Melome dot-28

by E. C. Tubb

  A key to explore the past.

  He concentrated, narrowing possibilities, honing his mind to a single thought and then the terror came, the fear, the sick and hollow feeling in his guts.

  The wind like a razor on his cheeks.

  The cold, the hunger, the feel of the gritty soil, the desperation.

  The conviction that he would die.

  Before him the bulk of a ship rested in a strange and enigmatic beauty. The first he had seen but, young though he was, he knew it held the warmth and food he needed if he hoped to survive. He edged toward it, a child older than his years, one who had killed and was ready to kill again. The crew were careless, not seeing the small shape which darted from point to point, freezing, moving again with frenzied urgency.

  To reach the port, to dive inside, to find a nook in which to crouch. To wait, dozing, as the unaccustomed warmth gave a false security, to jerk to awareness, to doze again.

  To wake heart pounding with terror at the touch of a hand, the sight of a startled face, another which scowled.

  "By God, look what we have here! A damned stowaway."

  "A kid."

  "Still a stowaway. That's what you are, boy. Know how we treat scum like you? Into the lock and out, that's how. Dumped into the void. Your eyes'll pop out and your lungs will become balloons frothing from your mouth. You'll look like raw meat- ruined but still alive. A hell of a way to go."

  "Don't make a meal of it." The other man was uneasy. "You don't have to gloat. Anyway, it's up to the skipper to decide."

  The captain was old, his face lined, graced with tufted eyebrows, his nose pinched and set above a firm mouth.

  "How old are you, boy? Ten? Eleven?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Yes, what? Eleven?"

  "Twelve, I think, sir. I'm not sure." The face before him blurred, jarred to clear focus. "Sir?"

  "I could dump you but I won't. You can ride with us, working your passage. A hard life but better than what you've known." Again the blurring. "Food, warmth, security-but you'll earn it all."

  "Sir? I-sir?"

  But the face had gone and he looked at a glittering strand and the girl to which it led while, from the circle of which he was a part, came the groans and wails of those who had tasted an evil fruit.

  "Wine?"

  Kamala was beside him with her tray of beakers and Dumarest bought and sipped while retaining his place. The moment had been too short; memories revived and speeded by subjective time so that he had lived an hour, more, in a few minutes. Or was it simply that? Did the moment of terror, once experienced, form the whole of the incident?

  He had been a boy again, back home on Earth, and only the ship and the captain's kindness had saved him from death. But there had been other moments of terror; times when through ignorance he had known the fear of a trapped animal. One augmented by the threats of sadistic members of the crew who had taken a perverse delight in relating stories of dreadful punishments inflicted for small wrongs.

  Of burnings, beating, maiming, blinding-things which his experience had told him were all too possible.

  Time had negated them; the savagery he had known had no place in any civilized community, but, until he had learned, terror had been a close companion.

  "My lord?" Kamala again, looking at his barely touched wine, the spool still held in his free hand. "Is something wrong?"

  Dumarest realized that he alone was left of the circle. Finishing the wine, he handed the woman the empty beaker. He followed it with coins.

  Kamala refused them with a shake of the head.

  "No, my lord, it would not be wise. I warned you against hearing the song again so soon. Yield again to terror and-"

  "I won't go mad."

  "So you say and it could well be true but others have made the same boast and failed to live up to it. I want no trouble."

  Dumarest said, flatly, "I've the money and I'm in position. Rattle your chimes, woman, and stop wasting time."

  "No."

  "You want a higher fee? Double, then. Triple. Damn it, name your price!"

  "No!" She backed from the anger blazing in his eyes, one hand lifting, steadying, the massive ring she wore on the index finger glowing with a metallic sheen. A weapon he recognized. "Baatz is a peaceful world," she said. "But a woman would be a fool to be without protection on any world and, my lord, I am not a fool. It would be best for you to leave now."

  Advice he was reluctant to take. Pressed, he could negate the threat of the weapon, moving before she could discharge its darts, reaching her, twisting hand and wrist so as to obtain the ring. But if he used his superior speed and strength he would ensure her enmity. It was better to master his impatience.

