by E. C. Tubb
"Respond, damn you! Calling the Galya! Calling the Galya! Signal if you can hear! Respond!"
Dumarest moved forward and touched a button. "All right, Ysanne, contact established."
"Earl! What-"
"Have Craig come over with a spare suit to collect what he needs." Alone she could never handle the Moira. "I'm in the control room with the captain." Dumarest looked inquiringly at the figure seated in the big chair. "Captain Andre Batrun. We're about to discuss terms of rescue."
Batrun was old, his face lined, his hair a neat crop of silver. He had spent his life in the cold reaches between the stars and now, ripe with experience, faced total ruin.
"Life," he mused. "What is it worth? Without it you have nothing, so, therefore, it must be worth all you possess."
He found this philosophy less than comforting and he took a pinch of snuff from an ornate box and dusted a few grains of the brown powder from his impeccable uniform. Watching him, Dumarest could guess his thoughts.
"Let's talk of salvage," he said. "Your generator is ruined and without it the Galya is useless. Which leaves your cargo and whatever else can be transferred."
"Agreed." Batrun made a small gesture. "I am not a man to expect another to burn atoms, break his journey and take risks for nothing. But I carry passengers and some of the cargo is theirs."
To be forfeited with all else they possessed if Dumarest insisted and they hoped for rescue. These details could be settled later; now he was curious as to what had happened.
"Madness," said Batrun. "Bad luck and, from what happened, sabotage. I'm carrying the Matriarch Su Posta and her party to Jourdan and we had trouble from the beginning. My handler fell sick with an infection which affected his brain and he ran amok. Three died before he could be restrained; then he broke free and headed for the generator. God knows what he intended but, apparently, he tried to open the casing and it blew." He nodded as he saw Dumarest's frown. "I agree. It shouldn't have done that and the only explanation I can think of is that it was booby-trapped in some way, perhaps with a device coupled to a timer which would have done the same job. He anticipated it, that's all."
"And?"
"What can you do when your ship is drifting?" Batrun took a pinch of snuff. "Each make their own arrangements."
Some to die quick and clean by their own hand. Others to settle into a routine, facing extinction as all creatures faced it-the only real difference being the sharpened awareness of time.
"The Akita?"
"A part of the matriarch's retinue. Bodyguards. The one who attacked you had been caught in the fringe of the blast when the generator went."
His flesh reacting to wild radiations, swelling in grotesque cancerous growths, the brain itself distorted to fill the universe with inimical foes.
Dumarest said, "He thought he was being transformed into something wonderful. Well, now, maybe he is. Have you men to help with the transfer?"
"The steward and second engineer. The matriarch might let you use some of her people."
Su Posta was no longer a statue. The drug had been neutralized and she and the others now lived on normal time. She looked up as Dumarest entered her cabin, her eyes hard, imperious. When she spoke her voice held the arrogance of one long accustomed to implicit obedience.
"How long will it be before we are on our way?"
"Not long, my lady."
"That is not answering the question!"
He said quietly, "There are matters to be attended to and details to be arranged. I assure you that-"
"You will be paid," she snapped. "I do not wish to haggle."
"How many are in your retinue?"
"Myself, my granddaughter, two attendants, her governess and, yes, you can include the monk." Her voice took on a new asperity. "Are you intending to charge by the head?"
"I was thinking of transfer. We cannot make direct contact and so will have to transship in sacs. There is nothing to worry about but it can be a little frightening to those inexperienced. A child, say, or-"
"An old woman?"
"Yes, my lady. Some old women."
"But I am not one of them." The concept was almost amusing. She, the Matriarch of Jourdan, afraid! "The governess will accompany my granddaughter, I shall travel alone. The rest can make their own arrangements." Her gesture dismissed them as being of no importance. "Where are you bound?" She did not wait for an answer. "You will take us to Jourdan."
"Perhaps, my lady."
She blinked at his answer and stared at him with sharpened interest. Tall, hard-the way she had liked her men when younger. How she still liked them even if only to look at and keep warm old memories. Figures which held the attribute she so admired, the determination of purpose which was her own strength. But even admiration had to yield to the necessity of being obeyed.
