by E. C. Tubb
She felt the urgings of her body and was shaken by the sudden realization of the power of nature's dominance. Was this how a primitive woman had chosen her mate? Giving herself to the strongest so as to gain his favor? Bearing his children? Continuing his line?
She said, "There's been talk, Earl. Discussion leading to argument about how you intend leading us all to the Event. Some think you plan to shift Zabul but we know that isn't possible."
"So?"
"They want to know, Earl. The committee and others. They have the right."
"When the time comes they will."
"Some think the time is now."
"And others?" He provided the answer. "How many are beginning to think it would be better not to go at all?"
"A few," she admitted. "And their numbers are growing. You can't blame them, Earl. They are old and afraid and see no reason to change. And others are willing to wait a little longer."
"You?"
"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "Up until now it was easy to long for the Event. It was so remote it didn't matter. But now you've made it immediate and people are beginning to have second thoughts. Some people," she added. "And, yes, you could include me among them."
"Life," he said. "You're afraid of life."
"Afraid of what it could bring," she corrected. "After we reach Earth-what then?"
Change and that was fearsome enough to those born and bred in a static society. The need to make constant decisions. The fear that, perhaps, the fabled world wasn't as claimed. Doubt and the terror of insecurity. The need to grow from child into an adult.
"Earl? Don't you understand? I'm afraid of losing you."
He turned away from her, aware of her nearness, the radiated femininity of her body. Rising, he headed toward the shower, there to let ice-cold water drum on his head and over his body. Stung with chill he dried himself and returned to the bedroom to see the woman still hunched as he had left her. Even as he watched the light changed to simulate a dawn.
It grew from the walls, the ceiling, a warm suffusion of red and gold, amber and orange, pink and russet. A birth which turned the room into a miniature world and the woman into a thing of flame. Hair, skin, mouth, nails, the membrane within her nostrils and beyond her parted lips-all warm and redolent of summer heat.
"Earl!" She leaned back lifting her arms toward him. "Earl, my darling! Earl!"
Then her arms were around him, the heat of her passion filling his world.
The uniform was grey, fashioned after his own clothing; the blouse long-sleeved, close at the wrists and the collar high around the neck, the pants thrust into knee-high boots. The armband bore the device of a quartered circle.
"The symbol of Earth," explained Erik Medwin. "What do you think, Commander?"
Dumarest said, "I've been promoted?"
"You're the boss as far as we're concerned. The man we intend to follow. What do you think of the uniform?"
Medwin stood still as Dumarest examined it. The material was fabric coated with flexible plastic, giving some protection but nothing like the metal mesh buried within his own. The cut could be improved and red chafe-marks showed at the young man's neck.
"Who made it up?"
"Giselda Mapron and her friends. This is a sample and it'll be altered if needed. I just wanted to show you and get your approval. Will it do, Commander?"
"With adjustments, yes. Remember a uniform is something you may have to fight in so it must be comfortable as well as tough. That collar's too tight; when you fight your neck will swell and you don't want to choke yourself. Make it looser here and here." Dumarest touched the neck and chest. "Stiffen the material over the shoulders and include protective plates if you can. They'll prevent a broken clavicle if anyone comes at you with a club and strikes the shoulder. Stiffen the boots too-a kick in the shin can cripple a man if he isn't protected. The same for the groin. And you'll need a hat of some kind, but make it strong enough to withstand a blow. One with a face-visor would be best."
"To protect the eyes," said Medwin. "I hadn't thought of that. Volodya's guards don't wear them."
"They aren't going where we are."
"True," mused Medwin. "And how can you salute without a hat? How about insignia of rank?"
"Learn about that from where you learned about saluting," said Dumarest. "And remember to thank Vera Jamil for her trouble."
"You know?"
"Where else would you get the information?" Dumarest smiled to soften his comment. "How are you getting on?"
"The first class are now instructing and we've tripled the intake. A mixed batch, the girls insisted on joining in on equal terms."
"Training?"
"Basic. Synchronized movement with practice using knives and staves. Unarmed combat too." He added, "We've had some injuries but the medics have taken care of them."
"And you've been to see them?"
Medwin hesitated. "Well, what with one thing and another, I guess I've been too busy."
"A leader must take care of his men," said Dumarest. "If he wants authority without responsibility then he isn't worthy of his command. Remember that. The people you train now could save your life later on. If you treat them like dirt they may not be too eager to do that. Those injured people got hurt because they tried to please you. Let's go and see how they're getting on."
A medic met them as they entered the ward, lifting his eyebrows at the sight of Medwin in his new uniform, turning to Dumarest as if knowing he was the leader of the pair. He frowned as he heard the request.
"See them? All eleven?"
"If you can arrange it. Are they badly hurt?"
"Broken bones, a lost eye, two with punctured lungs, one with a smashed kneecap, another with a ruptured spleen." He added dryly, "Your new ideals seem to encourage the young to be violent."
They lay in a small room, bandaged, some in traction. All were conscious, even the one who had lost an eye. He waved as Dumarest entered followed by Medwin.
"You've come to see us? Well, what about that! Did you hear what happened to me?"