  "My lady, I must apologize." A smile replaced the anger which had frightened her. "I mean no harm and want no trouble. It was just that-well, I'm sure you understand."

  "You're holding the spool."

  "Is that bad?"

  "Release it."

  "Of course." He let it fall and watched as it moved toward the girl, the reel climbing the strand to hang at her belt. "I would like to talk business." He added, as she frowned, "At least let me make the offer."

  "Melome sings no more today." Kalama was adamant. "She is tired and soon it will be dark. Not even for two hundred kobolds will she sing."

  Twice what she would earn in a session; a score of spools hung at her waist. But if he should offer more? Dumarest decided against it; as Kalama had said, the girl was tired and the sky held the hint of coming darkness. In the softening light Melome stood like a broken animal, one which had been ridden too hard and too far. The lowered face was ghastly in its pallor, the bruised eyes ugly smears.

  He said, "I understand, but I want her to sing for me again. A private performance-it can be arranged?"

  "Perhaps." The lifted hand wavered a little, fell as, again, he smiled. "You want to buy her?"

  "Hire her."

  "For an hour, a day, a week?" Her lips twisted in a cynical lewdness. "It will not be as you hope. Those in the grip of terror make poor lovers."

  Dumarest said, patiently, "I want her to sing and that is all. To sing to me alone and to keep on singing if I ask. Once may be enough. One song-two hundred and fifty?"

  "Not tonight," she said quickly. "One song, you said. If you should want more?"

  "Five hundred for as many as I want. For a session to end when I say so."

  "Five songs only-and she stops if the strain is too great." Again her mouth displayed cynical distrust. "You have no objection to me being present?"

  "None."

  "And my instrumentalists?"

  "I want her to sing," said Dumarest. "Nothing else." He jingled coins from one hand to the other. "Here is fifty as proof of my good faith. At dawn?"

  "At midday. Be at the house of the Broken-no, better we visit you." Kalama nodded as he gave the address of the room he'd hired. "At noon then, my lord. Be patient in your waiting."

  Patient but not foolish and it was dark by the time Dumarest left the market. Even at night the place was still alive; lamps burning with swaths of red and gold, blue and umber, the scent of cooking meats and vegetables hanging in the air together with writhing plumes of incense, sparks from torches, beams from shimmering orbs of kaleidoscopic hues. Mundane trading had ended, the vendors of hoes and seeds and domestic items giving way to others who filled the night with a different allure. Drummers and pipers together with dancers, the thin whine of strings, the drone of flutes. Gamblers who called from tables set with cards, dice, hollow shells. Women with snakes, spiders, crawling beetles. The tellers of fortunes and artists who created glowing picture on living skin.

  Men who fought with knives.

  Practice blades; edges and points shielded and capable of dealing little more than bruises and scratches. And the bouts lacked the savage intensity normal to any good fighter-the magic of Baatz had robbed them of serious intent so that the crowd laughed at bad play instead of jeering and the loser accept
ed defeat with a grin and a shrug.

  "Sir!" The promoter had spotted Dumarest, noted his height, his stance, the hilt of the knife riding above his right boot. "A bout, sir? You look like a man used to the arena. A little harmless sport to entertain lovers of the art. A demonstration of skill, the winner decided by popular acclaim. No?" His voice held a philosophical shrug. "Then how about you, sir? Or you?"

  Dumarest walked on. Ahead the lights of the boulevard matched those of the stars now illuminating the sky; clusters of vibrant colors, sheets and curtains of luminescence, nebulae like smoke. Too many stars and he longed for an emptier sky. One illuminated by the swollen bulk of a silver moon blotched in the likeness of a skull. Of constellations which formed patterns holding the likeness of men and beasts, women and creatures of the sea. The signposts of Earth-wherever that might be.

  A world lost in distance and time so that even its name had become a legend.

  But one now so close. So very close!

