The Jester at Scar dot-5

by E. C. Tubb

  Jocelyn cleared his throat. "What else?"

  "Exports, my lord?"

  "That and anything else which may be of interest."

  "The natural vegetation is fungoid, both saprophytes and parasites of various types and sizes. Traders call to purchase various spores which have some value in industry. There is also the aesthetic beauty of the planet, which holds strong appeal to artists."

  "Spores," mused Jocelyn. He sat, thinking. "Have you yet assimilated the information you required on Jest?"

  "Not yet, my lord."

  "Then more time would not be a total waste." He reached for the bell to summon the captain. "We shall go to Scar."

  "Are you sure?" Adrienne was ironic. "No spin of a coin, or casting of runes, perhaps? Surely you have not based your decision on sheer logic!"

  "Sometimes, my dear," he said sweetly, "destiny requires no outward symbol." He looked at the captain as he entered the cabin. "We go to Scar," he ordered. "When should we arrive?"

  "On Scar, my lord?" The captain pursed his lips. "Early spring. I could delay if you wish."

  "No," said Jocelyn. "Spring is a good time to arrive anywhere."

  Later, alone, he took a coin from his pocket and studied the sides. One bore the imprint of his father's head, the reverse the arms of Jest. With his thumbnail he drew a line across the rounded cheek.

  "Destiny," he whispered, and spun the coin.

  He smiled as he looked down at his father's face.

  * * *

  Del Meoud stepped out of his office and was immediately blinded by swirling curtains of ruby mist. Impatiently he lifted a hand and swept the infrared screen down over his eyes. At once his vision cleared, the shapes of men showing as radiant phantoms against a luminous haze.

  "Sergi!" he called. "Sergi! Over here!"

  The engineer was big, thick across the shoulders with a neck like a bole of a tree. He wore stained pants, boots, open tunic and a wide-brimmed hat dripped water. The screen across his eyes gave him a peculiar robotical look.

  "Factor?"

  "You're behind schedule," said Meoud. "The blowers around Hightown should be operating by now. Why aren't they?"

  "Snags," said the engineer bitterly. "Always snags. The pile should have been on full operation by now. The blowers are fixed and ready to go as soon as I get the power, but do those electricians care? Wait, they tell me, no point in rushing things. Hurry now, before a double-check has been made, could result in arc and delay." He spat into the mud. "If you ask me, they're afraid of getting their hands dirty; I could do better with a gang from Lowtown."

  Meoud stifled a sigh. It was always the same. Each spring he swore that it would never happen again, but always it did. Little things united to build up into worrying delays. One day time would slip past too fast and summer would find him unprepared. In that case, not even the charity of the guild would serve to protect him.

  He turned as a man came stamping through the mist.

  "Factor?"

  "What is it, Langel?"

  "I'm short of men. If you want the area sprayed as you said, I've got to have more help." Langel, like Sergi, was on the resident maintenance staff.

  "You've got all I can give you," snapped Meoud. He glared at Sergi, forgetting the other couldn't see his eyes. "How about your men? You aren't using them, are you?"

  "I need them to adjust the blowers. Anyway, you can't spray until they're working, not unless you want the stuff to go all to hell."

  That was true. Meoud scowled as he reviewed the problem. The trouble with Scar was that everything had to be done in so much of a hurry once spring had arrived. The rains stopped, the sun began to climb over the horizon and, immediately, the air was loaded with fog as the heat from the red giant drew up the water soaking the ground.

  These were not the best of conditions in which to ready the dwellings on Hightown for their rich occupants, rig the protective blowers, spray the area with strong fungicides, clear the landing field, sterilize the warehouses and do all the necessary things to make the station both attractive and safe.

  "We'll have to get extra labor," he decided, "more men from Lowtown. We can issue them with the necessary clothing and they'll be glad to earn the money." He looked at the two men. "I don't suppose either of you would like to arrange it?"

  "I'm busy," said Langel quickly, "too busy to go into that stinking heap of filth."

  "Sergi?"

