"None," McCade replied. "I came alone."
"Shit." The other man turned away, and the hum of conversation returned to its previous level.
"We were hoping for more. The more men we've got, the easier it is to meet Torb's next quota." This voice came from slightly behind and to the right. McCade turned to find a wrinkled-up prune of a man, grinning a toothless smile. Bright little eyes regarded him with amusement. "They call me Spigot."
McCade accepted the little man's extended hand and found a grip as hard as durasteel. "Glad to meet you, Spigot, I'm Sam Lane." It seemed wise to stick with the name he'd arrived under. "How long have you been on this dirtball?"
Spigot's eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus as he thought back. "That's a tough one, Sam. It's hard to keep track . . . about twelve local years, I reckon . . . give or take one or two."
McCade nodded. "Then you're the man I'm looking for. I need someone who can give me the straight scoop, you know, who to look out for, how to avoid the worst work, that kind of stuff."
"You've been locked up before," Spigot observed slyly.
"A time or two," McCade agreed wryly. "But nothing like this." As he looked around he noticed a number of men eyeing him in a speculative fashion. They all wanted something. It might be his boots, his body, or just a new fund of dirty jokes, but each was a survivor, and saw McCade as something to be used.
"Let's find a place where we can sit and talk," McCade suggested.
Spigot grinned. "Make you nervous, do they? Sure, why not. But I'm no different. A man's gotta live, and what you want's worth something."
McCade felt the box of cigars pressing against his back. God bless Candy . . . properly used the cigars could make a big difference. "Damned right, Spigot, and pay I shall. How 'bout the next meal?" McCade saw no reason to let anyone know about his cigars until he'd found a good place to hide them. Otherwise they'd jump him the minute he fell asleep. Besides, he felt sure he could pass up one chance at whatever slop they were serving, without missing much.
Spigot pretended to consider McCade's proposal, finally nodding his agreement. "Normally I'd insist on two meals, but you seem like a regular guy, and there's no reason to take advantage."
McCade smiled. "Thanks, Spigot, I appreciate that." He'd obviously overpaid. Nonetheless a little goodwill wouldn't hurt.
"Think nothing of it," Spigot said generously. "Follow me. I know a place where we can talk without those bone pickers staring at us." With that the little man moved off, his oversized rags swirling around his knobby knees, his feet moving among the litter of rocks with a sureness born of long experience.
As they wound their way between small clumps of men, McCade saw hard faces, and tough leathery bodies from which all but the essential juices had been evaporated out. These were the survivors. The ones, who'd arrived with nothing, and still managed to live, not because they hoped to escape, but because they didn't know how to give up. Did one of those faces belong to Prince Alexander? Did he have the strength and the guts to survive in a place like this? McCade tried to find the face described on Joyo's print-out but failed. It was a big cavern. And life here could change the way a man looked. Finding the prince might take a while.
Now they'd left the open cavern far behind. Spigot led him around a rock pillar, and through a small opening in the rock, before climbing up and out of sight. McCade followed, and soon found himself sitting on a rock ledge overlooking the distant cavern, protected from observation by a low rock wall. "This is it," Spigot said proudly. "Home sweet home. I've never showed it to anyone else."
For some strange reason McCade believed him. A bundle of rags in one corner had the look of a crude bed, and a litter of empty meal paks and other junk testified to extended use. "Thanks, Spigot, I won't show it to anyone without asking you first."
Spigot nodded his approval. "OK, Sam, a deal's a deal. Shoot." As McCade asked questions, and the other man answered them, it quickly became apparent that Spigot liked to talk. Fortunately, he was pretty good at it, and had something worthwhile to say. There was a good sharp brain at work behind those bright eyes, and it had managed to integrate twelve years of experience and observation into a useful body of knowledge. So as Spigot talked, an overall picture of life on Worm quickly emerged.
The planet itself had very little going for it. While it did have some arable latitudes, these could not support Terran crops due to the low levels of CO2 in the atmosphere, and a shortage of certain minerals. And while the planet did have large deposits of iron ore, and certain other metals, these were also available elsewhere closer in toward the heart of the Empire. So all activity centered around the rockworms which had given the planet its name. The rockworms were huge, leathery gray tubes, averaging some thirty feet in length, and six feet in diameter. As far as McCade could gather they spent all their waking hours eating their way through solid rock. Each had a circular mouth boasting thousands of grinding teeth. The worms cut their way through the rock by rotating their teeth back and forth in a half circle. Then some sort of strong acidlike substance secreted by glands in the worm's mouth went to work, gradually turning the loosened rock into a thick jelly, which they promptly ingested. From there the jelly went through a series of five different stomachs, each serving to further digest the rock, each responsible for leaching out certain minerals.
