life dying to maintain life. Savagery beneath the moon.
The moon?
"Earl!" The woman touched his hand. "Earl?"
He ignored her, eyes focused on the mottled ball illuminating the crying child. A rough, pitted, scarred and cratered orb depicted with the same painstaking detail as the garment, the sand, the doll, the rose and the thorn. A ball which bore the semblance of a skull. One he had seen before.
"Earl?" Sardia's fingers were warm against his own. "Earl, is anything wrong?"
Again he ignored her, lifting the painting, tilting it, his eyes hungry as they examined the silvery ball. A full moon. A familiar sight.
The moon he had seen when a child on earth.
There was money on Juba. The minerals torn from far below the surface, shipped, provided a steady stream of wealth reflected in the luxurious appointments of the houses set high on the hills but those who owned the most displayed it the' least. On Juba only the children were close to the Cyclan.
Cyber Hine studied them as he stood behind the door leading to the classroom. The one-way glass gave him a clear view and he watched with calm detachment as Necho turned in his seat to whisper to Baaras behind, to Ceram at one side. A restless boy and yet one who showed promise. A useful addition if his questing nature could be brought under control and, in any case, a future supporter of the institution which now gave him food, accommodation and education. A debt which, later, he would repay.