by E. C. Tubb
Leaning from his seat at the controls of the raft, the third man aimed his laser again. The beam again narrowly missed, cutting across Dumarest's side, searing the plastic of his tunic, fusing the protective mesh and burning the flesh beneath. Dumarest threw the knife.
The knife plunged hilt-deep into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He reared, the laser falling from lax fingers as he reached upwards, then he toppled, falling from the seat to the ground. Relieved of his weight, the raft lifted to be caught by the wind and carried away.
A bursting cloud of spores rose from the spot where the pilot had fallen.
They were yellow, tinged with the ruby light so they looked like a spray of orange blood. The wind caught them, scattered them on a vagrant breath and them drifting like smoke over the slope and towards the encampment.
Dumarest looked at them, then at his suit. It would be impossible to don it in time. To stay meant certain death from the parasitical spores. The raft was hopelessly out of reach; the tent was useless. He had perhaps three seconds in which to save himself.
Snatching up the sacks of golden spore, he raced down the slope and flung himself from the cliff into the sea.
He hit with a bone-bruising impact, feeling the sacks torn from his grasp; falling deep, until he managed to convert his downward motion into first horizontal and then vertical movement. He broke the surface retching for air and weakly treading water until his starved lungs allowed him to think of other things. To one side he spotted the sacks and swam towards them. There were two of them, their necks tied so as to trap the air. He turned on his back and rested his neck on the juncture so that a sack rose to each side of his head. Their buoyancy ensured that he would not drown.
But, if drowning was now no problem, there were others. Spores could drift from the coast despite the wind and he concentrated on putting distance between himself and the land. The exertion made him conscious of his burns. Fortunately the skin was unbroken as far as he could discover and there was no choice but to suffer the pain.
He thought of stripping; then changed his mind at memory of what could lurk beneath the waves. The clothes were hampering but would protect his body against fin or scale. Thoughtfully he stared up at the sky.
It was past the end of summer. During the next few days the fungi would finish sporing and the spores would settle. To be safe he would have to remain well out to sea until the autumn and the first rains, about twelve days, he guessed. Then would come the effort of reaching land, climbing the hills and reaching the station. It would be hard, but not impossible. The sea would contain food of a kind and some of it should contain drinkable fluid. The sacks would allow him to sleep and the wind would prevent him losing sight of the coast. Even if he drifted lower he could still make his way back. The sun if nothing else would guide him. It was a question of timing.
Something traced a line across the waves to his left He heard a muffled sound through the water lapping his ears as if an oared vessel had passed close by. He turned, resting his weight on the sacks, his eyes narrowed as he searched the waves. He caught a glimpse of a line crossing ahead. It circled, came closer, and aimed itself directly at him.
Dumarest released the sacks, ducked and snatched the knife from his boot. He stared into the crimson murk. A shadow lunged towards him and he kicked himself to one side, catching a glimpse of large eyes, a fringe of tentacles and a whipping tail. The thing swept past, turned with a flash of yellow underbelly and a lash of the tail. It hit Dumarest on the chest, its barbs gouging the plastic, the impact enough to send him backwards through the water. Rising, he gulped air and looked around.
Nothing but a thin line moving towards him.
He ducked again, fighting the weight of his clothing, knife extended as he faced the direction from which he thought the creature would strike. A shadow loomed, grew huge, and became a gaping, tentacle-fringed mouth. They were splayed and lined with suckers which grasped his left arm and dragged him towards the teeth. He kicked, slashed down with the knife and kicked again as the tentacles parted. As an eye passed him he stabbed at it with his blade.
He felt the tail smash against his back and other tentacles grab his right arm. Pressure mounted as the beast dived, the wide, flat body undulating as it went towards the bottom. Desperately he changed the knife from hand to hand, slashing, stabbing, kicking as he fought to break free. Blood gushed from the creature and stung his eyes. Lungs bursting, he felt something give and swam frantically upwards. The water lightened, cleared, became air. Dumarest coughed and fought for breath. The sacks bobbed to one side and he headed towards them, throwing his left arm over the junction, letting them support his weight. If the beast grabbed him again and took him as low, he knew that he would never survive.