  Dumarest halted, leaning against a wall, looking up at the sky and feeling again the surge he had known in the market. One born of the sudden realization that, at last, his search could be over. That the answer he had hunted for so long was at hand.

  Melome could find it.

  She had to find it!

  Waking that moment in the past when, as a child, he had stood in the captain's cabin and stared uncomprehendingly at the volume on the desk. A book which had meant nothing at the time and he had turned from it in sudden terror as footsteps came from the passage. If discovered, he could be accused of prying or stealing, be beaten, maimed, tormented-his sadistic mentors had taught him well.

  But that terror, stimulated by the song, would bring the book again before his eyes, the data it contained. All he had to do was wait.

  Then noon passed and the girl did not appear and when he went searching he learned she had been sold to the circus of Chen Wei.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The man was a grotesquerie; a thing of extended limbs, massive ears, lumps, bumps, protrusions. A clown cavorting on stilts, the painted face ludicrous above a padded torso. The hair was like a brush touched with a dozen hues. The voice was like an organ.

  "Why hesitate? The circus of Chen Wei waits to entertain you. See novelties, marvels, impossibilities. Wander in realms of mystic enchantment. Thrill to the impact of exotic stimuli. The chance of a lifetime. Not to be missed. Hurry, now. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

  A bell clanged, three acrobats spun in a confusion of sequins and satin, a woman sold tickets.

  "Ten for transport and the same for initial entry. Twenty, kobolds-thank you, sir. Keep the stub for your return."

  A dwarf guided Dumarest to where rafts waited in line urging him into the first where he sat on a bench next to the rail. A girl came to join him, another at her side. She was young, eager to enjoy her day, hopeful for masculine company but after one glance at his face she turned to her friend leaving Dumarest to stare at the ground below.

  It fell away as the raft lifted, streaming beneath in an unbroken expanse of curled and matted vegetation dotted with delicate flowers. The afternoon sun touched them, turned them into scraps of gold, of ruby, of smoking amber. Flecks which looked like eyes and all of them mocking.

  Why had he been such a fool?

  Melome had been in his hand-he should never have let her go. Never have trusted Kalama to keep their bargain. What had made him so careless? He had quested the market and gained her address, verifying it from more than one source. An elementary precaution, but why hadn't he done more? Why had he been content to wait until it was too late? The woman had cheated him but the money was nothing; he would willingly give ten times as much to correct his stupidity.

  "Mister?" The girl at his side pointed over the rail. "Is that the circus?"

  "No-I don't know."

  "Sorry. I thought maybe you'd been before. My friend thought you might have done. A lot of people have done. That is-" He wasn't listening and she knew it. "Sorry."

  An apology Kalama would never have to make. She was gone, probably on the Yegor-he had seen the ship head for space wreathed in the blue cocoon of its Erhaft field. Robbing him even of revenge. Leaving Melome-his hand tightened as he thought about it. Closed in anger more against himself than Kalama. What use to blame another for his folly?

  One caused by the wine or the shock of the song or the emotional impact of realizing what Melome could give him. Like a climber reaching a summit, confident of success, hurrying a little-and taking that one false step which led to destruction. Thinking more about that moment when, in the captain's cabin, he had seen the book on the desk. A journal, perhaps, or the ship's log he had brought up to date. But both would have held the details of his journeys.

  Both would have held the coordinates of Earth.

  "There!" The girl at his side, excited, rose as she pointed. "There it is!"

  Froth cupped in a fold of the hills. Bubbles laced and striped with gaudy candy colors; vivid purples, reds, greens, blues, sickly yellows, lambent violet. Spires bearing floating pennants. Twisted towers topped with flags. Walks and slides and curving spirals. Peaked roofs graced with undulating crests.

  The circus of Chen Wei.

  Dumarest studied it as the raft dropped to the landing. Much of what he saw had to be mirage; illusions created with paint and fabric, using distorted perspective to give the impression of buildings and space where none existed. A spire vanished as he looked at it, became a blur of lines and blotches, became a spire again as he turned his head. An optical illusion repeated on all sides as cubes, stairs, landings shifted and took on other dimensions.

