by E. C. Tubb
"Jumpers?" Clemdish frowned. "We can take care of those."
"There's another way," said Dumarest, "a better way, perhaps. We sell the location to one of the traders, Zopolis, even. He has the men and equipment to handle it. While he's doing that, we can take care of our other finds."
"No!" Clemdish was emphatic.
Dumarest sighed. "Be reasonable. What's the good of money to a dead man?"
"We won't be dead," said Clemdish. He rose, trembling. "No," he said again. "I mean it, Earl. I'm your partner, and I've a right to my say. That golden spore is ours!"
Dumarest remained silent.
"We can't afford to deal with a trader," said Clemdish earnestly. "You know what will happen. He'll work on a contingent basis. Even if he believes you and makes a deal, it will be all his way. First he'll charge for the cost of harvesting, then he'll want his cut and more. If we get a fifth of its value we'll be lucky. That's a tenth each, Earl."
"I could make a better deal than that," said Dumarest.
"I doubt it. The traders have formed themselves into a combine so you have to play the game their way. But even if you did up the percentage, that's all it would ever be-a part when you could have the whole. Why should we give money away?"
Dumarest stared at his partner. "We won't be giving money away," he reminded. "Well be collecting some trouble-free cash."
"The cost of a few high passages," said Clemdish bitterly. "And, when that's gone, what then? No, Earl. This is my chance to get rich, and I'm not letting any fat slob of a trader cash in on it. Well get the stuff if I have to crawl naked down the side of a mountain."
He was shouting, the metal walls vibrating to his vehemence, his face ugly with passion.
"Calm down," said Dumarest.
"That golden spore is mine!" shouted Clemdish. "Half of it anyway. We're partners, and don't you forget it!"
"I'm not forgetting it," snapped Dumarest. "Now, calm down. You want everyone to know our business?"
"I-" Clemdish gulped, suddenly aware of his stupidity. "I'm sorry, Earl. It's just that I can't let that spore go. It's the chance of a lifetime, and I've got to take it."
"All right," said Dumarest.
"It's the thing I've dreamed about," said Clemdish, "the one real chance to make a break."
Dumarest nodded, suddenly feeling the constriction of the walls, the cramped confines of the little room. A bed, a locker and tier of drawers both fitted with thumb-print locks, a metered entertainment screen and a single chair were the entire furnishings of the cubicle. To Clemdish it was luxury. How could he be blamed for wanting to break free?
"Get some sleep," said Dumarest quietly. "Soak up as much water as you can; eat some decent food, and keep quiet," he added. "What's done is done, but there's no sense in making things worse."
He left before Clemdish could answer, striding from the little room, down the echoing passage and out into the open air. The sun hit like the blast of a furnace and he blinked, pulling the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes. Dust swirled from beneath his boots as he walked from the dormitory. To one side, on the edge of the landing field, someone had erected a wide awning. Shouts rose from a group of men as they watched two others wrestle. They were crewmen from the waiting space ships, mostly, finding relaxation in primitive sport.
Wandara grinned with a brilliant flash of teeth as Dumarest approached the processing sheds. "Hello there, Earl, you come looking for work?"
Dumarest shook his head.
"That's a real pity. You'd make a good boss for one of the rafts, or would you like to go scouting? Top rates, and I won't bear down if you take time out to do some personal harvesting." The overseer winked. "Just as long as you remember old friends."
Dumarest smiled. "No thanks. I've got too much to do to work for basics. Ready for harvest yet?"
"Almost." Wandara turned to where a mass of fungi lay on a wide bench. Picking up a machete he hacked off a mass of liver-colored sponginess. "Brown glory," he said. "Tell me what you think."
Dumarest bit into the mass and chewed the succulent pulp. "Too early," he said. "The flavor still has to develop."
The overseer nodded. "Now this."
It was a mass of convoluted velvet spotted with blue and cerise. The texture was that of soft cake, the taste of a mixture of tart and sugar.
"About right," said Dumarest. He looked past the overseer to where the main processing shed stood closed. "Got all your staff yet?"