Around him the water suddenly boiled as something streaked from the depths. It surfaced, rising from the waves to hang momentarily against the sky, the body lacerated, the fringe of tentacles showing ragged members, one eye a gaping ruin. Then it crashed back into the water as a score of smaller fish followed it.
They were scavengers, intent on food and attracted by the scent of blood, worrying the huge beast as dogs worried a bear, darting in, attacking and weakening the creature even more.
Dumarest clung to his sacks and watched as the surface fury vanished towards the horizon. He could have been unlucky, the great beast could have been a rare oddity, but somehow he didn't think so. To be safe at all he had to hug the coast where the water was shallow, and the chance of falling victim to a parasitic spore was great.
Weakly, he began to swim to where the coast rested against the crimson sky. With care, he thought, by keeping himself wet and by staying as far away from land as he dared, he might still have a chance. He could even head back towards the encampment. At least he knew there were suits there, and equipment he could use or adapt to be useful. He still had a chance.
* * *
There were no birds on Scar, so the black dot in the sky could only be a raft. Dumarest looked at it as it came closer. It hovered over the coast, then veered to drift to a halt directly above where he floated. Jocelyn looked down. Behind him Ilgash loomed, a protective shadow. Both were suited.
"An interesting situation, Earl," said the ruler of Jest conversationally. "How long do you think you can survive as you are?"
Dumarest studied the sky. A broad band of cloud lifted from the seaward horizon and the hills were limned with ruby light. Autumn was coming to a close, but winter was still several days away.
"Not long enough, my lord," he said frankly. His throat hurt and it pained him to talk. "Will you give me aid?"
"That depends."
"On what, my lord?"
"Many things. On your luck, for example, or on the value you place on your life." Jocelyn reached behind him and lifted a canteen. "You thirst," he said. "How much will you give me for this water?"
Dumarest licked his cracked lips.
"You hesitate, but there is no need, I am not a seller of water." Jocelyn lowered the canteen by its strap. "Take it as a gift."
His hands were bloated with immersion and the seal was tight so that it seemed an age before Dumarest could open the canteen and taste the water it contained. It was sweet and cool, better than the most expensive wine. He sipped, cautiously, fighting his inclination to gulp. Around him the water made little sucking noises as he shifted his position, the sacks bobbing as he lifted his head. He lifted the canteen again, the sleeve of his tunic falling back from his left wrist. Blood glistened from a seeping raw patch.
"A spore, my lord." Dumarest caught the question on Jocelyn's face. "I was careless. It took root and spread as I watched. Fortunately I have a knife."
"You cut away the contamination?"
"How else to stop the infection? I have no acid, no fire."
And no feeling in my body, he thought, as he sipped again at the canteen. There was no food in his stomach, but that was a minor thing. The real strain had been lack of water and lack of sleep. He had doze
d, jerking awake at every fancied danger, sometimes finding they were far from imaginary. Hugging the coast there had been no more large creatures, but the smaller ones were ferocious enough, and were too agile for easy killing. He looked up at the hovering raft.
"How did you find me my lord?"
"I have my ways," said Jocelyn. "You may thank my wife for her concern. She missed you and mentioned the matter. But enough of details. Tell me, Earl, have you been in this situation before?"
"In risk of my life?"
"Yes."
"There have been occasions when I have been close to death," said Dumarest flatly. He felt a little light-headed as if he were conversing in a dream. If Jocelyn intended to rescue him, why didn't he get on with it? If not why did he remain?
"This is novel to me," said the ruler of Jest. "A perfect example of the workings of fate. You are here through no act of mine. I owe you nothing. You admit that?"
Dumarest remained silent.
"You can hardly deny it. So I have been given a rare opportunity to learn." Jocelyn leaned a little farther over the edge of the raft. Ilgash moved as if to grab his master should he venture too far. "To learn the value a man sets on his continued existence," said Jocelyn slowly. "Wealth is relative, as I think you will agree. What will you give me if I save your life?"
