by E. C. Tubb
Interestedly he looked ahead to where Adrienne sauntered with the tall grim figure of Ilgash, Jocelyn's bodyguard, a step behind. The woman seemed to be waiting for someone. With wry surprise, he realized that the person was himself.
"Brother," she said as he drew near, "may I talk to you?"
He looked at her for a moment before answering, his eyes studying her face. "Is something troubling you, sister?"
Irritably she shook her head. "No-yes-I don't know. Are you busy? Could we talk?"
"If you wish to unburden yourself, sister," said the monk evenly, "the church is at your disposal." He caught her hesitation. "I am on my way to Lowtown. If you would care to accompany me, we could talk as we go."
Adrienne nodded, her long legs easily matching the other's stride. "The summer is almost over," she said abruptly. "Shouldn't all those who hunt spores be back by now?"
"No, sister. Some of them make long journeys and many spores are unavailable until the very end of summer." It was his turn to hesitate. "Did you have someone special in mind?"
"Dumarest," she said curtly. "My husband invited him to share a meal with us. I have not seen him since. Do you know the man?"
"Yes, sister, but he could be one of those of whom I spoke." He sensed her desire to hear more and her bafflement at not knowing how to phrase her questions without betraying her interest. Skillfully, he changed the subject. "Your husband has done much to alleviate the distress of those living in Lowtown. The services of his physician alone are most welcome. And he has agreed to give passage to several wishing to travel to Jest."
"As workers, as indentured servants," she snapped.
"Until they repay the cost of passage," the monk corrected gently. "Even so, the offer is a generous one."
"The act of a fool," she said, suddenly angry. "I assume that he wants each one to spin a coin so as to decide his fate?"
"Not quite, sister. I have been given the task of arranging a lottery. Available space is limited," he explained. "Only a few can be accommodated. Your vessel does not have facilities for low passage, and quick-time does not come cheap." He was surprised at the venom of her reaction.
"Is that why I was denied?"
"Denied?"
"Yes, I-" She broke off; her lips thinned as she fought her anger. Was this why she had been refused use of the drug which would have eliminated her boredom? Under its influence an hour passed in a second, a day in a few minutes. She assumed she had been refused it in order to save the drug for the use of stranded travelers.
"Be careful here, sister," said Brother Glee as they approached Lowtown. "The path is somewhat rough."
The houses were also rough, were hovels in which men, women, even children lived. There were numbers of wide-eyed tots in rags chewing on scraps of fungus. Their bellies were swollen and their skins showed the inevitable results of their diet.
People were working on the huts, slowly making up the walls and strengthening the roofs. Many were past repair and the materials which had gone into their construction were used to repair others. Those not engaged in building collected masses of fungi for drying and storage.
Everywhere was the smell she had once noticed in the slums of Eldfane, the stink of poverty.
"My lady," said Ilgash softly in her ear. "I do not think it wise for you to be here. These people are unused to one of your stature."
He doesn't mean exactly that, she thought with sudden insight. He thinks that I lower my dignity by being here and, by association, his own. She looked at the children. Dignity? Among the starving, what was that?
She said to Brother Glee. "The children would require less quick-time and take up less room. We could take more of them."
"And what of the parents? They would willingly relinquish their children, but have we the right to present them with such a choice? Your husband recognized that we could not, and so the lottery. Some will be lucky; some of the lucky ones will yield their places to others."
He caught her inhalation of disbelief and felt her anger.
"You doubt that? You think the poor and desperate have no higher motivation than the beast impulse to eat and stay alive? Sister, you know little of the realities of life. You think your husband a fool because he does what he must; I tell you he is far from that. How often does the ruler of a world concern himself with the welfare of those less fortunate? You are indeed to be envied, having married such a man. There are so few who, having power, use it as it should be used, to aid and not to destroy."