  "The same." The big engineer turned his head, concentrating on something to one side. "Trouble," he said. "I'll be seeing you, Factor."

  Fuming, Meoud walked away, fighting his rage, and the mist, the mud, the very elements of Scar. The men hadn't really refused and, if they had, he lacked the power to make them venture into Lowtown in the spring. It was obvious that neither intended to leave the safety of the station area.

  Ahead, hugging the edge of the landing field, he saw the outlines of a small, portable church. Despite the streaming fog a line of men waited before the entrance. Cynically he watched them, knowing they queued less for spiritual balm than for the wafer of concentrates given as the bread of forgiveness after they had done subjective penance beneath the benediction light.

  "You need help, brother?"

  Meoud turned and stared at a figure in a rough, homespun robe. The cowl was rimmed with beads of water, the bare feet in their sandals coated with grime, but there was nothing pitiful about the figure. Brother Glee, while not a big man in the physical sense, was spiritually a giant. He stood, patiently waiting, the chipped bowl of crude plastic empty in his hand.

  Meoud glanced at it. "No luck today, Brother?"

  "None has as yet given charity," corrected the monk quietly. "Spring, on Scar, is a time of labor and, in such times, men tend to forget their less fortunate brethren."

  "And at other times, too," said Meoud flatly. He raised his eye screen and squinted at the indistinct shape standing before him. "Why?" he said. "I've offered to let you eat at the canteen at my expense, and you could use one of the prefabricated huts as a church. Is it essential for you to live as animals in the mud?"

  "Yes," said Brother Glee simply. "You are a kindly man, Factor Meoud, but in many ways you lack understanding. How could we dare preach to the unfortunate if we did not share their misery? How could they trust us, believe in the message we carry?"

  "All men are brothers," said Meoud. "I don't wish to mock you, Brother, but there are many who would not agree with your teaching."

  "That is not our teaching," said the monk patiently. "It is 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you': the golden rule and the logical one of any thinking, feeling man. Look at them," he said, turning to gesture to the patiently waiting line. "Think of one thing, Factor Meoud. There, but for the grace of God, go I! Remember that and all else will fall into place."

  He did not gesture with his bowl. The factor was primed and in a condition to give, but to force him to donate would be the result of pride, pride in the successful arrangement of an emotionally-loaded argument There was another reason; Brother Glee was too good a psychologist to press his advantage. A donation now could have a later backlash. No man likes to think that he has been used or maneuvered.

  "I need men," said Meoud suddenly, "strong men who are willing to work under orders. They will receive full rations for each day they work."

  "And pay?"

  "Equal to double rations," said Meoud. It was no time to haggle. "Treble rations for each man for eight days." He looked at the eyes shadowed by the cowl. "It is enough?"

  "Would you work for such a sum after being starved all winter?"

  "Yes," said Meoud firmly, and believed it. "If I were starving I would work for food alone."

  "So you say, brother; but have you ever starved?"

  "No," admitted the factor. "Food while they work and pay enough to buy food for three days more each day they work. I can do no more, Brother; you must believe that."

  "I believe it," said the monk. "And, brother, we thank y
ou."

  * * *

  The man was small and round, with a sweating face and an anxious expression. He wore a pointed cap and his wrists and ankles showed ruffs of yellow. His pants and blouse were of cerise striped with emerald. "Sir!" he called. "A moment, sir! Your attention, if you please."

  Dumarest paused, casually interested. Farther down the line, a man lowered his hand, his face bleak as he turned to his wares.

  "You are a man of discernment," babbled the vendor. "I could spot that in a moment, the way you entered, the way you walk. You are no stranger to this world, sir."

  His voice was shrill with a peculiar penetrating quality which demanded attention. He stood before his wares, which were spread on one of the display stands in the station building. Both bar and canteen were fully operational now and the tables and chairs were fully occupied. Spring was leading to summer and a feverish excitement tinged the air.

  Dumarest straightened and caught sight of Ewan busy with his shells. Men freshly awakened from deep sleep clustered around him and the air was full of the low buzz of conversation.