The result was an incredible labyrinth of tunnels through the solid bedrock which overlaid much of the planet. And the way Spigot explained it, when the worms weren't eating, they were screwing, a life-style which he clearly envied. The results of these amorous encounters were small clutches of two or three eggs. These were deposited in small rock alcoves created by the female worms. Then it was the male's responsibility to fertilize the now-dormant eggs, and seal them into the alcove with partially digested rock. In due time the infant worms would hatch, eat their way out, and the whole cycle would start over again. But every once in a while a clutch of eggs would escape fertilization. For years they would sit there, slowly crystallizing, their internal chemicals gradually recombining, changing consistency and color, until finally they became rock hard. Then careful cleaning in a series of chemical baths would reveal iridescent jewels, each different from every other, each invested with a brilliant fire deep in its center. Properly cleaned each would be worth a million credits or more. These were the fabulous Fire Eggs so sought after by the wealthy of many races. McCade had heard of them but never seen one.
But the worms didn't give up their unborn young easily. First you had to find them, and that meant venturing into their subterranean maze of endless tunnels, where your life expectancy was measured by your luck, and the amount of oxygen and power you had left. But even worse than the possibility of becoming lost, or dropping into the occasional vertical shafts created where tunnels crossed paths, were the worms themselves. It seemed the planet was calcium poor, and while the worms needed a certain amount of calcium to survive, it was very hard to come by. Which explained why the worms loved the rare, but calcium-rich limestone deposits that dotted the planet, and were equally fond of human bones. Where calcium was concerned, the worms had some very fine senses indeed, and the amount of calcium present in the human skeleton was sufficient to bring them galloping from miles away. "So," Spigot said succinctly, "the trick is to find their eggs without becoming a vitamin supplement."
McCade shifted position trying to find a more comfortable way to sit on the hard rock. Having a box of cigars shoved down his pants was damned uncomfortable. "Why not use robots?"
Spigot spat, the glob of spittle easily clearing the low rock wall, to splatter somewhere below. "Cause we're cheaper. How much did they pay for you?"
McCade thought for a second, and said, "Outside of transportation . . . nothing."
"I rest my case," Spigot said with a grin.
"Still," McCade countered, "how do they make you work? Surely they can't send a guard along with each prisoner."
"Simple," Spigot replied. "There's a bonus for any m
an who finds an egg, extra food usually, and a penalty for the whole group if we don't make Torb's quota. And since we all want to stay alive, it works real well."
"OK," McCade said thoughtfully, "I've got the big picture. Now, how about people. Who's the top dog around here?"
Spigot eyed him sharply. "You don't miss much, Sam. I'll have to keep an eye on you. Well, topside Torb's the big cheese, but I suppose you already figured that out."
McCade rubbed the side of his jaw. It still hurt. "Yeah, he certainly has a way with words."
Spigot chuckled "That's Torb . . . he believes in making an impression on the new meat right away. Anyhow he's the boss, and under him there's a whole bunch of guards, nasty bastards most of them, though one or two are halfway human. Then there's our own pecking order to consider. Course it keeps changing as people buy the farm."
McCade nodded in sympathy. "Who's top man right now?"
"That'd be 'The Animal.' Of course that's just his nickname."
"Glad to hear it," McCade answered dryly. "I'd hate to think his parents named him that."
"Well, knowing him, it probably fit," Spigot replied with a shake of his head. "The Animal is not a nice man. But you'll find out soon enough. Just like Torb . . . he likes to make an impression on new meat."
"I can hardly wait," McCade answered dryly. "By the way, I haven't seen any women, what's the deal?"
Spigot looked wistful for a moment, and then shook his head sadly. "We had women up till about six years ago, but there wasn't enough, so Torb took 'em all away. Said there were too many fights."
Suddenly a klaxon went off, and Spigot stood up, all business. "Meal time," he said, and held out his hand. McCade removed the loop of plastic from around his neck and handed it over.
"Thanks," Spigot said. "I'll return it right after I eat. Be nice to feel full for once. Where shall we meet?"
"How about right here?" McCade asked. "If you don't mind."
"Nah, that's fine," Spigot answered as he started climbing down to the floor of the cavern. "Just don't let anyone see you coming or going. I like my privacy."
"You've got it," Sam promised, and followed the other man down. With a wave of a hand, Spigot disappeared into the maze of rock passageways which led back toward the open cavern. McCade waited a full five minutes, making sure the little man hadn't doubled back to spy on him, and climbed back up to the balcony. After a bit of exploration, he found a small deadend tunnel, toward the rear of Spigot's living area, and a tiny niche high in its darkest corner. Removing the cigars from the waistband of his pants, he opened the box, withdrew a handful, closed the container, and slid it into the niche. As he retired to the balcony, he stuck one cigar in his mouth, and tucked the rest into an inner pocket. Selecting a comfortable seat, he puffed the self-igniting cigar into life, and took a long satisfying drag. There was plenty to think about.
Eleven
One look at the man in front of him, and McCade knew Animal's nickname fit like a glove. And not because of the way he looked. Animal was a lot better-looking than Torb. No, it was his eyes. They were hard black lumps of coal, dead things, empty of all feeling, set in a face of pallid white flesh. And he was tough. Not big, not muscular, just tough. It showed in the way he moved and held himself. McCade sighed. Animal held his position through physical force. That meant each new man had to be beaten into submission. And because he was a sadist, and enjoyed inflicting pain, no matter what McCade did or said, Animal would insist on a fight. So, it was a no-win situation. If McCade fought Animal and lost, he might be seriously injured, and if he won, he'd have a powerful enemy. Either way he was in trouble.