"We don't start them until we need them," said Wandara. "You know that. But Brother Glee is passing the word." He turned back to his bench, his machete glittering in the sun as he chopped the collected fungi to pieces for examination.
This batch was for testing and disposal. The rest would be for slicing and dehydrating by a quick-freeze process which kept the flavor intact. It would be packed for the markets of a hundred worlds. Gourmets light years apart would relish the soups and ragouts made from the fungi harvested on Scar.
Dumarest turned away and headed for the awning. A man called as he approached.
"Try this delicious confection, sir, spun sugar touched with the juice of rare fruits!"
Another said, "See the mating dance of the Adrimish. Feel the sting of their whips, the touch of their nails: full sensory recording."
A stooped crone was next. "Cold drinks, my lord, iced to tantalize and tease the tongue."
The small-time entrepreneurs of Scar were taking full advantage of the boredom attending late summer. A man sidled close and spoke in a whisper.
"A half share in a clump of golden spore, yours for the cost of a high passage."
From one side a man droned as he stooped over a crystal ball filled with minute and swarming life.
"See the epic struggle of the sharmen as they battle with alien spores. Watch as they turn into mobile balls of destructive vegetation. The next show about to commence. Two places yet to be filled."
A woman laughed as she danced to the dull thudding of a drum, coins scattering around her naked feet.
A roar lifted from the center of the crowd. A man rose, stripped to the waist, struggling against the hands which gripped hip and shoulder. He spun, twice, then was dashed to the ground.
"Brother!"
Dumarest turned to face the monk, looked at the lined face beneath the shielding cowl. "Brother Glee, how can I help you?"
"Not I, brother, but one who claims to be a friend of yours, a woman of Lowtown. She has a scarred cheek and neck."
"Selene?" Dumarest frowned. "She sold me food and shelter."
"Even so, brother. She asked for you."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
The monk nodded. "Of your charity, brother, will you come?"
* * *
She looked very small huddled on her bed of rags. The scar was hidden and, with her cropped hair, she seemed more like an adventurous boy than a mature woman who had seen too much of the hard side of life. Then she turned and Dumarest could see the rags and blood and the damage done to the side of her head.
"Earl?"
"Here." He found her hand and gripped it. "What happened?"
"Earl." Her fingers tightened. "I'm frightened, Earl. It's so dark, and it shouldn't be dark, not in summer, not like this."
Dumarest raised his head and looked at the monk standing on the other side of the bed. Brother Glee spoke before his junior could answer Dumarest's unspoken question.
"We were selecting those for work in the sheds of agent Zopolis. Men and women in the greatest need. Selene was one. We entered and found her lying in a pool of blood; she had been struck down."
"Why?"
"I do not know, brother," said the monk quietly. "But it was rumored that she had money hidden away."
Dumarest turned, looking at the interior of the hut. The corner which had held his bed was a jumbled mess. The chests had been wrenched open; scraps of fabric littered the floor. Even the plastic fragments lining the sagging roof had been torn down. Someone had searched the
place with a furious desperation.
"Earl." Her voice was a fading whisper. "It's so dark, Earl, so dark!"
"The blow crushed the side of her head," said the junior monk quietly. "She is paralyzed down one side and totally blind. I have managed to staunch the bleeding, but there is extensive damage to the brain." He paused and then added, "There are other mind injuries: bruises and lacerations together with burns."
"Torture?"
The monk inclined his head. "It would appear so; she was gagged when we found her."
Dumarest leaned closer to the woman on the bed. "Selene," he said urgently. "Who did it? Tell me who did it."
Her fingers closed even tighter on his. "Earl," she breathed, "You came. I needed you and you came."
"Who did it?"
"A man," she said. "He wanted money."
"Which man? Did you know him? Tell me his name."
"Name?" She moved a little. "Hurt," she said, whimpering. "He hurt me."
"The damage to her brain has obviously impaired her memory," said the junior monk softly. "It could be that she is unable to tell you more."
