by E. C. Tubb
With a final effort, he dragged himself onto a narrow ledge. A boulder showed at the base of a fungus. He reached it and, using the rock dangling from his wrist, hammered a stake into the ground Hitching the rope around it, he tugged and waited for Clemdish to join him.
"Made it," said the little man as he caught his breath. "No trouble at all, Earl. I'll tackle the next one."
Slowly they moved upward. Once Clemdish slipped and fell to hang spinning on the end of the rope. Dumarest hauled him up, changed places and tried the climb himself. His extra height gave him an advantage, and he managed to find a shallow gully running up and to one side. It led to a boulder, to a hidden crevasse into which they almost fell, to a gully filled with a spongy mass of slimy growth through which they clawed, and up to an almost clear area from which they could see back over the plain.
Dumarest sprawled on the shadowed ground. "We'll rest," he said. "Cool down, and replace our filters while we're at it." He looked sharply at Clemdish. "Are you alright?"
"I'm beat." Clemdish scraped a mass of crushed fungi from his suit's diaphragm. "This is knocking the hell out of me," he admitted. "We ought to get out of these suits, Earl, sleep, maybe. Have something to eat at least. Much more of this, and we won't be much good when we hit the top."
Clemdish made sense. Dumarest leaned back, conscious of the quiver of overstrained muscles, the jerk of overtired nerves and knowing that he had driven them both too hard. The worst part of the journey was still before them: the steep, treacherous slope on the far side of the hills and the cliff falling to the sea. Tired men could easily make mistakes and one could be fatal.
"All right," he said. "Well set up the tent, check the suits and have something to eat."
"Something good," said Clemdish, reviving a little. "I've got a can of meat in the pack."
It was good meat. They followed it with a cup of basic, spacemen's rations, a creamy liquid thick with protein, laced with vitamins and sickly with glucose. Moving awkwardly in the limited confines of the tent, Clemdish stripped and laved his body with a numbing compound to kill the irritation of sensitive skin.
As he worked, Dumarest looked back over the plain. The sun was swinging down to the far horizon, past its zenith now, but still with a quarter of the way to go. Already he thought he could see a tinge of growing cloud on the skyline. He thought it his imagination, probably, for when the rain clouds gathered, they came rolling from the sea to hang in crimson menace before shedding their tons of water.
In the distance, he could see the tiny motes of rafts as harvesters gathered their crop. As he watched, one seemed to grow, almost swelling as it rode high above the plain.
"It's coming towards us." Clemdish finished wriggling back into his clothes and suit to be fully protected aside from his helmet. "What's it doing this far out from the station?"
"Scouting, probably." Dumarest frowned as the raft came steadily closer. They were a long way from the harvesting sheds, and scouts worked in a circle rather than a straight line. Distance equaled money when it came to collecting the crop, and never before, to his knowledge, had they ever harvested close to the hills.
Clemdish scowled at the nearing vehicle. "It's a scout, right enough," he admitted. "One of Zopolis's machines. But who the hell ever heard of a scout carrying three men?" He looked at his partner. "Are they looking for us. Earl? Is that what you think?"
"They could be."
"That rope." Clemdish bit his lower lip. "I must have been crazy, Earl. I'm sorry."
Dumarest didn't answer. It was too late for regret. If the men in the raft were searching for them, they would either find them or not. Nothing else really mattered.
He watched as the raft came closer, then veered along the line of the hills, the men inside using binoculars to examine the terrain. It rose, circled and returned, dropping towards the plain as if those inside had seen something of interest.
Clemdish sighed as it turned and went back the way it had come. "They didn't see us, Earl," he said. "They didn't find what they were looking for."
Dumarest wasn't sure.
* * *
Wandara glowered at the pilot of the raft. "Come on!" he yelled. "What you waiting for?"
The man scowled but lowered the vehicle carefully to the weighing plate of the scale. He cut the anti-gravs and sat, waiting.