"You lost an eye," said Dumarest. "In combat that makes you a liability. Are they giving you a new one?"
"Sure. It's growing now. In a few days I'll be as good as new."
As would they all. Zabul didn't lack for trained doctors and expensive drugs; slow time alone would promote quick healing, the metabolism accelerated to turn seconds into hours. Sedated, fed by intravenous injection, the most badly injured would wake healed if hungry.
Dumarest led the way down the line, speaking to each in turn, waiting as Medwin did the same. Back at the door he turned and lifted an arm in a farewell salute.
"You've done well," he said. "All of you. You've shown courage and you've accepted your misfortune. But I hope you've learned from it. Like I said earlier, an injury makes a combat soldier a liability. In actual conflict some of you would have had to be abandoned. Just remember that the next time you want to take a chance-sometimes the odds aren't worth it."
As they neared the exit Dumarest said, "You go ahead, Erik. Get those uniforms adapted as I suggested. And we want no more injuries, understand?"
"Yes, Commander!"
"Off you go then."
Dumarest returned the vague salute and went in search of the infirmary's biological technician. The man was in his laboratory, his face intent, as he examined the projected image of a slide.
"From one of the young fools who tried to get themselves killed," he explained. "An unsuspected infection which must be dealt with."
"A mutation?"
Sneh Thome nodded. He was a round man with a face normally placid but now creased in lines of concentration.
"It could well be that. I'm trying a wide range of antibiotics so as to effect a cure without recourse to surgery but if the infection becomes too widespread we'll have to remove the affected area and grow a replacement from uncontaminated tissue." He snapped off the projection and straightened, easing his back. "What we really need, of co
urse, is a general-purpose antibiotic which will destroy all objects foreign to the basic DNA cellular imprint."
"Coupled with a regenerative agent to replace all damaged and missing tissue to the same plan?"
"It would save all doctors a hell of a lot of work," admitted Thorne. "In fact it could almost put us out of business. A man gets hurt and he crawls into a corner somewhere to eat and sleep while his body repairs itself. No scar tissue, no maladjusted bone structure. No areas of fibroid encystment. An eye, an arm, a leg or an internal organ all regenerating to match the basic pattern. If the liver can do it why not other organs? And what, for example, has a lobster got that we haven't? A creature like that can regrow a claw but we can't even regenerate a finger."
"We aren't lobsters," reminded Dumarest,
"No, sometimes I think we're a damned sight worse. What other creature would deliberately set out to injure itself? Those fools in the ward have given us more work than we've known for the past century. And that isn't counting the scrapes and bruises and minor lacerations. The strains and minor hemorrhages and psychic damage. You're a menace, Earl. As much a danger to our society as that damned bacteria!"
"Which by its presence is triggering the body to manufacture a defense."
"True." Thorne ran a hand over his rumpled hair. "I guess I'm just tired. Life goes on and on and nothing ever seemed to happen and then, suddenly, I'm faced with challenges."
Dumarest said, "That's what makes life exciting. Did you manage to do as I asked?"
"Another challenge."
"Did you?"
"It's in the small laboratory," said Thorne reluctantly. "Everything you asked for, but God knows what you intend doing with it." Pausing, he added, "Are you certain you can manage alone?"
"I'll make out."
"If you need assistance I'll be willing to help." Thome looked hopefully at Dumarest then sighed as he recognized the other's determination. "No? Well, as you want. I guess it's your business. I'll show you the way."
The place was small but well-equipped. Alone, Dumarest examined the gleaming apparatus, the vials and containers, the microscopes and manipulative devices. Things which hypno-tuition had taught him to use. Materials and knowledge which could save his life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brandt had gone, leaving behind the acrid scent of her perfume, accentuated by the exudations of age, but she had been reasonable and had taken little prompting to recognize the danger. Lijert too had been swayed after some discussion but he, like the woman, had been old and already uneasily aware of the passage of time. Days and weeks edged into months, eating at their reserves, lopping years from their anticipated life-spans. Brandt and Lijert were two of the committee who would back him without argument and he felt Stanton could be another, for he was a man who resented the disturbance of old patterns despite his relative youth. He had found the burden of responsibility more irksome than he'd guessed, not even suspecting that the tiresome routine beneath which he chafed had been deliberately imposed.
Who else would help him to take over sole command?
Urick Volodya pondered this problem as he crossed the room to stand looking down at the men set in a neat array on the chessboard resting on a table fashioned of convoluted woods inlaid with metallic ornamentation.
Towitsch? Prideaux? The girl was a fanatic and her opposite number little better, but if a wedge could be driven between them it was possible one would vote from reasons of malice rather than from calculated decision. Did Towitsch love Dumarest? A possibility and one holding promise. If so she could let jealousy turn her against Hesford. But what of Prideaux?
Reaching down, Volodya moved the pieces in the opening moves of an established game. How easy it would be if people could be manipulated like the pieces on the board? And yet did he need to feel such concern? The old ways had gone and now was the time of opportunity. He had recognized it and made his move. It was but one further step to the consolidation of his power.
Why worry about pawns?
