by E. C. Tubb
"And, of course," said the monk quietly, "they will use more than normal supplies in order to maintain their bearers and themselves. There is no water by the mountains?"
"No."
"Nor food?"
"No—everything has to be carried." The factor tasted his second drink. "Food, water, tents—everything. The Hightowners ride on rafts which the bearers pull along. It works pretty well."
For himself, naturally, but it went deeper than that. There was a perversity in human nature which gloried at the bestialization of its own kind. There was a romance clinging to the concept of slavery which appealed to the rich. They would like to ride high and move by the muscle-power of desperate men. As the factor well knew those who had started by demanding planes would end by regretting the loss of slaves. Their use gave a sense of personal power lacking in the employment of machines.
Brother Ely knew that only too well. He said one word loaded with contempt. "Pander!"
"What!" The factor jerked so that some of the drink spilled from his glass. "What did you call me?"
The monk repeated it. Quentin set down his glass. He crossed to the door, opened it, pointed outside. His face was white with rage beneath the dark pattern of his beard. "Get out!"
Deliberately the monk looked for a chair, found one, sat down. "Spare me your outraged pride, brother. We both know exactly what I mean by the word. Why did you remove the engines from the rafts? Such craft normally contain their own motive power. Are you trying to add to the attraction of Gath?"
Irritably Quintin slammed the door and returned to his drink. The old monk was shrewd but it would not do him much good. "What would you have me do?" Quentin swallowed the rest of his drink. "The tourists are rich and to travel like that is a novelty which they appreciate. And it gives work to the travelers. Without it they would starve."
"Do they have to lower themselves to the level of beasts of burden in order to live?"
"That is your judgment," snapped Quentin irritably. "Perhaps they do not think the same. A starving man cannot afford the niceties of your ethics. At least," he added spitefully, "they do not beg."
"And we of the Universal Brotherhood do," said the monk gently. He smiled. "I get your point, brother."
* * *
Piers was not amused. He had done nothing beyond the scope of his duties and had to answer to no one but his superiors. But the Brotherhood had friends in peculiar places. He stood to lose nothing by caution.
"What's on your mind?" The factor helped himself to another drink. He felt a little sorry for himself. No sooner had he rid himself of the incubus of the storm than this had to happen. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Shall we start with Dumarest?"
"The man who killed the Prince of Emmened's fighter? What of him?"
"Has the wager been paid?"
"The price of a High Passage is in my keeping."
"And if Dumarest should die?" The monk didn't wait for an answer. "He has no one to call you to account. You would keep the money."
Piers didn't answer.
"A quick way to make a tidy sum," mused the old man. "More. If Dumarest should die you would be free of a man you may have reason to fear."
Piers laughed in the monk's face. "Brother, you're crazy! I have no need to kill Dumarest for the reason you mention. He will leave on the first ship. His passage is safe. Why should I want him dead?"
"Greed." Ely was bland as he smiled at the factor. "You are a greedy man, brother. It is a carnal sin and could prove fatal." His lifted hand stilled the other's protest. "I do not threaten but simply point out the obvious. You cannot be certain that Dumarest will leave Gath on a High passage. He is strong and accustomed to traveling Low. He might choose to take others with him. The strongest, naturally—only they could survive. Could you spare so many willing bearers, brother?"
"I'd be glad to see them go. All of them!" Piers gulped at his drink. "The penniless scum! The sooner they go the better!"
"So you keep saying—I don't believe you." The monk grew stern. "Let us not fence with words, brother. You set the fee for their hiring. You put the price on their food. You know that every penny they earn will find its way into your pocket. You may not have initiated the system but you are taking full advantage of it. Brother, I would not have your conscience for the wealth of a world!"
"There is an old saying," said Piers quietly. "The man who rides a tiger finds it hard to dismount."
"He could have help, brother."
"What do you want? Facilities for a church in Hightown? You can have them but what good it will do I don't know. It is hard to preach ethics to those who value nothing but money. A church in Lowtown? You can have that too and I'll put you on the roster for regular food. You may break your heart but you won't starve." Piers finished his drink and put down the empty glass. "You may be able to persuade them to be content with their lot. What else you can do I can't imagine."
"Perhaps you underestimate the power of the Brotherhood," said the monk evenly. "It is not beyond speculation that the travelers might take a hand in their own destiny. Who then would tend the field, clear the path, act as bearers for the tourists who come to Gath?"
"A Union!" The factor made no secret of his disgust. "Are you threatening me with a Union? A man of your calling to deal in a thing so vile!"
"By the pattern on your face I see that you belong to a Guild," said the monk sharply. "What else is that but a union of people engaged in serving their common end?"
He had expected an outburst of rage but the factor surprised him. Quentin could see no relationship between the professional guild of which he was a member and a union of unspecialized types the thought of which aroused only disgust. The professional men had ethics, the others did not. If anything he was amused by the old man's analogy.
Deliberately he helped himself to another drink, taking his time, adjusting alcohol, flavor and ice until it was to his satisfaction.
