The Complete Dumarest, page 73
Jocelyn looked at the pistol, then at the factor doubled over on his desk, a red stain widening from the knife buried in his neck.
“You killed him,” he said blankly. “I didn’t even see you move.”
“He betrayed himself,” said Dumarest. “He reached for a gun in order to kill me. I didn’t feel like letting him do it.”
Thoughtfully Jocelyn looked at Dumarest. The man was cold, ruthless and fast. He could have thrown the knife at any one of them with equal skill. He thought of Ilgash and wondered what protection the man would be if present. None, he decided.
He watched as Dumarest tugged out the knife and wiped it on the handkerchief he took from the drawer. “So it’s over then? You’ve killed the man you were after.”
Dumarest met his eyes. “No, my lord, it isn’t yet over.”
Jocelyn frowned. “I do not understand.”
“I want to know why the two men who tried to kill me wanted my ring, why Meoud wanted it. I want to know more of the three men who jumped me and the person who sent you to rescue me when they didn’t return.”
“Adrienne? But what part could my wife have in this?”
“Not your wife, my lord.” said Dumarest patiently. “But the one who set the idea in her mind, the one who told you exactly where I was to be found.” He looked directly at Yeon. “Well, cyber? Are you going to tell me the answer?”
Yeon remained impassive. “I cannot.”
“A pity.”
“A statement of fact. I do not know why anyone should want your ring.”
“But you want it.” Dumarest stepped a little closer to the scarlet figure. “You gave orders it was to be taken, but you don’t know why, is that it? You are merely obeying instructions?”
“That is so.” Yeon abruptly took his hands from within his sleeves. One of them held a fragile ball of glass. Within it trapped yellow caught the light. “Put aside the knife,” he ordered. “Quickly. Obey or I will destroy you both.”
It fell with a ringing sound on the desk.
Jocelyn stepped forward and halted as Dumarest caught his arm.
“Be careful, my lord. He holds a container of parasitic spores, probably mutated, a vicious weapon.”
It was a safe one. Who would query such a death on a world like Scar?
Yeon stepped to the door and opened it. The panel swung inwards and he stood in the gap, the door half open, his free hand gripping the edge.
“Wait!” Dumarest extended his left hand. “My ring. Do you want it?”
“No.” Yeon hesitated, then yielded to temptation, eager to enjoy the only pleasure he could experience, to tell these emotional animals how he and what he represented would achieve their aim. “Keep it,” he said. “It will be a simple matter to obtain it from your body.” His brooding eyes fell on Jocelyn. “And you have served your purpose. The marriage is a fact. Even if your wife is not yet pregnant, such a simple matter can be arranged. Selected sperm taken from our biological laboratories to match your physical characteristics and accelerated gestation to adjust the time element will make her the proud mother of an heir to both Jest and Eldfane.”
She would be hopelessly dependent on the Cyclan to keep the secret, to maintain her in power, and to safeguard the precious child. She could wear the baubles of rule, the Cyclan would have the real power. Another firm step would have been taken towards the final domination of the habitable worlds. His reward could surely be nothing less than an early incorporation into the central intelligence.
Yeon threw down the container of spores.
Dumarest moved. He flung himself forward, warned by the subtle movement of a sleeve, a tensing of the hand resting on the edge of the panel. His hand shot out, caught the glass ball, lifted it and threw it directly into the cyber’s face.
It broke with a crystalline tinkle, a cloud of yellow rising about the shaven skull. Yeon staggered back as Dumarest thrust at his chest and slammed the door.
Sweating, he listened to the noises from outside, the bumping and threshing, muffled cries and incoherent moaning.
“Gods of space!” Jocelyn stood by the window. He pointed with a trembling hand. “Look at that!”
A scarlet figure stood outside. A growing ball of yellow frothed from the open robe, two smaller ones hung at the end of each sleeve. Yeon had staggered outside unaware of direction. He could feel no pain but the multiplying fungus clogged his mouth and his nostrils, grew on the surface of his eyes, sprouted from his ears and filled his lungs. It dug into his flesh, thrusting through the pores of his skin, growing until even the scarlet of the robe was hidden.