The men scattered beneath the sweep of his hand and he turned to pace the floor, tall, arrogant, his hooded eyes and beaked nose giving him the look of an imperious bird of prey, Dumarest noted when, ushered by guards, he stepped into the room.
It was large, a chamber chosen to reflect the personality of its occupant, and he looked at the soft coverings on the floor, the ornate furniture, the scattered chessmen lying in gold and silver disarray.
"Earl!" Volodya stepped forward, smiling, hands extended in the traditional gesture. "You will have wine? Some cakes? The formalities need to be observed. And a chair-there is no need for you to stand. All I want to do is talk. We have reason for a discussion, I think. You agree?"
"Haven't you been kept informed of progress?"
"I've had reports." Volodya lost his smile. "But from you hardly a word. I think it time we rectified the matter. Come! Have some wine!"
He poured and handed Dumarest a goblet of silver chased with gold. The wine itself was sweet with a rich body and an aftertaste of mint.
Dumarest sipped then said, "I see you've a liking for chess."
"Yes. Do you play?"
"I know the game. Some claim it to be a symbolic battle and say those who play good chess will make good commanders in time of war." He added dryly, "Those who think that have never experienced a field of conflict."
"We know little of war."
"And power?" Dumarest took another sip of his wine. "Certain things seem to be universal. The love of authority, for example. Couple it with a lack of responsibility and you have a lure few can resist. Of course, it has its dangers."
"Such as?"
"Rebellion. Assassination." Dumarest ate a cake. "The fruit of defiance, disobedience and distrust. Dangers a wise ruler avoids."
A warning? Dumarest was more subtle than he seemed and, Volodya guessed, far more devious than he appeared. To underestimate him could be the worst mistake he would ever make. The worst and, perhaps, the last.
"How is your nephew getting on?" Dumarest was casual. "Alva Kirek, the one in the Earth Corps."
"Well enough. He seems to be happy with the uniform."
"It gives them a sense of comradeship."
"As does the name?"
"It wasn't of my choosing," said Dumarest. "You know that."
As he knew other things. "The laboratory," he demanded. "Why did you want it?"
Dumarest remained silent.
"Then let us talk of Vera Jamil." Volodya poured them each a little more wine. "As yet, I understand, you have had no success."
"Corroboration? No."
"Of course. You must know where Earth lies-or how could you promise to lead us to it?" Volodya leaned forward in his chair. "You do know?"
"I never said that."
"No. You were born on Earth and stowed away on a strange ship when young and later were abandoned to make your own way on planets which knew nothing of your home world. But you want to return, which is what brought you to Zabul." Volodya tasted his wine and sat holding the goblet. Beneath the arch of his brows his eyes were brightly direct. "You think we have the answer?"
"Have you?"
"No." Volodya set down his goblet and seemed, abruptly, to relax. "Or if we have it is a mystery yet to be solved. The Archives are, as you have learned, basically a mass of useless trivia. What else can you expect? So little happens here that all small details gain in importance so we have lists of births and deaths and petty quarrels. Details of stores and minutes of meetings and deliberations of the Councils with comment on decisions made."
"Then why maintain the Archives?"
"Habit," said Volodya. "Tradition and something more. The Terridae spend their lives mostly in dreams and have little time for learning. The Archives form a repository of knowledge-how else would our technical staff learn their skills? And each culture should have a history. Roots which hold them firm in the path they have chosen to follow. Signs to give the direction to take. With us it is the Event. The hope
of finding Earth and the wonders it has to give. And yet, if we did-what then?"
A question which held familiar echoes. Althea had posed it-how many others?
Dumarest said, "You are telling me you believe it better to travel than to arrive."
"For some, yes. For the Terridae, certainly."
A confession and Dumarest wondered why Volodya had made it. The room gave the answer as did the scattered chessmen lying on the floor.
He said, "From the beginning you have been playing a part. Using me for your own purposes."
"Of course. Does that annoy you?" Volodya shrugged, "How else to break the impasse I faced? The Council was old and determined to cling to power. I had no support and no reason for any direct action. You provided them both. It was expedient to pretend to believe you while altering the balance of power. To back you and so gain the adherence of those to whom you were a hero. Once the Council was deposed it was still politic to give you open support. I wanted to avoid all danger of being accused of betrayal. Failure, when it came, had to originate with you."
"You were certain I would fail?"
"It was only a matter of giving you enough time."
"And now?"
"You have had enough time."
"I see." Dumarest rose and crossed the room to where the scattered chessmen lay bright against the carpet. He picked them up, set them in place on the board and, without looking at Volodya, said, "You had it all worked out from the beginning, didn't you? Move after move just like a game of chess. Forcing others to move as you wanted. But you forget something." He turned to face the other man, his face as cold and as hard as the pieces on the board. "Others can play the same game."
"You?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Me."
The wine was forgotten, the cakes, the small pretenses which had masked savage determinations. Volodya and Dumarest faced each other like opponents in a ring. Fighters armed with weapons more complex than knives.
"The Corps," said Volodya. "That gang of thugs you've taught to fight. Do you think them a match for my guards?"