by E. C. Tubb
Byrne, his face anxious as Avro broke the total seal, Tupou behind him carrying wine. Ruby fluid which he gushed into a goblet and handed to Avro without a word. Liquid he drank without thinking then dismissed them both with a curt gesture. Alone, he sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands.
And heard the song of wind, the thrum of pinions, the thin, keen hiss of parting air.
Madness and he reared, looking at the walls, the ceiling, the familiar shapes of ornate furnishings. Things to be despised for their nonfunctional design but now objects of comfort.
What had happened?
Coincidence, Marie had said, or the figure he had taken to be the Cyber Prime. But it was a coincidence which must have happened many times before. Why had this been different?
Avro examined the problem with trained mental efficiency.
Central Intelligence was the sum total of the massed brains which formed the heart of the Cyclan. Living intelligences, released from the hampering prisons of fleshy bodies when age had made those bodies no longer efficient. Locked in sealed capsules, fed with nutrients, hooked in series, the brains rested in darkness and total isolation from external stimuli. An ideal state in which to ponder the problems of the universe. A tremendous organic computer of incredible complexity; with its aid the Cyclan would rule the galaxy given time.
But the tool had revealed a flaw. Certain of the brains had shown signs of aberrated behavior and had to be destroyed. Was the sickness continuing?
Was Central Intelligence going insane?
A possibility loaded with frightening implications, for if the brains could no longer be trusted then what of the Cyclan? And what would be the reaction of cybers denied their reward for dedicated service? The potential immortality granted at the end of their useful physical life?
"Master!" Byrne turned as Avro opened the door to his chamber. "Is all well?"
A question Avro dismissed with a wave of his hand.
"Go to the field," he ordered. "I want all details of every vessel movement from Baatz from the time Tron landed here. Names, cargoes, destinations, complements, operating velocities-everything." To Tupou he said, "Bring all the records of the examinations made by Cardor together with a complete record of all circus workers." A near-impossible task but one which had to be attempted. "When you have done that, relieve Cardor and have him report to me."
Effort and expense with little hope of reward but Avro was beyond counting the cost. If Dumarest was dead he must be certain of it. If, despite all the evidence, the man had managed to survive then he must know that too. The future of the Cyclan depended on it.
Chapter Two
From his seat at the table Helith Lam looked at the prospects in the salon. They weren't encouraging, the usual assortment of deadbeats and cheap riders, but he had a place to fill and Krogstad was getting ugly. The gambler thinned his lips at recent memory, seeing the captain's face in his mind's eye, the cruel, determined set of the mouth. The ultimatum had been brief.
"Up the take or quit the Thorn!"
Dumped on Cadell or Bilton or another of the small worlds forming the Burdinnion. Garbage dumps mostly with little trade, no industry, scant farming and a viciously savage native life. Once kicked off the Thorn on such a world and he would starve. Too old to sell his labor, too inexperienced to wrest a living from the local terrain, he'd last only as long as his money. And the captain, damn him, would leave little of that.
A bleak prospect and one he had to improve. A decent cut from the table would grant him a reprieve and he could pad the captain's fifty percent share of the profit from his own cut. But first he had to fill the vacant seat.
"Come on!" Lissek, seated to his left, was impatient. "You're letting the deck grow cold."
"It'll warm." Cranmer was cynical. "Why be in a hurry to lose your money?"
"That's right." Varinia touched a handkerchief to lips painted a lurid scarlet. "Why be in a hurry over anything? But why the delay?"
"We need seven," said Lam. A lie and one he justified.
"It makes a better game and adds spice. Also it brings in fresh money."
"You should have told that to Deakin before he got skinned." Yalin, a wasp of a man, rapped a finger on the coins piled before him. "Come on, man, deal!"
Lam obeyed; a moving game attracted attention but his eyes weighed those lounging in the salon. The monk was out; no Brother of the Universal Church would waste time and money at the table. The young married couple had other things to interest them; after they'd swallowed their ration of basic they would vanish into their cabin. The gaunt-faced seller of symbiotes was immersed in his books and the old woman with the artificial gems had already used up her luck. Which left only two others.