After a while the threshing stopped and a swollen ball of yellow fungus lay quivering on the ground.
* * *
Dumarest dug his spoon into a mound of emerald jelly, tasted it and found it both astringent and smooth to the tongue. “The cyber had an accident,” he said. “That is all you need to say. The Cyclan are not eager for their intrigues to come to light.”
Adrienne frowned. “But what of their aid? How can we manage without their guidance?”
“As we did before, my dear.” Jocelyn was sharp. “You did not hear the man. He regarded you as a beast to be put to breeding for the Cyclan’s purpose. Perhaps that would not have bothered you, but once the child had been accepted, how long do you think you would have been permitted to stay alive?”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
Dumarest put down his spoon. The cabin was snug and intimate with its ancient furnishings. It only needed an open fire to complete the illusion that it was part of a stronghold rather than a space vessel.
“Never underestimate the Cyclan, my lady,” he said. “Their plans are subtle and rarely as innocent as they seem. They are like spiders twitching the strands of a web so as to ensnare those over whom they seek power.” Casually he added. “Tell me, do you have many cybers on your home world?”
“None now,” she said. “Yeon was the only one and he came with us.”
“And how long had he been there, a few months, perhaps, a short while before the negotiations began for your marriage?” Dumarest smiled at Jocelyn’s expression. “Yes, my lord. Even that was a plan of the Cyclan’s. You see how far ahead they look?”
“But the malfunction of the vessel? How could he have known that we would go to Scar?”
“Because he wanted to go there,” said Dumarest flatly. “Where the Cyclan are concerned, there is no such thing as chance. On your own admission you rule a poor world. Men are human, the Cyclan is powerful and a poor man would think twice at defying them. And so a small malfunction of the ship, a captain who mentions a peculiar circumstance. Given your preoccupation with destiny, the rest was inevitable.”
Jocelyn nodded thoughtfully as he sat in his chair. “Destiny,” he said. “Could not the Cyclan themselves be instruments of fate?”
“They could,” admitted Dumarest. “Brother Jeffrey could answer you better than I.”
He caught Adrienne’s start and inwardly smiled. Give it time and the gentle power of the Universal Brotherhood would dull her ambition. Once beneath the benediction light, she would discover an unexpected happiness in being gentle, kind, considerate and thoughtful of others—and she would be conditioned against seeking the death of another.
“The ring,” said Jocelyn abruptly. “I understand that you trapped the factor, that the man hadn’t spoken at all, but why should he want it?”
“He didn’t,” said Dumarest. “The Cyclan did—does,” he corrected, looking at the ruby fire on his left hand. “But he tried to collect it for them. I thought at first it might be the gambler who was responsible for sending those men after me, but Ewan was innocent. He even tried to warn me and went so far as to speak of a ring. He wouldn’t have done that if he had been involved.”
Adrienne was curious. “I still can’t understand why they want it, Earl. Do you know why?”
“No, my lady.”
But he could guess how they had conducted their search: an extrapolation of his probable journeys and a supra-radio call to certain factors in the area where they predicted he would be. Del Meoud would have been eager to please so powerful an organization and others would be also.
Jocelyn cleared his throat. “One more thing,” he said. “Why did you send for me?”
“As a witness, my lord.”
“A witness? On Scar where there is no law.” The ruler of Jest shook his head. “You are discreet, Earl, but I can guess the reason. You suspected that I might be involved, working with the cyber in order to steal your treasure. If I had you would have killed me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“At least you are honest and do not lie,” said Jocelyn. “Not when it is unnecessary, and I cannot blame you. Your sojourn in the water could not have been pleasant.”
Dumarest smiled at the understatement. “What have you done with the golden spore, my lord?”