  "Sir!" The vendor plucked at his arm. "Your attention for but a moment." His other hand picked up a shimmering heap of plastic. "Look at this suit, sir. Have you ever seen anything as light? Completely acid-proof, and that is only the start. Acid, fire, rot, spore, mold and fungus: nothing can penetrate this special material. Feel it, sir, handle it. I would appreciate your opinion."

  Thoughtfully Dumarest examined the suit. It was light and flexible, a shimmering glory in his hands. Ignoring the actual material, he tested the seals and looked at the compact mechanism between the shoulders.

  "The seals are guaranteed to withstand fifty atmospheres of pressure either way and yet can be opened with a touch. The filters are of triple construction and set in three distinct places. The absorption material can contain sixty times its own weight of perspiration. Dressed in one of these suits, sir, you could penetrate deep into the most parasitical growth of fungi on the planet."

  "Have you tried it?" asked Dumarest.

  The vendor frowned. "How do you mean, sir?"

  "Have you tested it personally?"

  The man smiled. "But, naturally, sir. How else could I offer it for sale with a genuine assurance that it will do everything I claim? I have worn it for five days under facsimile conditions and-"

  "But not on Scar," interrupted Dumarest. "You haven't actually used it on a field expedition?"

  "On this world, sir, no," admitted the vendor. "But the suit is fully guaranteed. You have absolutely nothing to fear."

  "I see," said Dumarest. He frowned at the mechanism riding between the shoulders. "What would happen if I fell and buried my shoulders deep in mud?"

  "The air-cell would continue to work under all conditions, sir."

  "And suppose, at the same time, a fungi exploded and coated me with dangerous spores?"

  "The filters would take care of that. Spores down to microscopic dimensions would be caught in one or the other of the treble filters. I am perfectly willing to demonstrate the suit under any conditions you may select, sir."

  "Do that," suggested Dumarest. "Wear one and follow an expedition; test it as they order. If you remain alive and well you may possibly sell them- next year."

  The vendor gave a pained smile. "Surely you jest, sir?"

  "No," said Dumarest flatly. "I am perfectly serious. It is you who must be joking to ask men to buy your suits and risk their lives on your unsupported word. These men," he gestured to the other sellers of suits, "live here; they know the conditions. They know they will have to answer for every malfunction of any suit they sell, to the buyer or to his friends. Before you can hope to compete with them, you must equal their reputation."

  Dropping the suit, he moved to where the man who had lifted his hand waited. "Hello, Zegun, you looked worried. Has he been stealing your business?"

  "Not yet, Earl, but when you showed interest I was anxious," Zegun picked up one of his suits. "He's a smart talker with a flashy line of goods. Cheap too. I can't begin to get near him."

  "You don't have to," said Dumarest. "Not until he changes his design. With the filters where he has them and the air cell way back on the shoulders, it's impossible for one man alone to change either the filters or the battery. If the cell does keep working no matter what that isn't important, but who wants to risk his life on a thing like that?"

  "No one," said Zegun emphatically. "I'll pass the word. You ready to be suited up now?"

  "Later," said Dumarest. "Keep me one by."

  He walked on, moving through the crowd, catching the vibrant air of expectancy which pervaded the place. It was always like this just before summer; men would boast a little, make plans, find partners and try to learn from those who had been there before.

  A buyer stood on a low platform calling for those willing to sign up with his organization. He offered the basic cost plus a percentage of what was gained but neglected to stress that the basic cost had first to be met before profits could be earned. If a man worked hard and long, he could just make enough to last until the next season.

  Another offered a guaranteed sum against a deposited investment.

  A third knew exactly where to find a clump of golden spore.

  Deafened by the drone of voices, Dumarest passed through the vestibule and out into the fog. It was thinning now, the ruby-tinted mist dissolving beneath the growing heat of the swollen sun. It hung just over the horizon, a monstrous expanse of writhing flame and dull coruscations spotted with black penumbra. It was dying as Scar was dying, as the universe was dying. But Scar and its sun would be among the first to go.