"Damn!" A raddle-faced miner swore and threw down his hand. "That decides it! I'm out!"
"And me." A pale youngster followed his example. "Varinia?"
"Stays," said Lam, then, softening his tone, added with a smile, "We need her to make up the number and to add a touch of beauty to the company. And I don't think she'll regret it. See?" The cards riffled in his hands, falling to lie face upward. "Four Lords-could you hope for better? Your luck is about to change, my dear."
"It had better." Her eyes met his in mutual understanding. "But who else will join us?"
"Our friends." Lam lifted his voice as he made the appeal. "Please, you two, accommodate us. A small game to while away the time." Then, as the younger of the pair turned toward him, "Angado Nossak, isn't it? I think we have met before."
"On the Provost," agreed Nossak. "You taught me a hard lesson. Maybe now's the time to put it to use."
He took a chair, gesturing for his companion to take another. A hard man, decided the gambler, looking at him. A brief glance but enough to take in the shape and build. Faded garments spoke of hard times and the shiny patches on the fabric showed where straps could have hung or accoutrements rested. A mercenary, he guessed, a professional guard or a hunter-now down on his luck and hoping to improve it.
A forlorn hope, as was Nossak's intention to use what he had learned. Both prime fodder for the gambler's art and he riffled the cards, the rubbed-down skin of index fingers and thumbs reading the tiny marks a nail had impressed into the edges.
"Well, my lords and lady-" he inclined his head toward Varinia-"let us begin."
The game was starburn; a variation of poker with a seven-card deal and a double discard dropping the hand to the normal five cards. Lissek sucked in his breath as he scooped up his hand, a thin stream of purple running from the corner of his mouth. Saliva stained by the weed he chewed to ease his cough and steady his nerves.
"Give me three." He dropped five cards on the table. "Make them friendly."
So he had a pair. Lam glanced at Cranmer. Dealt him two cards, moved to where Nossak studied his hand.
"Three-no! Make it two." He watched Lam deal. "Earl?"
"I'll take one."
Dumarest watched as the deal moved on to the woman, his eyes on the gambler's hands. Smooth, ringless, the skin soft and supple. The result of applied salves, he guessed. He was certain as to why the index fingers and thumbs lacked any trace of the normal whorls and patterns.
A cheat and a desperate one; the risks he took were obvious. Chances he compounded as he returned to Lissek who threw down two cards for another pair. His original hand had been improved to one containing three of a kind, now, with luck, he could have built it into a full house or gained a healthy four. Cranmer shook his head after the final deal and dropped out. Angado pursed his lips and changed a single card. Dumarest shook his head and threw in his hand. The woman stayed. The gambler. Three rounds of betting and the game was over.
Varinia chuckled as she scooped in the pot.
"You know, Lam, I think I'm going to like this game."
One designed to build the pot and to ruthlessly squeeze the players. The extra cards and double discarding enabled good hands to be won and encouraged pressure-betting. If the dealer could manipu
late the cards he would find it simple to clean up.
Lam could manipulate them and was clever despite his desperation. He was using the woman as his shill, letting her win so as to cover his own involvement. Later, when she had grown too confident, he would clean her out.
"Raise ten." Angado threw coins into the pot. "This time I win."
Dumarest doubted it but made no comment. The man was his cabin mate, a temporary association born of chance. He owed the man nothing and his main concern was to remain inconspicuous. He'd left Baatz in a crate supplied by the circus, transported by discreet friends of the owner, shipped by a captain who wasn't too curious.
A journey ending with Dumarest in a warehouse. One he'd broken out of to take passage on a vessel heading toward the Burdinnion. Changing to the Thorn on Tysa. A ship like most in the region, catering to all trades, making short journeys, touching small and almost deserted worlds.
Now he had to make a decision. If Angado continued to play he would lose and could become violent, which would bring attention not only to himself but to the man who shared his cabin. But to beat the gambler at his own game would be to arouse a more direct interest.