She said, bluntly, "That was an order."
Dumarest was equally blunt. "One you are in no position to give. I command the Moira."
"Must I remind you who I am?"
"I know who you are, my lady. I also know what you are at this present time."
"A person at your mercy, it seems." Her tone was bitter. "Have you come to gloat?"
"I came to ask the use of some of your people to help in the transfer." He added, "The quicker it's done the sooner we can be on our way."
"To Jourdan." It was not a question. "Take me to Jourdan and you will be highly rewarded." Her eyes, deep-set, cold, watchful as those of a snake, searched his face. "Very highly rewarded. You have my word on that."
"Thank you, my lady," said Dumarest. "But I'd prefer it in writing."
Batrun's engineer was a woman, Olga Wenzer, short, brown, her hair grizzled. She watched Craig's deft movements and nodded, recognizing his ability and taking second place.
To Dumarest she said, "I can fill in if needed but you've got a good man there. How about a handler or a steward?"
"Shandhar is carrying on as that."
"A handler, then. Ben's a good steward." She added, "I guess he's glad of the berth. I know I would be."
"I can't pay you."
"You already have. We'd be dead if it weren't for you. A handler, then?"
Dumarest nodded and watched as she walked away to take up her duties. A new member of the crew and a new responsibility to add to the rest. Batrun and the steward and the passengers. One came running toward him as he headed toward the control room; a small bundle of furious energy which threw herself at him to be caught up in his arms and lifted high.
"Lucita!" Her governess shook her head in mock reproof as Dumarest tossed the little girl and set her squealing with laughter. "You spoil her, Earl. The future Matriarch of Jourdan should not be spoiled."
"She's young," said Dumarest. "And very beautiful." This last to the girl herself. "Will you make a good ruler? One who is kind and generous and who knows the meaning of mercy? Of course you will. Hungry? Then why not go and find Olga and ask her to ask Ben to find you something nice to eat? Want to go?"
She nodded, beaming.
"Then go!" He set her on her feet and watched her as she raced away and turned to see the governess looking at him with a strange expression. "Something wrong?"
"No. No it's just that-" She broke off, shaking her head. "You surprise me a little. I would never have thought you to love children."
"Why not?"
Because he looked too hard, too self-centered and because he commanded a ship which was too like a slaver for coincidence. Helga, the girl's bodyguard, relayed these facts and she should know. And yet, remembering how he had won Lucita's heart, she began to have doubts.
Batrun was in the control room, Ysanne at his side. Together they checked the instruments, while in the screens the bulk of the Galya drifted away, driven by the reaction of air released from its tanks. The hull shimmered with spots and twinkles of brightness; a growing scintillation which held a fascinating beauty but which warned of mounting danger.
"The nexus is centering," said Ysanne. "The hulls
are acting as magnets and the potential is nearing the lower critical level. If we're going we'd better get started."
Batrun said, "We need to plot a course which will avoid the nexus but take advantage of the peripheral swirl. Can you cut in analogue filters?"
"Sure." Ysanne reached for the controls. "There!"
Space changed, became a thing of streaming colors, stabbing shafts and waves of brilliance. Energy, invisible to the eye, translated into visual light. Glowing masses which moved to coalesce and form nodes and swirls and peaks of wild forces. Radiation, particles of atoms, small furies which accumulated to equal the potential energy contained in a sun.
Dangers swept away from planetary systems by the solar wind, gathering in interstellar space to form a series of destructive hazards.
Dumarest said, "Captain!"
"What is it?" Batrun turned then, remembering, shook his head. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard. I'm not the captain."
"You could be. I've spoken to the others about it. Ysanne and Craig share partnership with me-you may have heard about it." Ysanne's nod confirmed he had. "You've lost your command but you could get another if you're interested. Are you?"
A question put out of courtesy and Batrun could appreciate the consideration. Few captains survived the loss of a command-death was cleaner than to hang about fields after berths which didn't exist. He was too old to hope for a ship, too poor to buy a part in one, too proud to beg.