The overseer checked the weight, made a notation on his clipboard and climbed up to the open control bench. Behind a low seat, the loading well of the raft was open to the sky. He looked at the mass of fungi, then glared at the pilot.
"You're cutting too far down the stalk," he said. "We want the caps and don't you forget it. Return with a load like this again, and I'll knock it off your pay. Understand?"
"Why tell me?" The man was overtired, jumpy and quick to take offense. "I just drive this thing."
"That's why I'm telling you," snapped Wandara. "You tell the others. Now get unloaded and remember what I said."
He jumped down as the raft lifted and rose above a hopper. The under-flaps opened and the mass of fungi fell into the chute. Two men with poles rammed it down as the raft drifted away, under-flaps closing as it went.
Zopolis came out of the processing shed, a blast of cold air following him into the sunshine. He looked at the raft and then at the overseer. "I heard you shouting. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing I can't handle, Boss."
"They trying to load us up with stalk instead of caps?"
"The usual. Boss. Nothing to worry about. They're just getting a little tired."
Tired and greedy, thought Zopolis, but that's to be expected. The five-percent cut hadn't been popular and the men were probably trying to get their own back by careless work. Up to a point it could be tolerated, but beyond that he'd have to clamp down.
"How's the new man, the one on the scout," he said.
Wandara didn't look at the agent. "No complaints as yet, Boss."
"I hope there won't be any," said Zopolis. "I didn't like putting a brand-new worker on a job like that. You sure he knows what it's all about?"
"I checked him out good." Wandara was sullen. "Tested him on twenty-three types, and he could name them all; knows about harvesting, too. He did the same kind of work on Jamish."
Zopolis frowned. "That's an aquatic world."
"That's right, Boss," agreed Wandara. "He was scouting for fish and weed. Underwater work, but the same in principle: hunt and find, find and report, report and lead. Only here he doesn't have to lead, just send in the coordinates."
"As long as he does that," said Zopolis. "I don't want the men to be idle. They won't like losing pay, and the company won't like losing produce." He dabbed at his sweating face. "How are we on bulk?"
"On schedule, Boss."
"Let me see your board." Zopolis took it and pursed his lips as he read the figures. "We're running too high on candystalk. Better cut down and concentrate on bella-pellara. Get that scout of yours to locate it for us." He looked up as the raft came drifting towards the weighing plate. "What the hell's happened there?"
A man sat slumped beside the pilot. He whimpered as the overseer jumped up beside him. A tourniquet was bound about his left arm above the stump of his wrist. His left hand had been neatly severed.
"What is it?" demanded Zopolis. "What's wrong with him."
"Hand gone, Boss." Wandara looked at the pilot. "Quarrel?"
"Accident. They were chopping a bole and someone took one cut too many. That or he didn't move fast enough. Do we get another helper?"
"You just wait a while." Wandara helped down the injured man, his face shining with sweat and exertion. "Take it easy, man, you'll be all right," he soothed. "You got insurance?"
"That's a joke."
"Any money at all?" With money he could buy a new hand, but who in Lowtown had money? "Any friends? Someone to look after you?"
"Just fix my hand," said the man. His eyes were dilated and he was still in shock. "Just fix me up and let me get back to work."
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"Sure," soothed Wandara. "Next year, maybe. Now this is what you do: go and find the monks, tell Brother Glee that I said to fix that stump." He looked at Zopolis. "That right, Boss?"
Zopolis shrugged. "Why not? It's the best thing he can do. Better pay him off so he'll have something to buy drugs with. Count in this load." Then, to the pilot of the raft, he said, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"Weigh me in," snapped the man, "and forget that other helper. We'll split between those that are left. Hurry," he shouted as Wandara watched the injured man walk away towards the portable church. "We've got a living to earn."
It's started, thought Wandara as he checked the load and gave the man the signal to go ahead. A lopped-off hand and who could tell if it's an accident or not? Most probably it was, but who was really to blame, the man who had swung the machete, the man who had left his hand in the way, or the man who had cut the rate and so made them work all the harder?