“Baron Haig has taken it in his charge. He is sure that it will be possible to breed it under controlled environments on Jest. Always before expense has limited the quantity available, but with the large amount you obtained he has enough and to spare for errors.” Jocelyn sighed with pleasant anticipation. “It will make us wealthy, Earl. Independent of external aid. We might even be able to end the struggles of those who seek it on Scar.”
“They wouldn’t thank you for it, my lord,” said Dumarest.
“I suppose not,” admitted Jocelyn. He looked at his guest. “We owe you much, Earl. Come with us to Jest. Agree and I will return a quarter of the value of the spore, and I will make you an earl. You will be the richest noble on the planet.”
Dumarest felt the impact of Adrienne’s eyes. “I am sorry, my lord. You know why I must refuse.”
“To continue your quest, to hunt the bones of a legend?” Jocelyn leaned forward, his face intent. “Why not leave the decision to fate?” he suggested quietly. “You could have an earldom and a quarter of the value of the spore, a residence and a large estate, a wife, even children to bear your name. Is this not a fair exchange for a dream?”
“And you will be safe on Jest,” said Adrienne. “The Cyclan will be unable to find you.”
Light glittered from the metal as Jocelyn produced a coin. “Let fate decide. If the arms of Jest show uppermost you will accept all I have named and come with us.”
“And if you lose, my lord?”
“The cost of ten high passages,” said Jocelyn quickly, “yours before you leave this vessel. You agree?”
“Spin, my lord.”
Together they watched the coin rise glittering into the air, followed it with their eyes as it fell and looked at the scarred representation of a man’s head.
Adrienne caught her breath. “Earl!”
“I am sorry, my lady,” said Dumarest. “It seems that fate has decided we must part.”
“To wander, to drift from world to world, perhaps even to die. And you could be so comfortable and happy on Jest. Jocelyn, tell him he must not go!”
“No, I cannot do that,” said Jocelyn. “The decision is made, but always he will be welcome on Jest.” He looked at Dumarest. “Remember that.”
He would remember; perhaps he would have reason to regret the lost chance. But he didn’t think so. A man has to follow his destiny.
6. LALLIA
1971
Chapter One
On Aarn a man was murdered and Dumarest watched him die.
It was a thing quickly done in a place close to the landing field: a bright tavern of gleaming comfort just beyond the main gate of the high perimeter fence, a cultured place of softness and gentle lighting snugly set on a cultured world. The raw violence was all the more unexpected because of that.
Dumarest saw it all as he stood with his back to a living mural in which naked women swam in an emerald sea and sported with slimed beasts of obscene proportions. Before him, scattered over soft carpets, the customers of the tavern lounged in chairs or stood at the long bar of luminescent wood. An assorted crowd of crewmen and officers, field personnel, traders, and transients. Bright among them was the gaudy finery of pleasure girls, flaunting their charms. Soft music saturated from the carved ceiling and perfumed smoke stained the air.
Against the softness and luxury the killer looked like a skull at a feast: tall, horribly emaciated, eyes smoldering in the blotched skin of his face. He was a mutant with mottled hair and hands grotesquely large, a sport from some frontier world. He crossed to the long bar, snatched up a bottle of heavy glass and, without hesitation, smashed it on the back of his unsuspecting victim’s head. Half-stunned, dazed, the man turned—and received the splintered shards in face and throat.
“Damn you!” The mutant dropped the stained weapon as he spat at the dying man. “Remember me? I swore I’d get you and I have. It’s taken years but I did it. You hear me? I did it! I got you, you stinking bastard! Now roast in hell!”
A woman screamed and men came from the shadows to grasp the killer. Dumarest took two long strides towards the door then paused, thinking. The tavern was close to the field, police could not be far away and it was possible that he had already been noticed. To leave now would be to invite suspicion with the resultant interrogation and interminable delay. He regained his position before the mural as officers poured into the tavern. On Aarn the police were highly efficient, and they moved quickly about the tavern as they quested for witnesses. Not surprisingly they discovered them hard to find.