She caught a reflection of his anger, the helpless rage born of frustration and the indifference of many, of watching children starve while men squandered money on things of transient pleasure, of seeing the arrogance of the wealthy and the unfeeling cruelty of rulers. Startled, she looked at the monk. The church, she knew, had power and many friends in high places. Where poverty lurked they were to be found but, also, their plain robes merged with the colorful garments of many a court. She compared him with Yeon. Cybers, also, graced the places of wealth and influence, but they never mingled with the poor.
She shook her head, baffled by novel concepts and a little annoyed because of them. Had she misjudged Jocelyn so badly? If the church regarded him with such favor could he be such a fool? More important, would they turn against her in times to come?
"My lady, it is time you returned to the ship." Ilgash was insistent.
"A moment." Adrienne looked at Brother Glee. "I am a stranger to Jest," she said. "But if you have no church there, you would be most welcome."
He acknowledged her offer with a slight inclination of his head. "You are gracious, sister, but the matter has already been arranged. A Brother will be accompanying you when you leave."
She was sharp. "Not yourself?"
Was his reply a rebuke? Adrienne examined the words, the tone, and shook her head. It was a simple statement of fact from an old and dedicated man who did what he could with what he had, a man who neither judged nor condemned.
Ilgash said deferentially, "My lady, with respect, it is time to return."
Thoughtfully she walked up the path, pausing as she crested the slope to look back, seeing the monk now surrounded by children and thin-faced women eager for news. The memory lingered all the way to the ship.
A fungus exploded dully to one side, releasing a cloud of yellow spores. They drifted in the soft wind from the sea, the yellow tinged with red so that, for a moment, they seemed a spray of orange blood.
* * *
"A parasite," said Clemdish. "A bad one. Get a spore on your bare skin and you're in real trouble."
Dumarest wiped the other's sweating face.
"Trouble," said Clemdish. "That's a joke. Who needs trouble when they've got me?"
"You had bad luck," said Dumarest. "It could have happened to anyone."
"I didn't listen," said the small man. "You warned me, but I wouldn't listen. I was greedy. I wanted it all. Now what have I got? A busted spine and ribs tearing my lungs to shreds." He coughed and dabbed at the fringe of blood around his mouth. "A cripple," he said bitterly, "a helpless cripple."
He lay against one side of the tent, resting on a bed of soft fungi, his almost naked body glistening with sweat. Rough bandages swathed his chest where Dumarest had set his broken ribs, but there had been nothing he could do about the broken spine.
Dumarest leaned back, his eyes closed, reliving the muscle-tearing effort of dragging the little man to a place of safety, of setting up the tent, of sterilizing them both and tending his partner's injuries. Since then it had been a matter of supplying food and water.
The water was running low.
"We've got to think of something," said Clemdish. "I'm no help like this. Hell, Earl, what can we do?"
Dumarest opened his eyes. "You know the answer to that."
"Split," said Clemdish.
It had been obvious all along. Only a raft could move the injured man and a raft could only be obtained at the station. Dumarest would have to climb the slope alone
, descend the far side and make his way back in safety. Even a twisted ankle could mean death for them both.
"There's no hurry," said Dumarest. "Try and get some sleep while I gather supplies."
Outside the tent he straightened and crossed to where the clump of golden spore stood in fantastic splendor. Transparent plastic bags covered the pointed caps, the thin material hanging loose from the binding almost filled with the precious spores. Dumarest slapped each cap smartly with the palm of his hand, watching for the yield. No further spores dropped from the gills of the open caps; the harvest was complete.
Carefully he loosened the bindings, removed the bags from the caps and lashed tight the open necks. Trapped air ballooned the sacks into globes several feet across. Later he would expel the air, transfer the spores to storage containers and seal them against infection. He went to where a clump of liver-colored fronds shaded the tent, and tucked the sacks out of sight. Draping the straps of the canteens over his shoulder he began a cautious descent to the sea.
While waiting for the harvest there had been time to cut steps, drape ropes and set stakes so as to make the descent possible. He swung and dropped into shallow water. A tiny inlet showed a patch of cleared dirt where he had dug a well. Clear water covered the bottom. Dumarest hoped that it would be drinkable.