"Equal shares," said Dumarest. "And I'm not being generous. You'll earn it-and there's a condition."
"To find Earth," said Batrun. "I know." His eyes moved to the woman. "And after?"
"Does it matter?"
"To me-no." Batrun took snuff, his hand shaking a little as he lifted the powder to his nostrils. "I'd go to hell for the sake of a command. You see, I am honest."
And skilled, as he demonstrated after he had taken his place in the big chair, hands moving as if to caress the padding as he settled in his new environment.
"Engineer?" He listened to Craig's report on the generator. "Navigator?"
"Course selected for Jourdan, Captain." Ysanne matched his formality. "Three-stage flight pattern. First to operate within five seconds from activation."
"Check. Mark!"
Dumarest watched, counting, the blue cocoon of the Erhaft field appearing to envelop them in its protective shimmer as, in the screens, the Galya suddenly crumpled to twisted ruin.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ysolto Mbushia looked at the paper and thoughtfully pursed his lips, one hand lifting, the fingers tracing the pattern of ritual scars which stood livid on his cheeks.
"Well, now," he said. "I'm not sure."
"Why the doubt? The signature's good, isn't it?"
"How would I know?" The Hausi looked at Dumarest and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "The Matriarch Su Posta could have written this or someone could have done it for her. Signed it too. You see the difficulty?"
"The signature's been countersigned." Dumarest pointed. "And thumbprinted. And witnessed by a monk. Brother Vezey. He was with the matriarch's retinue."
"So?"
"You don't know the monk's handwriting either. Nor the thumbprint. I understand. But I'm not asking you to give me cash over the counter. Just hold it, verify it and collect. Pay me only when it's been cleared." Then, as the Hausi continued to hesitate, Dumarest added, "Naturally there'll be a commission. Ten percent?"
"The usual is twenty."
"Fifteen and you can handle our supplies and repairs. A deal?"
The Hausi nodded and smiled. "A deal, my friend. To be sealed in wine! Here, on Jourdan, we have our traditions. A moment if you please while I fetch the bottle."
"And a copy of the promissory note," reminded Dumarest.
"Together with your receipt and statement as to the agreed commission."
"You don't trust me?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. A Hausi did not lie. "I trust you but I have partners and they don't trust me. What about that wine?"
It was sweet, cool, tasting of mint and honey and he savored it as he leaned with his back against the counter. Through the open door of the agency he could see the field, the bulk of the Moira together with other vessels. A busy field and an economically viable world if the ranked warehouses were anything to go by. Even as he watched, a line of carts appeared, low trailers drawn by sweating men each loaded with bulging sacks.
"Choum," said the Hausi. "A high-protein food destined for the mines on Calvardopolis. A short run and little profit but better than nothing if your ship's lying idle. If you're interested I could arrange the load."
Dumarest shook his head; the Moira was grounded until it could be repaired. He watched as the men dragged their loads closer to the warehouse. The whips of overseers made spiteful, cracking sounds.
"Vagrants," said Mbushia. "Debtors and petty criminals working off their sentences on work gangs." He sipped at his wine. "Forgers lose their hands."
"Thinking of that note?" Dumarest finished his wine and set down the glass. "Forget it if it bothers you. I'll try somewhere else. Maybe the palace itself. The journey's worth ten percent."
"We agreed on fifteen."
"So we did." Dumarest met the agent's eyes. "And it's genuine. Maybe I should see a doctor." He joined the other's laughter, then, "How long?"
"A little while. The matriarch isn't a quick payer and it might be best to discount the note. How low will you go?"
"Face value or nothing-I'm not that stupid. Not yet."
Outside Dumarest looked up at the sky and felt the warmth of the sun. It felt good, as did the touch of wind on his face, the grit of dirt beneath his boots. Space was too cold, too hostile. There was nowhere to hide and nothing soft to see. Nothing green like the leaf he pulled from a shrub to crush and lift to his nostrils and smell. No water like that which came gushing from a fountain to fill the air with musical tinklings. Ships were traps from which there could be no escape and space was an all-enveloping enemy.
