The Complete Dumarest, page 157
“Still nothing.”
Which meant little; any attacking force could have remained under cover, living on carried stores and moving under the protection of the leaves.
“Is there nothing we can do, marshal?” Stone was anxious. “Aside from punitive expeditions and constant surveillance, I can’t see how we are going to resolve this conflict.”
“Three things,” said Dumarest. “Major Vandet, from your examination, would you say the gas was one which had to be inhaled?”
“Yes. There are no marks of burning on the skin, and in any case, that would assume sprays were used. From your own experience, I would say that it is a relatively simple vapor—natural enough if we remember their limited sources of manufacture.” He added, “Unless, of course, they are actually buying more sophisticated material.”
“We can discount that,” said Colonel Paran. “Every ship reaching this planet is checked and cargoes verified. The gas they use must be locally produced.”
“Then respirators and air tanks would give total protection,” said Dumarest. “See to their manufacture. Every man in the field must be equipped, and half of them must wear the masks at all times. The second thing—in order to protect the villages, all lofios plants to the extent of a mile must be cut down.”
“Destroyed?” The merchant in Oaken forced the objection. “Do you realize just how many plants that is? Marshal, we can’t do it!”
“Thirty villages,” said Stone. “Three hundred square miles. The economy would never stand it.”
Colonel Paran said shrewdly, “You’re thinking of cover, Earl? It makes sense, but would a mile be necessary?”
“To give complete protection, yes.”
“I see. And the third thing?”
“To make contact with the Ayutha.” Dumarest rose from the table. “I will see to it as soon as I have enough men properly trained. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me?”
* * *
He heard the sound of water as he entered the suite and Zenya’s voice raised in song. It was a cheerful air such as might be sung at a celebration, the words casual, hinting of love and fulfillment and eternal bliss. A dream, as all such songs were.
“Earl?” She had heard the sound of the opening door, perhaps the heavy tread of his feet. She came from the bathroom, rubbing her hair with a fluffy towel, the long lines of her body barely covered by the material. “Darling!” Her eyes mirrored the shock in her voice. “You look dreadful—so tired. Some wine?”
“Later.”
“After when, darling?” She saw the drawn look on his face and ceased her romantic byplay. “A hard time?”
Times were always hard when dead men lay thick, broken bodies like discarded toys on the soft dirt. And there had been more than men—women, children, babies, even pets.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “A hard time.”
“But it’s over, and you’ve come back to me, and now you’re safe.” She looked at the package he carried. “A present?”
Without answering, he set the parcel on a table, ripped it open, and activated the mechanism it contained. An electronic baffle to nullify any watching device—high rank had certain conveniences.
“Your uniform came,” she said. “I’ve hung it up in the wardrobe. Are you going to wear it? It would be nice for us to go out and eat somewhere and have everyone looking at us and know that you are the marshal and I am your lady. Susal—the colonel’s wife—took me to a place last night for dinner. The food was fabulous, and they had a wonderful troupe of dancers. The best I’ve seen since we left Samalle. Earl…” She frowned. “You aren’t listening.”
He said flatly, “Just what instructions did Chan Parect give you before we left Paiyar?”
“Earl?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “Earl, you told me not to mention things like that.”
“You can talk now. This will baffle any listening ears.” He gestured at the mechanism softly humming on the table. “Did he tell you why we came here?”
“Of course. To find his son, Salek.”
“And what else?” He resisted the impulse to reach out and shake her. “What would you have done, for example, had I shipped out?”
“I’d have gone with you.”
“And if I’d left you behind?”
A veil seemed to fall over the amber of her eyes, making her suddenly appear older, more subtle, a little evil. A mask to hide nothing, perhaps, or to hide a secret she had no intention of telling. And yet, it was something he had to know.
“Earl!” She recoiled as she saw his face, the cruel set of his mouth. “Earl, don’t look at me like that!”