"She must." Anger made Dumarest curt. "A woman," he said, "harmless, trying to make a living the best way she could-and some money-hungry swine comes to her home and does this to her." He stooped even lower over the bed, his lips almost touching her ear. "Selene!" he said sharply. "Listen to me."
"Earl?"
"You must tell me who the man was. Who did this to you?"
She moved a little as if trying to escape from something unpleasant.
"Tell me," he insisted.
"Rings," she said abruptly. "Rings!" Then, with a fading softness, she continued, "Earl, don't leave me. Earl… don't leave me."
He felt the fingers locked on his own suddenly relax, watched as the cropped head turned, falling on the crude pillow, hiding the scar for the last time.
Dumarest rose, stepping back as the monk gently closed her dead eyes and turning to face the silent figure of Brother Glee.
"You came here looking for her," he said. "Did you see anyone leave as you approached? Someone who stood close to the hut, perhaps, or who may have passed you on the path."
Beneath the shadow of the cowl the eyes of the monk were steady on his own. "What do you intend, brother?"
"I am going to find the man responsible for this," said Dumarest rightly. "He will not do it again."
"Murder, brother?"
"Justice, monk, the only kind of justice there is on this planet. Or do you wish to see the man who did this escape?"
Brother Glee shook his head. Dumarest was right. There was no law on Scar, no police or other authority which had any interest in what had happened. But, if he should prove too hasty, what then?
"There was a man," said the monk softly. He would suffer penance for this later; it was not his place to speak when his superior remained silent. But he was young and not yet divorced from anger. "A contract man, Heldar."
"Heldar," said Dumarest slowly. He had heard the gossip. "He was close?"
"He passed us on the path."
"Alone," said Brother Glee quickly. The damage was now done; all he could do was to minimize the probable consequences. "And there is no proof. We saw nothing to connect him with the crime."
"Have no fear, Brother," said Dumarest curtly. "I shall not harm an innocent man."
* * *
The crowds had thickened at the fair when Dumarest returned. A girl caught his arm; her face was dotted with luminous points and her hair a frizzled mass of silver and gold.
"Hello, handsome," she cooed. "Why look so grim?" He shook free his arm and pressed deeper into the crowd, his eyes searching.
Another girl, a blonde with tattooed lips, pressed her lush body against his chest. "How about me giving you something nice, good looking?" Her smile was inviting. "Nice clean sheets, full stimulating apparatus and something to get you into the mood. Satisfaction guaranteed, or a full refund." She tilted her head to where a space ship, blazoned with phallic symbols, stood close by. "Yes?"
"No."
"Impotent?" she snapped, then lost her sneer as she saw his face.
He ignored her, pressing through the crowd and using the advantage of his height. A man like Heldar, frightened perhaps, would find comfort in a crowd; he would not like to be alone until his nerves had settled. Yet he wasn't at the fair. The station, perhaps?
Dumarest strode through the dormitories, not finding the man he sought. He could be lurking somewhere in Lowtown, though it was doubtful, or the sheds, perhaps.
* * *
Wandara shook his head. "No, Earl, I can't say that I've seen him. Is it important?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Do you mind if I have a look round?"
"Sure," said the overseer, "help yourself."
The interior of the shed was silent, shadowed with equipment. Dumarest walked slowly down the center, his eyes probing to either side. Heldar could have entered by the door to the rear of where Wandara had been working. He heard a soft rustle, the sound of movement.
"Heldar?"
It came again. It was the sound of fabric sliding against metal, as if a man were squeezing himself between the end of a raft and the wall of the shed.
"Come out," said Dumarest. "If I have to come after you, you'll regret it."
"What you want?" Heldar blinked as he came from between two rafts. "I was catching a nap; you woke me up. What's all this about?"
"Come outside," said Dumarest. "I've got something to tell you." Casually he led the way to where Wandara stood at his bench. The overseer looked up and laid down his machete.
"Find him?"
"I'm here." Heldar stepped into the sunlight. "I still want to know what all this is about."
"A woman was murdered down in Lowtown," said Dumarest curtly. "I think you did it."