And the captain was no fool.
Ships, even battered tubs like the Thorn, were valuable possessions and all took elementary precautions. A man who lied could be harmless but no harmless man had reason to lie. Dumarest had maintained his deception by giving only half his name but a deeper check would reveal things he wanted to keep hidden.
"You in?" Angado Nossak was impatient, sweating, hand tugging at the collar of his blouse. "God, it's hot in here. Where's the steward? I want some ice."
"Hot?" The gambler looked puzzled. "I've noticed no change." He looked at Dumarest. "You in or out?"
"In." Dumarest chipped into the pot. "No raise."
Varinia hesitated, glanced at Lam, then doubled Nossak's raise. Pressure which drove out Lissek and Cranmer. Nossak hesitated as he examined his hand, pulling at his collar and finally tearing open his blouse.
"I'm burning. Where's that damned steward?"
"Forget him." Varinia stared at the man. "You sick or something?" Her voice rose in sudden fear. "Hell, man, look at your face!"
It had broken out in lumpy protrusions. An attack shocking in the speed of its progression. The woman jumped up and backed from the table, others following, cards spraying from the gambler's hand as Nossak slumped over the table. Within seconds Dumarest was alone with the sick man in a circle of staring faces.
"Get the steward," said Lissek. "He'll know what to do. He's got drugs."
"Drugs, hell!" Cranmer was harshly aggressive. "Get the captain. That man's got plague!"
* * *
Captain Krogstad took five paces over the floor of the salon, turned, paced back to where he had started. Aside from himself, Brother Jofre and his first officer, the place was deserted. All the passengers were safely locked in their cabins and he wished Jofre was among them. But he knew better than to be hostile. It didn't pay to ride roughshod over the Universal Church.
He said, "Brother, you must see the situation from my point of view. As captain I am responsible for the ship and all in it. I cannot permit the possibility of contagion to remain."
"You are assuming the sick man is a carrier of disease. That need not be the case."
Krogstad was blunt. "With respect, Brother, you are not a medical man. I can't afford to take a chance on your diagnosis. If you are wrong-"
"Then the damage has already been done." The monk met the captain's eyes. "The ship has become infected and your duty is clear. All must be placed under total quarantine. You must send word to your world of destination for ships to monitor the isolation of the Thorn while in orbit. It will have to remain in that condition until such time as a clearance is granted."
Which would take its own sweet time, as Krogstad knew. Time during which expenses would mount from feeding the passengers and crew, from medical fees and the charges made by the monitors. Costs which would eat into his reserves and could leave him ruined.
Fedotik, the first officer, cleared his throat.
"There is an alternative," he suggested. "The sick man can be kept isolated, evicted if he dies." Or even if he doesn't-who would be concerned over the fate of a single man? Something which would already have been done if it hadn't been for Jofre's presence. "I'm thinking of the best for everyone," he added. "As you must be. It is our duty to safeguard the welfare of the majority."
"Not at the expense of the minority." Jofre was firm. "I don't think isolation is the answer."
"What else can we do?" Again Krogstad paced the floor. "Quarantine would ruin us and once I send the word there can be no retraction. If-" He halted and snapped his fingers. "I have it. The sick man is not alone. His cabin mate is with him. If Nossak is diseased with a contagious illness then his companion must be affected. As yet he appears untouched. Which must be evidence of a harmless infection."
"The man could be a carrier."
Fedotik said, quickly, "We have considered the possibility and have a solution which we hope will meet with your approval. The ship is bound for Anfisa. We can make a diversion and land on Velor away from any habitable area." He saw Jofre's expression and added, "Not too far away, of course, and we can leave supplies. If the illness is harmless-as we are certain it is-then they will recover and no harm will have been done."
"And the ship will be safe," said Krogstad. "By the time we reach Anfisa we'll know for sure if any plague is on board. If there is more sickness the authorities will be notified." He spread his hands in mute appeal. "Two men against the ruin of us all. Brother, I beg you to accept the compromise."