Dropping onto his stomach, he let the empty canteens fall into the liquid, bubbles of air rising from their mouths as water forced its way into the containers. Leaning farther over the edge of the pit, he sealed them while still immersed. Rising, he stood looking over the sea.
Fifty yards from where he stood something traced a thin line across the leaden waves.
In contrast to the land, there was animal life in the sea, strange aquatic beasts rarely seen and rarely caught. Out in the deep water they browsed on submarine growths and smaller species, able to survive in a medium which was proof against the ubiquitous parasitical spores dominating the land.
Protein, thought Dumarest. Good, solid food to build strength, chemicals and drugs, minerals too, even. Endless riches waiting to be exploited but which never would be. The initial investment would be too great, the immediate return too small, and there were so many other worlds offering just as much for far less effort, a billion worlds, perhaps. Slinging the canteens over his shoulder, Dumarest turned to the cliff and commenced the climb to the upper slope.
There he would find edible fungi and medicinal caps whose hallucinogens could offer Clemdish a means of easing his pain. He would lie in a drugged fantasy, waking to eat and drink and chew more of the caps and to sink again into a restful oblivion.
Dumarest reached the top of the cliff and eased himself over the edge. Rising, he made his way towards the tent.
He froze as he saw the raft.
Chapter Nine
It was Zopolis's scout raft and must have arrived while he was busy at the foot of the cliff getting the water. For a moment Dumarest thought that someone had missed them and had sent out a rescue party, Wandara or the agent himself, perhaps. Then he heard a cold voice and the hope died.
"You there, come forward! Slowly!"
A man stood before a clump of fungus in which he had hidden. The gun in his hand was a primitive slug-thrower and he held it aimed directly at Dumarest's stomach.
"That's right," he said as Dumarest obeyed. "You're a man of sense, just stay that way. Now the machete, get rid of it." The gun jerked a little in his hand. "Careful now. Try anything stupid and you'll get a bullet right smack in the gut."
He was one of the three men Ewan had pointed out back at the station. Another sat at the controls of the raft, his face impassive behind the transparency of his suit. Dumarest did not see the third.
"Hurry!" snapped the man with the gun. "The machete. Move."
Dumarest dropped his left hand to the hilt, unsheathed it and threw it to one side. It landed point first and stood quivering in the dirt. Deliberately he let the canteens fall from his shoulder. "You're late," he said. "What kept you?"
"You're smart," said the man with the gun. "Maybe too smart. You expected us?"
"You were looking for us days ago. We saw you from the other side of the range." Dumarest looked around. Where was the third man? "We could make a deal," he suggested. "We need transport back to the station and we're willing to pay for it."
"Forget it!"
"Three high passages, honest money and no trouble. A quick profit and no complaints." Casually Dumarest added, "Where's your friend?"
"Looking for me?" The third man came from the direction of the tent. He held a knife in his hand, its point stained with blood. "No good," he said to the man with the gun. "He couldn't take it. Maybe this character can sing as well as argue?"
"Maybe." The gun jerked again. "All right, friend. Where is it? The golden spore," he snapped as Dumarest didn't answer. "You've harvested it and put it somewhere. We want it. If you don't hand it over, we'll get rough."
"Kill me and you'll never find it," said Dumarest evenly. His eyes darted from side to side, weighing his chances. The man in the raft could be temporarily ignored, as could the man with the knife. If he could find some way to down the man with the gun and get it perhaps, he might stand a chance.
The one with the knife tittered. "Who said anything about killing you?" he demanded. "We wouldn't do that. Cut you up a little, maybe, but not kill you, not right away." He gestured with the blade towards the tent. "Why don't you take a look at your friend? He might help you to make up your mind."