“You were given orders,” he said tightly. “I want to know what they were.”
“Why bother, darling?” Her smile was soft, wanton. “You’ll find Salek, and we’ll all go home, and then we’ll live happily until we die. You see, it’s all so simple. There is no need for you to worry at all.”
A man to find, who could be anywhere; a threat hanging over him, should he fail; a war to win before his pretense was discovered. And she said that he had nothing to worry about.
A child would have spoken like that, but Zenya was no child. With savage answer he threw the flat of his hand against her cheek.
“Damn you, woman! Tell me!”
“Earl!” She recoiled, eyes wide with shock, one hand lifted to the red welts on the bronze of her skin. “You hit me! You hit me!”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t answer!”
He meant it; the need of survival overrode all gentler instincts, and his determination showed on his face, in his eyes, his voice. She recognized it, accepted it, found a warped pleasure in surrendering to his mastery.
“I was to send a message to the Cyclan telling them where you had been and where you were going if possible. And I was to send another to grandfather telling him that you had failed. That I had failed.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Earl. That is all.”
It was too simple, too open for the devious mind of Aihult Chan Parect, and yet he had no evidence that she spoke other than the truth. Had the old man gambled on the bait of her body and the promise of later fortune being enough to hold him? Thinking it enough when coupled with a bluff?
Wine stood on a table, and he helped himself, ignoring the girl, standing with eyes narrowed before the window. Rafts passed in the night outside, lights brilliant against the stars, each vehicle loaded with uniformed men. Fresh detachments for the field, forces accumulating for the inevitable attack, should all else fail. And other rafts, big cargo carriers, grim as they transported their loads of dead.
From behind him Zenya said softly, “Earl?”
She had dressed in a gown of clinging golden fabric, gems bright in the mane of her hair, head held high, the marks of his fingers carried proudly like a badge.
He said, “Tell me about Salek Parect.”
“You should bathe, Earl, and change. It will refresh you, and I want to see you in uniform.”
“Tell me about the man I’m looking for.”
“I never saw him, Earl. He left Paiyar before I was born. From what others have told me, he was a dreamer, always reading old books and studying ancient scrolls. He had a theory that men had left the right way—whatever that is supposed to mean. Can’t we forget him, Earl?”
“I have to find him.”
“I know, but later. You have been away a long time, and I missed you.” She came forward a little, perfume wafting before her, arms lifted in invitation. “I missed you so very much.”
He said, “I need to bathe and change.”
* * *
They ate in a place gilded with glowing light, rainbows chasing each other on the walls, the ceiling a mass of drifting smoke shot with glimmers of random brightness. Music came from a living orchestra, martial tunes and exotic rhythms, the throb of drums merging with the wail of pipes, flutes soaring, strings quivering the air. Tall hostesses moved softly on naked feet, their ankles adorned with tiny bells which chimed as they glided between the tables. The food was a succession of dishes, spiced, plain, meats and fish and compotes of fruit, delicacies composed of crushed nuts blended with a dozen different flavors.
Uniforms were everywhere, officers entertaining their women, faces flushed, voices a little too loud, peacocks strutting and enjoying their hour of glory. Volunteers all, paying for their uniforms, their arms, looking on the war as a great adventure.
“Earl,” whispered Zenya, “I’m so proud of you. You make these others look like inexperienced boys.”
Dumarest made no comment, sipping wine that tasted of honey and mint, icy cold to the mouth, warming as it slid past his throat. He felt tired and wished that he was back in the suite, but it was to be expected that he would entertain his lady.
“Sir?” A middle-aged man stood before him, the insignia of a major bright on his collar. “With respect, marshal, the captain and I are having a little argument, which perhaps you would be good enough to resolve.” He gestured to the table he had left, the man and the two women watching. “With your permission?”
He was more than a little drunk; it was easier to agree than argue.
“What is it, major?”