"An entrepreneur arrived on the same ship as yourself," he said casually. "We get at least one every storm. All get the same idea. They want to organize the travelers into a composite whole and then dictate the terms under which they will allow them to work. Only one has tried to do it."
"And?"
"He accomplished what he set out to do. He had money and could provide food. For a time, at least; then the food grew too expensive. Then came the time of storm and the ships began to arrive. By that time the travelers were very hungry." He paused and took a sip of his drink. His eyes were amused as they stared at the monk over the rim of the glass. "And then guess what?"
"You are telling the story," said the monk evenly.
"I tell it to every entrepreneur who arrives. They invariably see the point. All I did was to go among the travelers and hire twelve of the strongest men. I fed and armed them. I replaced the engines in the rafts. They were able to do all the work that needed to be done. The rest got nothing. After the storm there was no more talk of conditions."
"And you continued to ride your tiger." Brother Ely was thoughtful. The factor was a more complex character than he had guessed. The man was driven as much by fear as by greed. "Tell me, brother, are you so in love with the beast that you cannot bear to be parted?"
Piers looked at his hand. It was trembling with memories of nightmared sleep. The dream was always the same: himself lying crushed and bleeding beneath the boots of a ravening mob. It could happen at any time, more so during the period of storm when nerves jerked to electric tension. And there was nothing between him and the mob but a handful of guards.
"Well, brother?" The monk was patient The factor shook his head.
"No."
"I am glad to hear you say it." The old man's face expressed his joy. "The Brotherhood has always striven for the greatest good for the greatest number while maintaining established rule. Here it would take so little. A simple adjustment of the fees charged the tourists. A system to provide and distribute natural food among the travelers. Some medical care—we are good
at such things. We could rid you of your tiger."
And, thought the factor gratefully, provide a barrier between the travelers and himself. Well, why not let them have their way? Let them take charge, wear the face of authority while he remained innocently in the background. They could do it and instill obedience to the Supreme Ethic at the same time.
His life, at least, would be safe.
Chapter Eight
THEY CAMPED halfway to the mountains, an irregular sprawl of rafts and tents and weary travelers. The rafts had no weight—their nulgrav plates kept them a level three feet from the ground—but they had mass and had to be towed every inch of the way.
It was growing darker, the air dim and filled with shadows as the path swept toward the eternal night of the east. The sun had almost vanished below the horizon, only the upper rim remaining visible, painting the west with the color of blood. The air was heavy, brooding, filled with invisible forces. Above, the pale light of stars shone in a purple sky.
Megan groaned with the pain of his shoulders. He eased the clothing from his back and cursed in a low monotone. He looked up as a tall figure occluded the sky.
"Megan?"
"Is that you, Dumarest?" Megan tried to stand, groaned, made a second attempt. He relaxed as the tall man knelt beside him.
"What's the matter with you? Are you hurt?"
"My back." Megan winced. "Could you get me some salve or something? That Emmened!"
"I heard." Dumarest's hands were gentle as they bared the thin shoulders. He stared grimly at the welts crisscrossing the pallid flesh. "You fool, Megan! What did you want to take service with him for? You had enough money to take this trip easy."
"It isn't my money."
"So what? There's more than I need. You didn't have to get yourself half killed for the sake of a few units."
"I needed the money." Megan was stubborn and Dumarest could appreciate his pride. "How was I to know the devil would use the whip?"
It had been a hell of a trip. The Prince of Emmened, savage at having been left behind in the rush to follow the Matriarch, had tried to make up time and forge to the lead. His method had been simple: force the towing travelers to run and whip them until they did.
And continue whipping them all the way to the present camp.
His guards had helped but the fear of being left behind without employment had helped even more. Starvation, as the factor had cynically pointed out, made ethics and pride of minor consideration to food. Even so two had died and five had been left on the journey.
"You've finished working for him." Dumarest had salve and he applied it with a gentle hand. "Don't worry about losing your money. You don't need it. None of you need it. I've enough to buy off all his bearers. He can use his guards and courtiers to pull instead."
"Take it easy." Megan relaxed as the pain in his shoulders yielded to the soothing action of the salve. "Do that and you'll get yourself killed. You can't treat a man like the prince that way and you know it."
It was the truth but none the more palatable because of it. Dumarest had the money but it wasn't enough. He needed more than money. He needed the power and protection he didn't have.
"All right," he admitted. "So we forget the others. But don't let me see you working for Emmened again."
He rose and left the other man, wandering over the camp, feeling restless with unvented anger. A group of travelers sat around a blanket rolling dice for their day's pay. The cubes clicked and bounced and called forth groans and cheers as they came to rest. Someone would be the winner but, in the end, there could only be one who collected the money. Quentin would take it all.
His irritation grew. Striking out he left the camp, walking toward the night side, his feet noiseless in the grass. He walked for maybe half a mile and then dropped as he saw dim figures in the gloom. Hugging the grass he watched them pass. There were four of them, tall, broad, masculine even in the way in which they walked. They carried nets and the bell-mouthed shapes of sonic guns. One of them carried a small bag in which struggled some form of life.