It's all right for Zopolis. He can linger in the processing sheds where it's nice and cold and he doesn't have to check each load, sweating in the sun, driving men to the limit of their tolerance. There would be fights before the harvest was over, more men with "accidental" wounds, others who would come back screaming with the pain of searing acid or not come back at all with parasitical spores taking root in skin and lungs. They should wear their suits at all times, but how could they work like dogs dressed like that? So they took a chance and some of them paid for it.
Too many paid for it.
They paid for the greed of a company that didn't give a damn what happened as long as they made their profits.
"Don't forget what I said about that new scout you took on," said Zopolis. "Keep him at it."
"I'll do that," said Wandara. "Leave it to me, Boss."
Leave it all to me, he thought as the agent vanished into the cold interior of the processing shed. The hiring, the firing, the lot. But don't ask me to get rid of the new man, not when he paid me more than his wages to get the job.
In this life, a man's a fool not to look after himself.
Chapter Eight
The crimson shadows made it difficult to see and the sweat running into his eyes made it almost impossible. Dumarest blinked, wishing that he could remove his helmet, wipe his face and feel the soft wind from the sea. He blinked again, squinting at the stake held in his left hand. The cradled rock in his right hand seemed to weigh a ton. Slowly he lifted it and swung it against the head of the stake.
He did it slowly, because he ached with fatigue, because it was important he hit the target, and because he clung precariously to the slope and any sudden shift would send him from his hold.
If the upper stake didn't hold, both he and Clemdish would fall down to the cliff and the waiting sea.
Again he swung the crude mallet, feeling the jolt through both wrists as the dulled point bit deeper into the sun-baked dirt. When the stake was fifteen inches deep, he looped the rope around in a clove hitch.
"All right, start moving," he called to Clemdish.
Like a spider, the little man eased himself from where he sprawled against the almost sheer surface. The sound of his rock as he knocked free his stake was swallowed by the surrounding fungi, which made the descent even more perilous. Dumarest caught Clemdish by the foot as he scrabbled closer and guided it to the safety of the stake. He could hear the sound of the small man's breathing, harsh and ragged as it came through the diaphragm of his suit.
"Are you all right?"
"I'll manage," said Clemdish. He had no choice, but the pretense gave him comfort. "We're too close to go back now."
"Rest a minute," advised Dumarest. "Catch your breath and study what you're going to do next."
Move over and down to the right, he thought. Find a spot where you can halt and slam in a stake. Loop the rope around it while I follow and pass and repeat what we've done before. How often? He'd lost count. But the clump of golden spore couldn't be far now, not if the detector was correct, and there was no reason to think it was not. It was just a matter of moving like flies over the cluttered slope until they reached the haven of their destination.
Elementary mountaineering.
They had lost too many stakes; the four they had left were dull. They were both tired, too tired for safety, almost too tired to continue. But there was nothing else they could do.
Dirt and broken scraps of fungi showered as Clemdish scrabbled across the slope and downward, to where the golden spore should be. He halted and Dumarest heard the slow hammering of his rock, the silence and the call.
"All right, Earl."
The stake was stubborn and hard to shift. Dumarest left it knotted to the rope as he moved towards the little man; that way there was no danger of it slipping from his belt. He reached his partner, rested for a moment, and checked his position. The next leg would have to be almost straight down. Once he slipped and fell five feet before managing to roll into a clump of fungus. It yielded, but not before he had found new holds. He felt a tug at his waist and called for more slack. As he began to hammer in a stake, Clemdish fell.
He dropped the length of his rope and swung, hands and feet busy as they sought new holds. Before he could find them, the stake tore free.
Dumarest heard a yell and saw a shower of dirt and the plummeting figure of the little man. Fifty feet of rope separated them. When Clemdish reached the end of the slack, he would be torn from his holds. The stake was barely an inch deep, it would never support their combined weight.
Dumarest tore it free and flung himself to one side.
It was a gamble. Lower down and a little to his right, he'd seen a mound of slime which could have covered a boulder. If it did and he could get the other side of it so that the rope would hit the barrier, it could save both their lives.