“It has to do with weapons, sir. I advocate lasers, but the captain states that a rifle is as effective, in trained hands. Your opinion?”
“The captain is right.”
“But surely, sir, a laser, especially when set for continuous fire, can be more destructive?”
“True, major, but a man can be killed only once. A bullet will do it as well as anything else. If the object of war was simple destruction, we would all be armed with missile launchers.”
“But, sir, surely—”
“That will be all, major.”
Dumarest sipped again at his wine. The music had fallen to a repetitive beat, bass notes seeming to vibrate the very air, pulsing like the sound of a giant heart. A dancer spun onto the floor, whirling, veils lifting to reveal milky flesh, hair an ebony cloud around the painted face. Another joined her, glistening black, a third as red as flame. Trained litheness merged, parted, met again in a combination of limbs, so that for a moment the three bodies seemed one, to part, to join again in the age-old invitation of all women to all men.
“Beautiful,” whispered Zenya. “How could any man resist them? Could you, Earl? If I wasn’t here? If they came to you?”
They were marionettes, toys, painted dolls dedicated to their art. He turned from them, busy with his wine.
“Have you ever known a woman like that, Earl? An artiste? You must have. Did she love you? Did you love her? Earl, answer me, I want to know.”
He said, “Zenya, do you know what love really is?”
“Tell me, darling.”
“It isn’t the game you play. For you it is all pleasure, fun, excitement. But real love isn’t like that. There is pain in it, and sacrifice, and yearning, and something, perhaps, which you have never known. A caring for another person. A tenderness… I can’t put it into words. If you feel it, you know it.”
“As you have done, Earl?” She frowned as he made no answer. “Earl?”
She looked at his hand, tight around his wineglass, the set look on his face, the eyes misted with memories. Jealous, she said, “Earl, I’m bored. Let’s get out of here.”
Branchard was waiting when they returned to the suite. He straightened from where he leaned against a wall, face splitting into a grin as he saw the uniform. Formally he said, “My lord, may I have the pleasure of a few moments of your time?”
The words were for the benefit of the honor guard standing stiffly beside the door. Maintaining the pretense, Dumarest snapped, “This is irregular, but, as you are here…”
Inside, Branchard glanced around, saw the electronic baffle, and relaxed.
“I tried to get word to you, Earl, but you didn’t ring back, so I had to take a chance and come myself.” He nodded at Zenya. “The girl took the message.”
“What message?” She frowned. “A man rang a few times asking for you to call back. A news service, I understood. Naturally you wouldn’t want to be bothered.”
“You should have told me,” said Dumarest mildly. The delay wasn’t important. “Any luck?”
“Some, but you may not like it. The name didn’t help, but names can be changed, and the man you’re looking for is known here as Amil Kulov.”
“You’re sure?”
“There’s no doubt about it, Earl. The Lammarre details match to the last decimal point. He had an infection shortly after landing and was treated in the city hospital. He also worked for a time in a chemical factory, doing spot checks on sprays and fungicides, and he’s on record in their medical section. The thing is, he isn’t in the city.”
Dumarest frowned. “Where, then? At one of the villages?”
“Not even that. He’s one of these crazy guys, you know, always trying to help those who don’t really want him to interfere but are too polite to say so. The last known of him was that he was living in the hills among the Ayutha.” Branchard poured himself some wine, emptied half the glass in a single swallow. “Nice stuff, Earl. They seem to be treating you well.”
“Stick to the point, captain.”
“That is it, Earl. You might as well forget the man. The odds are that he’s dead by now. Everyone I spoke to reckons that all the social workers who interested themselves in the primitives got the chop when the trouble started. One thing is for sure—if you go looking for him, you’ll head smack into trouble.”
Nothing was simple. Dumarest said, “Thank you, captain. I’ll send money to you at the field.”