"You're crazy!"
"You were seen!"
"That's a lie!" Heldar looked at Wandara. "I've been here for the past five hours, asleep in the shed. How the hell could I have murdered anyone?"
"Just a minute," said the overseer. He looked at Dumarest. "So a woman's been murdered," he said. "So what business is it of yours?"
"She was a friend of mine."
"That's different," said Wandara. "You're lying," he said to Heldar. "This shed was locked tight until three hours ago."
"So I misjudged the time," said Heldar. "But why blame me if a woman got herself killed? I had nothing to do with it."
"The woman was hit over the head," said Dumarest. "She bled quite a lot. You've got some of it on your boots."
Heldar looked down, then up, his eyes frightened. "I didn't do it."
"There's an easy way to find out," said Dumarest gently. "The witness could be wrong. All you have to do is to go to the church and get under the benediction light." he explained. "The monks are good at finding out the truth."
It was by hypnosis, naturally, with the swirling mass of kaleidoscopic colors from the benediction light a perfect tool for the purpose. If Heldar was innocent there was no reason why he should refuse. "All right," he said. "I'll do it."
He walked past Dumarest towards the landing field, where the portable church was almost lost among the milling crowd. He reached the bench, the spot where the overseer had laid down his machete. As he passed he picked it up and, spinning in a blur of motion, swung it at Dumarest.
Automatic reflex saved him. He ducked and felt the blade slice off the crown of his hat. He jumped back as Heldar advanced and felt the point rasp across his chest, laving open the plastic and baring the protective mesh beneath. Then Wandara moved in, trapping Heldar's arm and twisting it until he dropped the blade.
"Hell," he said, "If you want to fight, do it properly."
It was an excuse for a spectacle. Dumarest felt the sun on his bare head as men rushed to make a circle, the avid faces of women appearing at their sides, the dust slowly settling as volunteers attended to the formalities.
"You'll have to strip, Ea
rl!" His ebon face gleaming with sweat, Wandara looked to where Heldar was baring his chest. "He's good," he warned. "I've seen him fight before. Watch out for an upward slash on a backhand delivery; he twists the blade at the last moment."
"I'll watch out for it," said Dumarest.
"He's got a trick of dropping and slashing at the ankles, too." Wandara took the proffered tunic and threw it over his arm. "Do you really think he killed that woman?"
"Why else did he attack me?"
"I heard about it," said Wandara. "The poor bitch! Don't let him get away with it, Earl." He handed over a machete. "I'll have to take your knife."
Dumarest nodded, handed over the weapon and stopped forward, swinging the machete to get the feel of it. It was too long and clumsy for comfort. At the far side of the ring Heldar was accompanied by the men Dumarest had seen at the bar. They took his tunic and slapped him on the back.
"All right," said Wandara. His voice rose above the babble and brought silence. "This is between these two; anyone interfering can have his chance later." He looked from one side of the ring to the other. "It's all yours. What are you waiting for?"
He ducked away as they advanced, the scuff of their boots loud in the silence.
It was a silence Dumarest had heard before; the bated breath of watchers hungry for the sight of blood and pain, eager to taste the vicarious thrill of hacking a man to death. It hung over the crowd like a miasma, merging with the brooding heat of the sun, adding to the mounting tension so that men clenched their hands until the nails dug into their palms and women chewed orgiastically at their lower lips.
"Earl," said Heldar as he approached. "There's no need for this. What the hell can you gain by killing me?"
Dumarest advanced, poised on the balls of his feet, the machete gripped so as to reflect the sun from the polished blade.
"I've got nothing to lose; I'm dying anyway," whispered Heldar. "Maybe you'll do me a favor by making it quick."
His arm sagged a little, the gleaming blade lowering its point to the dirt, almost as if the weight was too great for his hand. It flashed with reflected sunlight, flashed again and then seemed to disappear.
Dumarest sprang to one side and felt the wind of the blow against his upper left arm. Immediately he slashed, a blow level with the ground at waist height, drawing back the blade in a slice.