Dumarest felt his stomach tighten as he looked at the tent. The thin plastic was ripped to shreds. Under the ruined cover Clemdish lay, eyes open, blood ringing his mouth. His body was cut in a score of places, deep, vicious gouges above sensitive nerves, the blood making a pattern of ruby on the white skin. He was dead. "He tried to scream," said the man with the knife casually. "But I stopped that. Cut out his tongue," he explained. "We didn't want conversation, only a straight answer to a straight question. I felt sure he'd come across when I tickled a nerve or two. That kind of pain will make a dead man get up and dance. But not him. Odd."
"He was crippled," said Dumarest, "paralyzed from the waist down. He couldn't feel what you did."
He had not felt it, but he had known of it, realizing the damage done to nerve and sinew, and not all of the cuts had been made low down. Dumarest drew air deep into his lungs, fighting for calm. This was no time to yield to blind, consuming rage; Clemdish was dead and beyond help or harm.
Slowly he walked back to where the machete stood upright in the dirt.
"So you see your position," said the man with the knife. He was enjoying himself. "You've got the spore and we need it. We've gone to a lot of expense to get it. So, if you don't want to wind up like your friend, you'll hand it over."
"Hurry it up," said the man on the raft. He had a harsh voice, heavy with impatience. "I've been out too long as it is. By the time I drop you off and report in, they could be asking questions."
"Relax," said the man with the gun. "Phelan knows what he's doing."
"That's right," said Phelan. He looked thoughtfully at his knife. "Give it to him, Greek. One slug in each knee. Fire at the count of three unless he comes across."
"You want the spore, you can have it," said Dumarest quickly. "You can have anything you want. Just leave me alone."
"Sure," said Greek. "We'll leave you alone. Just deliver the spore and we'll all be happy. Now go and get it before I get impatient."
"Please," said Dumarest. "Just give me a minute. Please."
He cringed a little, putting fear into his voice, almost running as he went to collect the sacks of spore. He opened the necks of the containers as he returned.
"I'll make them easier to carry," he said. "I'll tip one into the other." He stood, manipulating the swollen bags, making two from the seven. "There! Is that all right?"
Greek smiled and raised his gun. "That's fine," he said, and frowned as he realized that Dumarest was holding the sacks in such a way tha
t they shielded his body. A bullet would pass through them without hindrance, but the valuable spores would escape through tho holes. Greed overcame caution. "Throw the bags to one side," he snapped. "Quickly!"
The man on the raft cleared his throat. "Hold it, Greek. Get the ring first."
"To hell with the ring!"
"It was part of our deal. Get it, or we could be in trouble. Unless you want to run up against the big time; I don't."
Greek snarled his impatience. "Quick!" he ordered Dumarest. "Hand me that ring on your finger."
Dumarest frowned. "I'll have to take off my suit to get it."
"Then take it off. Hurry!"
Slowly Dumarest obeyed. It was awkward removing the suit while holding the sacks of spore and he was deliberately clumsy, moving as if by accident closer to where the machete stood in the dirt. Death, now, was very close. To the threat of the gun and knife was added that of the parasitical spores. At any moment a ripe fungus could fling its lethal cargo into the air. Even now a minute spore could have settled on his skin and be thrusting hungry rootlets to the moisture beneath, to explode into frantic life.
Dumarest threw aside the sacks of precious spore. Automatically Greek followed them with his eyes, then, too late, realized his mistake. The thrown suit came hurtling through the air to settle over his gun. A shimmer of steel followed it as Dumarest snatched up the machete and flung himself after the suit. The pistol roared as he lifted the blade and roared again as he swept it down. Greek stared in horror at the stump of his arm, at the blood jetting like a fountain from the severed arteries and at his hand, still holding the gun, lying on the ground. "Phelan!"
Dumarest cut once more; then sprang aside as Greek fell, his life gushing from his slashed throat. He threw the machete. The blade spun, glittering with crimson droplets, and buried its point in the knife-man's stomach. He staggered, tried to throw his knife, then fell face down in the dirt.
Dumarest snatched up the blade as fire burned across his shoulders.