“You there!” The officer was middle-aged, his face hard beneath the rim of his helmet. His uniform was impeccable and the leather of his boots, belt, and laser holster shone with a mirror-finish. “Did you see what happened?”
“Sorry, no,” said Dumarest.
“You too?” The officer echoed his disgust. “Over fifty people in the place and no one saw what happened.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the scene of the crime. “If you were standing here how could you avoid not seeing? You’ve a perfect view.”
“I wasn’t looking that way,” explained Dumarest. “I was studying this.” He pointed at the mural. “All I heard was some shouting. When I turned the sport was standing over something on the floor. What happened? Did he hurt someone?”
“You could say that,” said the officer dryly. “He killed a man with a bottle.” He stared curiously at Dumarest, eyes narrowing as he took in the gray plastic finish of pants, knee-boots, and tunic. The tunic was long-sleeved, falling to mid-thigh and fastened high and snug around the throat. It was unusual wear for a city dweller of Aarn. “Are you a resident?”
“No, a traveler. I came here to arrange an outward passage.”
“Why not go to the field office?” The officer didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. I suppose a tavern is the best place to do business if you can afford it. Your papers?”
Dumarest handed over the identification slip given to him when he had landed. The officer checked the photographic likeness and physical details incorporated in the plastic. He softened a little as he saw the credit rating.
“Earl Dumarest,” he mused. “Planet of origin: Earth.” He raised his eyebrows. “An odd name for a world. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before. Is it far?”
“A long way from here,” said Dumarest flatly.
“It must be. Why did you come to Aarn?”
“To work. To look around.” Dumarest smiled. “But mainly to visit your museum. It is something rather exceptional.”
He had struck the right note by his appeal to planetary pride. The officer relaxed as he handed back the identification.
“We’re rather proud of it,” he admitted and then added, casually, “my son has a position there. In the ancient artifact division, with special reference to Aarn’s early history. Did you know that once the planet held an intelligent race of sea creatures? They must have been amphibious and there is evidence they used fire and tools of stone.”
“I didn’t,” said Dumarest. “Not before I visited your museum, that is. Tell me, is your son a tall, well-built youngster with thick curly hair? About twenty-five, with vivid blue eyes?” The officer had blue eyes and the hair on the backs of his hands was thick and curled. “If so I may have met him. A person like that was most helpful to me in my investigations.”
“I doubt if that was Hercho,” said the officer quickly. “He works in the laboratories. Reconstruction and radioactive dating.”
“Specialized work,” said Dumarest. “It’s a pretty important position for a young man to hold. You must be very proud of him.”
“He’s done well enough for himself.” The officer glanced to where two men carried a stretcher towards the dead man. “May I ask what your own particular subject of interest at the museum might be?”
“Navigational charts and tables,” said Dumarest easily. “Really old ones. The type which were in use before the Center-oriented charts we have now. I didn’t find any.”
“I’m not surprised. We have data from over a hundred thousand habitable worlds and ten times that many items on display, but there has to be a limit. And perhaps you were looking for something which doesn’t exist. Are you sure there are such tables?”
“I think so,” said Dumarest. “I hope so.”
“Well,” said the officer politely, “there’s no harm in hoping.” He turned to move away then halted as Dumarest touched his arm. “What is it?”
“A matter of curiosity,” said Dumarest. He nodded to where the attendants carried a sheeted figure towards the door of the tavern. “That man. Who was he?”
“The victim?” The officer shrugged. “No one special. Just a handler from one of the ships.”
“The Starbinder?”
“The Moray. Captain Sheyan’s vessel. His name was Elgart. Did you know him?”
“No. I was simply curious.”
Dumarest turned to stare at the mural as the dead man was carried away.
The Moray was a small ship, battered, old, standing to one side of the busy field as if ashamed of associating with her sister vessels. Her captain matched his command. Bernard Sheyan was small. A ruff of white hair showed beneath his uniform cap. His face, beneath the visor, was seamed and scored with vicissitude and time. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at Dumarest over the wide expanse of his desk.