Six hours had passed since McCade's arrival. Spigot had returned from his double meal, belched a couple of times, and offered to take McCade on a tour of the cavern. McCade had accepted, welcoming an opportunity to search for the prince among his fellow prisoners, and eager to learn the ropes. As they wandered through the cavern, McCade encouraged Spigot to introduce him to the men they ran into along the way, but none were Alexander.
So while McCade made no progress in his search for the prince, he found the cavern itself quite interesting. Thousands of years before, the huge subterranean vault had served as a sort of a natural terminal for the worms, providing them with a place to meet, and mate. At one time hundreds of their tunnels had branched off in all directions, but Torb and his guards had sealed the passageways with explosives, creating the perfect underground prison.
"Have the worms ever tried to tunnel in?" McCade asked.
Spigot looked surprised. The thought had never occurred to him. "Not that I ever heard of, Sam. Who knows, maybe they ate all the good rock way back then."
McCade nodded agreeably. "You're probably right, Spigot. Anyway, I'm glad they won't be interrupting our dinner." Thanks to Spigot's built-in timer, they had arrived in front of the lift tube just as the klaxon sounded and the next meal arrived. This, the little man explained, was breakfast. Not to be confused with the identical meal paks which were called dinner. Lunch didn't exist.
After breakfast they'd go to work. It would be dark outside in an hour or so, and it seemed the worms were less active at night, making it safer to enter the tunnels. It was a sensible policy, since it was always pitch-black in the worm tunnels anyway, and it did serve to reduce casualties. It didn't eliminate them entirely however, because there always seemed to be a few worms who liked to wander around at night. Anyway, no one wanted to eat in the tunnels, so "dinner" would be served when they returned from work. If they'd made the week's quota that is. Otherwise it was one meal a day. Eat, grab a few hours of sleep, and then do it all over again. It wasn't much of a career, although McCade imagined that it would beat the hell out of working for Swanson-Pierce full-time.
So they got in line, displayed their disks to a bored guard, grabbed one of the identical meal paks, and headed for the open area where most of the men ate their meals. They were halfway there when Animal and two of his henchmen stepped into their path.
Although Animal directed his comments to Spigot, his dead eyes were on McCade. "So, Spigot, what's this piece of garbage you've been dragging around?" Spigot didn't answer. He just looked down and shuffled his feet.
McCade put down his meal pak and turned toward Animal: The facial tic which plagued him during moments of stress was twitching like crazy.
He hoped Animal wouldn't notice it. "OK, you want to fight . . . so why don't we dispense with the preliminary bullshit and get on with it. Spigot, what's the penalty if I kill this sonovabitch?"
Spigot looked at him in openmouthed amazement, as did Animal's two toadies. Sensing entertainment, a crowd began to gather. Animal's eyes were unreadable, but a slight sheen of perspiration had appeared on his forehead. This wasn't the way things were supposed to work. He forced a grin. "That's big talk, meat, but talk's cheap. Try it."
McCade ignored him and turned to Spigot. "Well?" he demanded.
Spigot gulped, and said, "A day outside with no supplemental O2."
McCade looked Animal up and down as though examining a new disease. He smiled. "It'll be worth it."
Over the years Animal had found that a sudden and unexpected attack often gave him the advantage. So, with a roar of self-induced rage, he charged straight at his opponent. Forcing himself to wait until the last second, McCade stood his ground. And then, when Animal was only inches away, McCade drove the six-inch piece of sharpened steel straight into Animal's heart. Animal jerked, gurgled, and then fell.
McCade wiped his slippery hands on his pants and picked up his meal pak. "Spigot, if you'd be so kind as to notify the guards of Animal's much deserved demise, I'd like to eat my dinner. I don't suppose there's much room service outside."
The crowd laughed, some stopping to slap him on the back, others shaking his hand, already ingratiating themselves with the new boss. Then they drifted away, talking excitedly among themselves. Who'd have thought someone could walk in and take Animal like that? What kind of taxes will he levy?
Who is this guy anyway?
Meanwhile McCade pretended to eat his meal. But as soon as the crowd was gone, he stood and sauntered over toward the rocks surrounding the open latrine. Having made sure no one else was there, he promptly threw up. It was partly nervous reaction, and partly revulsion at what he'd done. He'd killed many times, but never so coldly, so calculatedly. The whole thing had gone exactly as planned.
First he'd pumped Spigot about Animal, then he'd verified the little man's observations with others, and finally he'd slipped away to buy the knife. Naturally Animal had lots of enemies, it showed in their eyes whenever his name was mentioned, and McCade had spotted one honing a handmade knife. He's spent half his cigars to get it. After that it was simply a matter of time. Animal wasn't all that bright and, being a creature of habit, used the same insults time after time to pick his fights, following up with his predictable charge. In a way the poor bastard had killed himself. McCade straightened up, wiped his mouth, and left the latrine. By the time he emerged he had a grin plastered on his face, and was pretending to zip his pants.
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