Chapter Ten
From the head of the column Ven Taykor said, “I’ve never been a gambling man, Earl, but if I were I’d take odds that none of us will get back alive.” His voice was muffled, distorted by the diaphragm of his respirator. “If I were with the Ayutha, I could pick us off one by one and never need to show myself at all.”
A gamble impossible to avoid. Pausing, Dumarest glanced back at the column of men. They had been marching since dawn from where the rafts had dropped them, following Taykor as he led them toward the hills. They were tired, hot, and irritable, and showed it. Hand-picked, but poorly trained; there had been no time for that.
He said, “You’re a pessimist, Ven. All we want to do is to make contact.”
“Let’s hope that we don’t do it the hard way.” Taykor reached up to scratch his face, swore as his fingers met the mask. “Do we have to wear these damn things all the time?”
There was no wind; the leaves of the lofios all around were still, swollen pods taut beneath the sun. They had worn the respirators continuously, field training to get accustomed to the equipment, but the capacity of the tanks was limited.
“We’ll take a break,” decided Dumarest. “Captain Corm, set guards. Respirators to be worn, no firing on any account unless I order. Lieutenant Paran, report.”
He listened as the other relayed details of the situation.
Rafts, heavily armed, riding high at the edge of the hills, men tense to shoot at anything that moved below. More rafts, deeper in, scanning with electronic sensors.
“A party has been spotted moving toward the west, sir. About thirty men, as far as can be determined.” His voice hardened. “They could have been responsible for the recent attacks.”
“Any other signs of movement?”
“No, sir. That party, sir, do you wish it destroyed?”
“No.” Dumarest’s voice was harsh. “My orders are plain—no firing for any reason unless I give the command. Any man disobeying will be shot. Our objective is to contact the Ayutha. If we start shooting, they will run.”
Run and attack in turn, and the column he commanded was too vulnerable for his liking. As they settled, one of the men complained, “A hell of a thing. Why couldn’t we have used rafts to drop us right in the hills? All this walking seems crazy to me.”
His companion, more logical, said, “Use your head, man. Suppose you were one of the Ayutha. You could see a raft coming for miles, right? You’d see it land and armed men get out, and then what? I’ll tell you, you’d run and get help and set up an ambush. The marshal knows what he’s doing.”
A blind confidence that Dumarest hoped would be justified. Squatting, crouched over a map, he studied the terrain. They were close to the foothills, where a shallow gully wound into the higher regions, heading, so Ven Taykor had said, to one of the Ayutha settlements. It would be deserted now; even primitives would not have remained massed together to offer an easy target, but equally so, they would have remained scattered in the vicinity. If he could reach the area without being attacked, if they were a little curious and held their fire, if the men behind him would control their nervous tension, it was possible that his mission could be a success.
He said, “Ven, come over here.”
Taykor made no reply. Looking up, Dumarest saw him standing beside one of the lofios plants. He had dropped his respirator and was digging with his thumbnails into one of the blooms. He turned, grinning, oil gleaming on his thumbs.
“Here, Earl, come and smell what this is all about.”
The scent was incredible. It rose from the oil, catching at the senses, filling the mind with sensations of warm suns and sultry days, of fields of flowers and silken skin. A gourmet would have found in it the succulence of favorite foods, a lover the impact of his woman’s flesh. For a moment he stood, confused with a variety of impressions; then Ven Taykor dropped his hands, wiping them on his faded tunic.
“It gets you, doesn’t it? I’ve known men to become so hooked on the stuff they spend their lives among the lofios just collecting, smelling, drifting into a private world all of their own. Not many, but it happens.” He added grimly, “You find them sometimes. Mostly bones. With fruit all around, they sit and starve to death.”
“A narcotic?”
“No. It isn’t habit forming in the sense that it creates a dependency. It’s just that a few men like it so much they haven’t the will to leave it alone. Mostly you build a tolerance toward it. The marketed stuff, of course, is diluted and refined.” Taykor reached up and jerked a fruit from its branch. “Try it, it’s good.”