He hit, rolling through yielding fungi and clawing as he rolled to gain more distance. He felt a savage jerk at his waist and then something slammed with great force against his back, almost stunning him with the impact. He managed to turn his head and saw naked rock where the rope had scraped it free of slime. The rope itself was pressed hard against the lower edge, taut as it pulled at his waist.
At the other end of it Clemdish would be suspended.
Dumarest laid his hand on the rope and felt vibration as if Clemdish were swinging or spinning. He waited until it had died and then, lining his feet, managed to get his boots against the boulder. Gently he pressed, throwing himself back so as to gain purchase on the rope, sweating for fear the boulder would suddenly rip free from its bed.
The rock held. Legs straightened, Dumarest began to haul up the rope. It was a direct pull with all the disadvantages of an awkward position. Sweat ran into his eyes as he hauled hand over hand, the muscles in back and shoulders cracking with the strain. Twice he had to pause and rest. Once he shifted positions he imagined he felt the boulder move a little beneath his feet. Finally, a suited figure appeared on the other side of the stone.
"Help me!" snapped Dumarest. "Take your weight. Quickly! If this boulder goes, we're both dead."
Clemdish lifted his hands and clawed at the dirt and the stone. Dumarest snagged the slack of the rope around his shoulders and, reaching back, managed to hammer in a stake. Looping the rope around it, he relaxed a little. Now, even if the boulder should fall, they still had a chance.
"All right," he said. "Up you come."
Lowering himself, he caught Clemdish by the shoulders and heaved.
"Earl!"
"Come on!" snapped Dumarest. "Use your feet, man. Get over this edge."
"I can't, Earl." Clemdish scrabbled with both hands, found a purchase and tugged as Dumarest heaved. Together they fell back against the support of the boulder. Clemdish sagged, his breathing loud and broken, and Dumarest took up more of the slack.
For the first time he looked behind him.
A clump of twisted candysticks, striped in an elaborate pattern of red and black and topped with pointed minarets reared towards the c
rimson sky. Golden spore!
"Look," said Dumarest. "We've found it. We're at the jackpot!"
Clemdish stirred sluggishly, his hands moving as if trying to raise his chest. Dumarest frowned and stared at the face beyond the transparency. It was flushed, streaming with perspiration, the mouth ringed with blood.
"Earl!" Clemdish opened his eyes. "I'm hurt," he said. "When I fell, I swung against a rock or something. My lungs hurt and I can't move my legs. Earl! I can't move my legs!"
* * *
Brother Glee closed the door of the church and slowly turned away. Hightown was comfortable despite the external heat and the church well appointed despite its small size. He regretted having to leave it. Sternly he repressed the emotion. Summer was almost over and already most of the tourists had gone. All that now remained were the hunters and traders, the professional entertainers, the harpies and entrepreneurs and, of course, the stranded and desperate, the poor that were always a part of the scheme of things.
Sighing, he made his way to the exit, acknowledging the salute of the guards and pausing as he emerged into the heat. The landing field looked emptier than it had, the station more wild than it was. Dust drifted from beneath his sandals as he resumed his progress. From all about came the thin, monotonous whine of the blowers as they created their barrier against drifting spores.
"Locking up, Brother?" Del Meoud fell into step at his side. "I wish it were possible to allow you to use the church in Hightown during the winter, but it cannot be. The maintenance, you understand-to open a part I would have to open all."
The monk smiled in the shadow of his cowl. The factor seemed eager to please. "Do not disturb yourself, brother; I fully understand. The portable church will suffice."
"You could take advantage of my offer: a shelter for use as your church and food from the canteen."
"The church will return to where it is needed," said the monk evenly. "But I thank you, brother, for your concern."
Thoughtfully, he watched as the factor nodded and strode away. Del Meoud seemed tense and more on edge than normal, almost as if he had something on his mind or on his conscience and, by offering his help, hoping to make friends or amends.