"All I possess, my lord."
"Is life then so valuable?"
Dumarest coughed and looked at his hand. He washed it in the sea before answering. "Without life what is wealth? Can a dead man own possessions? I float on a fortune, my lord. It is yours if you will lift me from the sea and restore my health."
A fire burned deep in Jocelyn's eyes. "A fortune? Golden spore?"
"Yes."
"So Yeon was right," murmured Jocelyn and then he said, "What is to stop me taking it and leaving you here?"
"Try it and you get nothing." Dumarest was curt, tired of playing. "I have a knife. It is pointed at the bottom of the sacks. One puncture and the spore is lost in the sea." He coughed again. "Hurry, my lord. Make your decision."
The raft descended. Strong arms reached out and hauled Dumarest from the water. Jocelyn himself took charge of the plastic containers. He smiled as he saw the hilt of Dumarest's knife still in his boot.
"So, Earl, you were bluffing all the time."
Dumarest coughed again, looked at the redness on his hand. "No, my lord," he said. "Desperate. A spore has settled in my lung. I would not have lived to see the winter."
Chapter Ten
There were little noises, the clink and tap of metal on metal, a liquid rushing, the soft susurration of air. Erlan made a satisfied grunt and straightened, his head haloed by an overhead light.
"Good," he said. "Completely clear of any trace of infection and the tissue has healed perfectly."
Dumarest looked up at the physician from where he lay on the couch.
"The upper part of the left lung was badly affected," continued Erlan cheerfully. "A bulbous mass of vegetable growth which had to be completely eradicated by major excision. That was a vicious spore you managed to get inside you, a quick-grower, nasty."
He stepped back and did something to the couch. The head lifted raising Dumarest upright.
"I had to remove quite a large area but managed to do it by internal surgery. There may be a little scarring but the regrowth has fully restored the lung capacity so you will have no difficulty as regards oxygen conversion. I also repaired your left eardrum which had burst, probably due to high pressure."
Dumarest looked at his arm. There was no trace of where he had cut himself. "How long?"
"In slow-time therapy?" Erlan pursed his lips. "About forty days subjective, a day normal. Your tissues showed signs of dehydration and malnutrition so I gave you intensive intravenous feeding. You can rest assured, my friend, that you are now completely fit and free of any physical disability, both present and potential."
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "You've taken a lot of trouble."
Erlan shrugged. "Don't thank me, it was Jocelyn's order. He is waiting for you in the lower cabin. Your clothes are on that chair."
They had been refurbished and were as good as new, the soft gray of the plastic seeming to ripple as it caught the light. Once dressed, Dumarest left the medical chamber and descended a stair. Ilgash ushered him into a cabin. Inside Jocelyn sat listening to music.
It was a sweeping melody of strings and drums with a horn wailing like a lost soul in atonal accompaniment. There was a wildness about it and a hint of savagery, the taint of the primitive and barbaric splendor of ancient days.
Jocelyn sighed as it ended and switched off the player. "Unusual, is it not? The factor allowed me to take a copy of his recording. He has quite a wide selection of melodies and shows a particularly sensitive taste. This one, I believe, originated on Zeros. Do you know the planet?"
"No, my lord."
"And yet you have traveled widely, I understand." Jocelyn shrugged. "Well, no matter. A man's, path sometimes takes him in strange directions, to Scar, perhaps even to Jest."
Dumarest made no comment.
"You disagree?" Jocelyn smiled. "And yet, what choice have you? The price you paid me for saving your life was the total of your possessions. Your clothes and ring I do not claim; the rest I do. Sit and discuss the matter."
"There is nothing to discuss, my lord." Dumarest took the proffered chair. "I do not wish to accompany you to Jest."
"You intend to remain on Scar without money and with the winter almost due? How will you survive?"
Dumarest shrugged. "I can manage, my lord. It will not be the first time I have been stranded on a hostile world."