Fantasies but he was glad the journey was over. It had taken too long and would have been impossible without the fuel salvaged from the Galya. Only that and Batrun's skill had enabled them to use the currents and nurse the generator until finally settling on solid ground. The generator was ruined and would have to be replaced-the matriarch's reward would cover it.
She had gone together with her retinue; the small child, the governess, the bodyguard, the attendants, the monk. The man who had looked like a trader had been an advocate and he had gone too. So had Craig, hunting a new generator. Olga had gone with him and Shandhar had left to see about supplies. Only Ysanne and Batrun remained.
"Earl!" She waved to him as he entered the salon. Batrun was with her, papers spread between them, and Dumarest caught a glimpse of navigational symbols; lines, zones, waves, the tools of her trade. "Come and sit with us. Andre's been telling me some of the things he learned as a boy working the Chelham Ridge. You know it? It's an area where if you spit you'd splash a dozen worlds. Full of opposed gravities, magnetic fluxes, the works. You can head for one place and wind up at another. Turn almost a full circle. Right, Andre?"
He nodded, looking at Dumarest.
"Like a maze," she said. "Like threading a needle through a head of cabbage. It goes in but you don't know where the hell it's coming out. Fun, eh? Good fun, Earl. Damned good fun. Right?"
She talked too fast and her eyes were too bright and he guessed she'd been drinking but wasn't yet wholly drunk. Just enough for tensions to have eased and emotion to be vented in a flurry of words. A compensation too, perhaps, for Batrun's having shown her how relatively inexperienced she really was.
"I'll get some coffee, Earl," he said, rising. "I think Ysanne may have celebrated our landing with a little too much enthusiasm."
"I can't drink," she said. "Is that what you're saying? Nobody from Manito can drink. We've more sense than to rot our guts with poison. When we want kicks we chew weed or change lovers or have a fight. You know, Earl
, that's an idea. Maybe we should have a fight. Winner take all, right? Winner takes all."
"What have we got? A broken down ship, some supplies, some cargo still to be turned into cash."
"And a promise, Earl. That old bag should be grateful."
"Maybe." Dumarest looked up as Batrun returned. He carried a steaming pot and a vial of tablets. "Sobup pills," he explained. "She must have got the wine from Shandhar. Here." He offered her two with a cup of coffee. "Take these and you'll soon feel better."
A promise fulfilled as she set down her empty cup and sat blinking at the scattered papers.
"A little wine," she said, "and your brains take wings. Now I know why we don't drink back home. How the hell do you manage it, Earl?"
"Practice." He looked at the papers. "Apart from the lesson what's been happening?"
"We talked," she said. "I suggested changing the name of the ship. I don't like the Moira. It was Pendance's choice and I want to forget that bastard." Glancing at Batrun she said, "Why not the Galya?"
"No!" He softened the rejection. "No, I'd rather not. For me there could only ever be one Galya. But, in view of our search, why not the Erce?"
"Erce?" Ysanne thought about it. "An odd name but why not? Earl?"
He said, "Where did you hear it, Andre?"
"Does it matter?" Ysanne was impatient. "It's a name. Erce." She shook her head. "One you wouldn't forget in a hurry. What does it mean?"
"Earth," said Batrun. "It's another name for Earth. You couldn't call a ship that, could you? Not Earth. And not Terra either. Strange how old names lose their meaning. Earth is ground or dirt and we still use it in that connection. As we do terra-terrain. But Erce?"
Dumarest said, again, "Andre-where did you hear it?"
"From a book, I think. Yes, it had to be that." He saw Dumarest's expression and continued. "Most of a captain's job is to wait. To stand watch and do nothing but wait and fight boredom. Some do it with drugs, others with symbiotes; I used books-old ones, mostly, dealing with legends and myths. Did you know that Bonanza actually exists? That Eden was a real world and you can visit Heaven any time you want? They call it Haveen now but it has to be the same planet. But to be more specific. Erce was a term used in a wider sense than a name. Think of it not as meaning just Earth but as Mother Earth-you see the difference?"