  He turned and walked to where the screaming whine of blowers tore the mist to shreds. A cleared space opened before him beyond the fans and the neat paths and colored domes of Hightown, each dome interconnected so that it was possible to stay completely under cover. Men wearing heavy clothing walked the paths with their sprays.

  Suddenly restless, he turned to the landing field. Already the ships were arriving loaded with stores, supplies, exotic foods and manufactured goods. There were people too: the hard-eyed buyers, entrepreneurs, entertainers, vendors of a dozen kinds, young hopefuls intent on making a quick fortune and old prospectors unable to stay away.

  There were travelers also, those who were willing to ride on a low passage doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate tor the sake of cheap travel. A few would be lucky; many would not live through the summer; most would end in Lowtown, human debris at the end of the line.

  "The fools!" said a voice behind him. "The stupid, ignorant fools! Why do they do it?"

  "For adventure," said Dumarest. "Because they need to know what lies beyond; because it's a way of life." He turned. "Your way of life, Clemdish. How else did you come to Scar?"

  Clemdish was a small, wiry man, barely coming up to Dumarest's shoulder, with angry, deep-set eyes and a flattened nose. He scowled at the ship and the handful of travelers coming from it.

  "I was cheated," he said. "The handler lied; he told me the ship was bound for Wain." His scowl deepened. "Some people have a peculiar sense of humor."

  "You were lucky," said Dumarest. "He could have cut the dope and let you wake screaming." He stared at the advancing group. The chance of seeing someone he knew was astronomically small, but they were his kind, restless, eager to keep traveling, always on the move.

  "Fools," said Clemdish again. "Walking into a setup like this. How the hell do they expect to get a stake? They're stranded and don't yet know it." He rubbed at his nose. "But they'll find out," he promised. "Crazy fools."

  "Shut up," said Dumarest.

  "You feel sorry for them?" Clemdish shrugged. "Then go ahead and hold their hands, wipe their noses, give them the big hello."

  "You talk too much," said Dumarest, "and mostly about the wrong things. Have you anything fixed for the summer?"

  "Why? Are you offering me a job?"

 
"I could be. Interested?"

  "If you're thinking of prospecting, then I'm interested," said Clemdish. "On a share basis only. If you're thinking of taking wages, then I don't know. Something else may come up, and it's certain that you'll never get rich working for someone else." He tilted his head as something cracked the sky. "What the hell-"

  A ship dropped down from space, held by the magic of its Erhaft drive, aimed arrowlike at the field below. Clemdish whistled.

  "Look at that, Earl! A private if ever I saw one! How much money do you need before you can own your own ship?"

  "A lot," said Dumarest.

  "Then you're looking at real money." Clemdish narrowed his eyes. "What's that blazoned on the hull? Some crazy pattern, but I can't quite make it out. It's familiar though; I've seen it before."

  "In a deck of cards," said Dumarest wonderingly. "I've seen it too; it's a joker."

  Together they watched the ship as it came to rest.

  Chapter Three

  Jellag Haig rested cautiously on the edge of his chair and looked thoughtfully at his goblet of wine. It was a deep blue, sparkling as it swirled in its crystal container, reflecting the light in sapphire glitters.

  "Our own vintage," said Jocelyn, "from mutated berries grown under rigid control. I would appreciate your opinion."

  The trader settled a little deeper into his chair. He was expected to flatter, of course. It was not every day that he was the guest of royalty, but he was experienced enough to know that a wise man never criticized his superiors, certainly not when they had invited him into their vessel, not when there seemed to be a strong possibility of doing business.

  Carefully he waved the goblet beneath his nostrils, exaggerating the gesture a little but not enough to make it an obvious farce. The wine had a sharp, clean scent, reminiscent of ice and snow and a polar wind, with an undercurrent of something else which eluded him. He tasted it, holding the tart astringency against his tongue before allowing it to trickle gently down his throat.