"You are stubborn," said the ruler of Jest. "It is a trait which I find admirable. Without it, you would now be surely dead."
He rose and paced the floor. At his rear the worn bindings of ancient books rested in their cases of wood and crystal. He paused, looking at them, then glanced at Dumarest.
"Are you willing to leave the matter to fate?"
"The spin of a coin, my lord? No."
"A pity," sighed Jocelyn. "How else can I persuade you?" He resumed his pacing, feet silent, head inclined a little as if about to spring. "Wait," he said. "There is something you seek, a world, Earth." His eyes were bright as he looked at Dumarest. "Terra."
Dumarest surged from his chair. "You know it?"
"The name is not strange to you?"
"No. I have heard it before, on Toy." Dumarest caught himself. "And again on Hope, my lord, in the archives of the Universal Brotherhood. Do you know where Terra lies?"
Jocelyn was honest. "No, but I have thought of your problem and perhaps I could be of help. My father was an unusual man. He loved the past; he squandered his wealth on ancient things. Traders came from all over with their wares. They even coined a name for him, the Jester, the Fool. Sometimes I think the name was apt."
Dumarest made no comment, recognizing the bitterness in the other's tone.
"He bought old books, charts, mathematical tables together with the works of those who probe into the meaning of things, philosophers. I think that they alone can teach you how to find what you seek."
Books, printed in almost indecipherable words in a medley of languages no longer current, hardly seemed the answer. Dumarest felt a sudden anger. Was Jocelyn toying with him, enjoying his private jest? How did he expect a traveler to have the knowledge or time to read who could guess how many books?
"You would need specialists," said Jocelyn as if reading his thoughts. "You would need those who have devoted their lives to the study of what has gone before, men who dream of strange possibilities alien to accepted fact, not scientists, who are limited to what they can see and feel and measure, but philosophers, who recognize no mental boundaries. For example, I can give you a clue. Not the name Terra, which you already know, and which was a fragment of a forgotten poem, but the use of navigational coordinates. We use a common zero, correct?"
"The center," said Dumarest.
"Where else?"
"Let us assume something ridiculous," said Jocelyn seriously. "Let us, for the purpose of argument, assume that all mankind originated on a single world. The ancient poem I spoke of mentioned such a possibility. In that case, where would the zero of their coordinates lie?"
"On their home world." said Dumarest slowly. "As they expanded they would use that as their point of reference."
"Exactly! Now do you see how it may be possible to solve your problem? If Earth, Terra, was the home world then, somewhere, there could be a set of navigational tables which would use that planet as their zero point. Find such a set, discover a common reference with those we use at present, and you will find the coordinates of the world you seek." Jocelyn smiled. "You see, my friend, how simple it really is."
It was simple if the suggestion that Earth, at any time, had really been the originating planet of mankind, if any navigational tables existed from that time, if he could find them and if there were any common reference points.
"Yes, my lord," said Dumarest dryly. "You make it sound very simple."
"Great problems usually are when looked at from the correct viewpoint," said Jocelyn. "On Jest we have many ancient books, perhaps one of them will contain the information you seek."
"Perhaps," Dumarest ignored the obvious bait. "One thing, my lord."
"Yes?"
"You knew where to find me. Will you please tell me how you knew where I would be?"
Jocelyn laughed. "Now that is simple. I asked. Why else should I keep a cyber?"
* * *
Zopolis spread his hands. "Earl, I didn't know, I swear it. Do you honestly think I would supply a raft to men like that?" The agent's face was sweating despite the coolness of the processing shed. "It was Wandara," he added, "that lousy overseer of mine. He took a bribe to hire a new scout. The louse must have picked up his friends and jumped you."
"They killed Clemdish," said Dumarest flatly. "They almost killed me."
"I know how you feel," said Zopolis quickly. "I felt the same. Do you think I want anyone coming after me with a knife? I tell you it was Wandara who supplied the raft. And I still haven't found it," he mourned. "It must be somewhere over the sea by now. More expense, more trouble."