  "Welcome to the circus!" A clown like a ball bounded toward them, another on stilts stood, beaming, as a man with a crested headpiece took their tickets, tore them, returned the stubs. "Enter and enjoy! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

  Entry was through a giant, laughing mouth, the passage forming the throat set with a series of spongy rollers; air traps which kept the internal pressure high. Dumarest pushed his way through them to emerge in a playground filled with seats, stalls, niches holding bizarre statues. A fountain shone with shifting luminescence while filling the air with crystalline merriment. Sideshows ran to either side, barkers shouting their spiel. A place of fun and games and assorted entertainment.

  All that the initial entry ticket would buy.

  Dumarest checked the sideshows and moved on, paying for admission to a curving gallery set with tableaux depicting a variety of horrific torments. Whispering voices gave graphic details while informing him that, for an extra fee, he could take advantage of the sensatapes which would allow him to experience the agonies of the victims.

  A popular entertainment; each bench held customers, heads wreathed with silver bands, faces twisted as they suffered on a subjective plane. A place where Melome could have been but the tableaux were static models and Dumarest moved on.

  To a hall where mirrors reflected his image in a thousand grotesque distortions.

  To a misted cavern filled with invisible forces which caused him to sweat, to shiver, to feel the heat of passion and the chill disgust of self-contempt. To sigh and laugh and, with sudden fury, to scream curses.

  A place yielding to another filled with drifting balloons which chuckled and cried, pleading, fuming, groaning, whimpering, tittering, sneering. Voices of suggestive intent and others mouthing abrasive insult. Hit, they burst to dispel sweet scents or acrid vapors. One clung, stinging, to his hand, the memory-plastic shriveling to mould itself into a plaque.

  STUPID! The word it bore glowed with golden flame. It was followed by others, smaller; "This token entitles you to a free gift."

  A blank-faced doll which he gave to a child gawking at a caged clown who mimicked the antics of a fierce and savage beast.

  A gift easily disposed of but the accusation remained. Stupidly compounding his initial mistake-Melome would not be found by a frantic searching of public areas. She would need to be groomed, taught the finer arts of
showmanship, tested to gauge her powers. Things he had overlooked in his urgent need to find her.

  Dumarest slowed, turning at the sound of a bell. A girl with long raven hair, alabaster skin, a body shaped like an hourglass came slowly toward him. Her legs and arms were bare, a sequined dress hugging her figure with ebon brilliance. The bell was silver, its tone no sweeter than her voice.

  "Get your tickets for the big show. Available at all barriers and booths. Half-price for children. Take your places for the most exciting, unusual, entertaining and overwhelming spectacle ever to be seen on Baatz. The performance will commence within the hour. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

  She halted as Dumarest touched her arm.

  "I need help," he said, and swayed a little as he smiled; a man bemused a trifle but harmless enough. "I'm looking for a friend. She works for the circus but I can't seem to find her."

  "Maybe she's off-duty, sir. Resting."

  "I doubt it. She said to ask for her." He frowned, searching for a name. "Hilda. She said to ask for Hilda-no, Helga. That's it. Her name is Helga. Young, gold hair, nice smile. She was in town. On the boulevard. Advertising the circus. She said to be sure to ask for her and, well, here I am. You know her?"

  She said, coldly, "Not personally. Ask an attendant to direct you to the information desk. They will send for her. If she's free she may meet you there."

  She came after an hour, smiling, eyes searching his face. A mechanical smile and a look devoid of recognition; she must have spoken to more than a hundred men on the boulevard-he was just one of a crowd. Then, as she studied the neutral grey of his clothing, the lines and planes of his face, the smile changed, became warmer, more genuine.

  "So it's you. I'm glad you came."

  "That makes two of us. How long are you free?"

  "For as long as you want-if you can pay."

  "That's no problem." He smiled as he looked into her eyes, projecting his personality, his obvious admiration. "I've money and I'm in no hurry. But I am hungry and I guess you are too. Something to eat, maybe?"

  "That would be nice."