He wondered why guards of the Matriarch should be so far from camp and what they could be hunting here in this place. The small animals, obviously; they were the only form of life, and Megan had said that the only way to catch them was with nets and sonic guns.
He was thoughtful on his return to camp.
The place had a more festive air. Small fires glowed in the ruby dusk and the scent of cooking food reached his nostrils. The scent stimulated his appetite. Megan would have food or he could get some from the kitchens of the Matriarch. He could even buy food which had been stolen from the tourists—for this brief time they were fair game. He lengthened his stride.
And almost died beneath the blaze of a laser.
* * *
Luck saved him. A tufted root twisted beneath his foot and threw him to one side, away from the blast of energy which came from behind. Common sense kept him alive. He continued to fall, letting his body grow limp, hitting the ground face down, pressing the left side of his head against the grass so that it's supposed injury was hidden, masking the right side with an upflung arm. He remained motionless, not moving even when the whisper of footsteps came very close. They stopped, too far away for him to reach, and he held his breath. The scent of the grass was in his nostrils, the damp odor of the ground. The tingling between his shoulders grew almost unbearable but he knew that to move was to die.
The assailant was watching, reluctant, perhaps, to attract attention with a second shot, but certain to fire again in case of doubt. Then, after an eternity, the footsteps rustled away.
After a long while he rolled and sat upright.
He was alone. No silhouette blocked the sky, no shape stood in near-invisibility against the purple of the east. He could see nothing but the loom of tents and the tiny glow of fires bright against the red-stained sky of the west. Whoever had fired had vanished as quietly as he had come. Or as she had come. There was no way to tell.
Dumarest wondered who had wanted him dead.
The guards, perhaps? One could have spotted him and have circled to cut him down and shut his mouth. A creature of the Prince of Emmened seeking revenge for the death of his favorite? A traveler bribed by the factor to burn him down so that he could keep his passage money? There was no way of telling.
The camp had settled down by the time he returned. Weary figures hugged the ground, watchful figures guarded the tents, and even the tourists had gathered in little clumps for mutual protection. One of them waved to him as he passed. He was a smooth, rosily fat man wearing bright clothes and with a peculiarly marked ring on his finger.
"Hey, friend, care for a game?"
"Of what?" Dumarest halted, wondering if they knew who he was. His dress was not that of the rest of the travelers.
"You name it, well play it." The man riffled a deck of cards. "Highest, lowest, man-in-between. Best guess —straight or two out of three. Starsmash, olkay, nine-card nap. Your choice, friend." The cards made a dry rattling as he passed them from one hand to the other. "Come close and have a drink."
"I'll take the drink." After his narrow escape Dumarest felt that he could do with it. The man handed him a bottle and he lifted it to his lips. He swallowed, a gulp of a full three ounces. It was good liquor. "Thanks." He handed back the bottle. The man's eyes widened as he took it.
"Say, I know you! You're the one who beat the prince's fighter. That was something I wouldn't have wanted to miss." He became confidential. "Listen, if you want to turn professional I could fix you up all the way."
"No."
"Maybe you're right." The gambler wasn't annoyed at the abrupt refusal. "A pro gets known too fast. Tell you what. Let me handle things. I know quite a few places that have a liking for blood. We can kid them to back their local and then you step in. Get it? Just like you did with Moidor but this time you'd get plenty of gravy." He chuckled. "I forgot. You didn't do so bad. A High passage is plenty of loot for a—" He broke off. Du
marest finished the sentence.
"For a stranded bum of a penniless traveler?" His voice was very gentle. "Is that what you were going to say?"
"No!" The man was sweating. "Look, no offense. Have another drink."
"I'll cut you for a double-handful of units," said Dumarest. He leaned close so that the man could see his eyes. "High man wins." He watched the deft way in which the man shuffled the cards. "I've got the feeling I'm going to win," he said evenly. "It's a pretty strong feeling. I'll be annoyed if it's wrong."
He won. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't ashamed either of the way he had forced the result. A man had to learn to pay for a loose mouth. The gambler had got off cheap.
He left the tourists and headed across the camp, carefully stepping over slumbering figures huddled around the fires. A small line had formed where the Brothers Angelo and Benedict had set up their portable church and he wondered at the energy of the monks. His eyes narrowed as he found what he was looking for. Sime, apparently fast asleep, rested beside his coffin.
Dumarest looked around. It was still too bright for him to be totally unobserved if anyone were watching but details would be blurred by the dim light. He dropped to one knee very close to the sleeping man. His hand touched the coffin and he leaned forward—and saw the gleam of watchful eyes.
"Sime?"
"What is it?" The man lifted himself on one elbow. His gaunt chest was bare beneath the ragged tatters of his shirt, his face skeletal in the ruby glow. "What do you want?"
"I've got a proposition." Dumarest leaned close so that the man could smell the liquor on his breath. "Remember me? I helped you carry this thing from the field." His hand rapped the coffin.
"I remember."
"Well, I can get you a lift with it. A couple of units will do it."
No.
"Are you stupid? We've got as far again to go. You want to pass out before we reach the mountains?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then how about it?" Dumarest sounded impatient. "A couple of units to one of the guards. Its worth it."