One made only because of his presence. Jofre had no illusions as to the captain's motives. To evict the pair would be easier and cheaper than landing on Velor.
"When?"
"Two days."
"Can I see them?" Jofre listened to the silence which was his answer. "Talk with them?" A pause, then he said firmly, "At least let me check their supplies."
Things Dumarest stacked after the ship had gone, leaving him and the sick man on a rolling plain already touched by shadows. Low on the horizon a sullen sun threw long rays of gold and amber, orange and yellow light, which illuminated drifting cloud to swathe the sky in dying beauty. As the day died so did its heat and Dumarest worked quickly to build a fire, using dried grasses and lumps of peat which burned slowly and cast a somber glow.
"Earl!" Nossak woke to rear upright where he had lain. "Earl!"
"I'm here, Angado." Dumarest handed the man a canteen. "How do you feel?"
"I'm burning. My insides are like a furnace and I ache all over." He drank and fell back to lie in the shelter of the supplies. "So we got dumped, eh? I thought it was a nightmare. Well, I guess it's better than getting thrown into the void. What was it that hit me?"
Dumarest shrugged. "Maybe a virus of some kind or it could have been an allergy. No one seemed to want to find out. That fool Cranmer shouted 'plague' and that was it."
"So I got dumped and you with me." Nossak turned his head, face ugly with lumps now darkened with blotches. "I guess you had no choice, huh?"
"No."
"If you had? I mean, would you be here now?"
"No."
"At least you're honest. I'll have to remember that. Maybe…"
He fell back, lost in a sudden sleep which was close to a coma; fitful periods of unconsciousness that hit at any time and without warning. A symptom of his illness; the lumps were another. Blotched masses hard beneath the skin that covered his entire body. Some were crusted by the dried scabs of oozing secretions.
By the light of the fire and the stars overhead Dumarest checked the supplies. There was water, concentrated food, a small supply of drugs, a hand axe, a compass, some needles and thread, a length of fine wire, a knife. Dumarest compared it to the one he lifted from his boot then set it to one side. The rest of the bulk was made up of two large but empty plastic sacs and a bun
dle of clothing.
Dumarest piled most of them around the sick man, covering the whole with one of the plastic bags. Seated before the fire he worked at the length of wire, fashioning lines ending in running loops. Stepping into the starlit darkness he set the snares, holding them with doubled ends of the wire set deep in the dirt. Back at the fire he ate a wafer of concentrate, washed it down with a sip of water and, knife in hand, closed his eyes.
He slept like an animal, hovering on the brink of wakefulness, starting alert as something threshed in the grass to one side. A small rodent, he guessed, which had become caught in a snare and he mentally marked the direction of the noise.
As the stars began to pale with the onset of dawn he heard a series of dull explosions to the north followed by a vivid lavender flash. He marked it with the knives dug into the ground to form a line of sight which he checked with the compass as the day grew brighter. When the plain lay revealed in sharp detail he went to check the snares, finding them all intact except one. It rested in a twisted mass among crushed grass stained with flecks of blood. Around it he saw the marks of spatulate paws.
An hour later it began to rain.
* * *
Angado Nossak was singing in a high, cracked voice, a melody that made little sense followed by a babbling string of words that made even less. Dumarest rose from his place beside the fire and crossed to the prostrate man. It was late afternoon, the rain had cleared the air leaving a brisk freshness now sharpened by the chill of approaching evening.
"Earl!" The babbling stopped as the man looked up, crusted lips parting in a smile. "Good old Earl. My friend. My faithful retainer. Did I tell you how you will be rewarded? For you a palace filled with nubile maidens, fountains of wine, tables groaning beneath the weight of assorted viands. Land and workers to tend your crops. On Lychen you will live like a king."
"Lychen?"
"My home world. The residence of the family to which I belong. Allow me to present Hedren Angado Nossak Karroum." His arm waved in a vague gesture. "The spoiled son of a decaying line. Yet there are those who hold me in high regard. Those who… who…"