Eloise

Chapter Four

Branchard had been right-the Styast was a wreck. The plates were worn, the hull leaked air, the control room a mass of patched and antiquated equipment, the engine room a disgrace.

But it was a ship in space and would have to serve.

Alone in his cabin Dumarest studied a scrap of paper on which were written the spacial coordinates of Tynar. Others were beneath them, the course they were now following, figures chosen by throwing dice. He threw them again, noting their value, using the figures shown to write a new set of figures.

A random selection impossible to predict. A means to send the Styast to a point the Cyclan could never anticipate.

He would throw again and then send the vessel to the nearest, busy world. A place from which he would move on to hide among the stars.

To hide and to continue his endless search.

Outside the cabin the ship was still. In the engine room Beint, the engineer, would be busy with his wine, slumped before his panel; the withered hand resting on the console beneath the flickering dials and flashing signal lamps.

Arbush was in the salon, an immobile figure frozen over his gilyre. Eglantine was asleep, a gross mound on his bunk; unaware of the cautiously opened door, its gentle closing. Shalout was in the steward's quarters, standing like a statue before the medical cabinet, vials before him, a hypogun in his hand. Like the minstrel he was immobile, caught in the magic of quick-time; his metabolism slowed to a fraction of normal so that, to him, an hour seemed but seconds.

A good time to do what had to be done.

In the control room Dumarest looked around. Beneath the screens bright with clustered stars the instruments clicked and whispered, as they guided the vessel through space. Touching the metal he could feel the faint but unmistakable vibration of the drive, the Erhaft field which drove them at a velocity against which the speed of light was a crawl.

The supra radio was where he had expected it to be.

He stooped, fingers turning the clamps, drawing out the instrument to expose the inner circuitry. A tug and a component was free. Another and the instrument was ruined unless there were replacement parts, and the possibility of that, on the Styast, was remote.

Back in the corridor Dumarest took a hypogun from his pocket, checked the loading and lifting it, aimed it at his throat. A touch of the trigger and quick-time was blasted through skin, fat and tissue into his blood. The lights dimmed a little and small noises became apparent. The thin, high sound of a plucked string, discordant, shrill. A clinking, the sound of indrawn breath.

Shalout busy with his medications.

He turned as Dumarest approached, sweeping a litter of vials back into their boxes, slamming the door of the cabinet as if ashamed at having been seen. The acrid odor he carried was accentuated by another, sharp, sweet; the stench of drugs to combat his infection, a fungoid growth picked up on some too-alien world.

He pursed his lips at the figures Dumarest gave him.

"Are you serious? Do you realize just where these coordinates will take us?"

"Just set course so as to arrive at that point."

"A long journey, Earl. Too long for the Styast to make. We haven't the supplies, even if the vessel would stand it. The captain-"

"Just do as I say, interrupted Dumarest. "I may give you another set of coordinates later."

Shalout said, shrewdly, "You are taking a random path, is that it? Are you afraid that someone could be following us? If they are, we won't be able to shake them."

"But you can tell if they are there."

"True," admitted the navigator. "The scanners would pick up the emissions of their drive. But they could have more efficient detectors than we carry." For a moment he stood, frowning, then shrugged. "Why do I concern myself? You have chartered the ship and have the right to dictate where it is to go. But if I could have a hint, a clue; I could, perhaps, shorten the journey."

Dumarest said, softly, "Do you know the way to Bonanza? To Earth?"

"Earth?" The navigator frowned. "Why should a planet be called that? Earth is dirt, ground, loam. All worlds have earth." Then his face cleared and, smiling, he said, "You have been listening to Arbush. His greeting song, as he calls it. A plethora of exotic names and hinted mysteries. Once, I believe, he worked on a tourist vessel and old habits die hard. Bear with him long enough and you will be tempted to follow him into a region of dreams. Nonsense, of course, but it beguiles the time."

"And Earth?"

"Does not exist. A myth which has risen from who can guess what reasons? The desire for a paradise, perhaps; a longing for a world in which there is no pain, no suffering, where all things are possible and all men are heroes. Another legendary world to add to the rest. You mentioned one, Bonanza. There are others, all equally legendary. None has substance."

Dumarest knew better, but he didn't press the matter. It was just another hope lost; another dead-end to add to the others.

He said, "The coordinates?"

"Our course is to be changed." Shalout looked again at the figures. The drugs he had taken had cleared his eyes a little from their rheum, had given him a false buoyancy. "What would we find if we followed these figures to the end?" he mused. "Would any of us be alive at the end of the journey? Would we find a world in which thoughts became things and a dream became reality? Is there such a world? Or would we find ourselves in a region torn and blasted by opposing forces, our generators ruined, the hull burst open, ourselves turned into radiant energy? Beings still aware, but freed of the confines of the flesh? An enticing concept, my friend, as I think you will agree."

The more so for a man dying of a foul disease, living on the euphoria of drugs, the charity of a captain.

Dumarest said, patiently, "The coordinates."

"Of course. I have ridden too long with the minstrel. His romancing has affected me; at times I even find myself using his words. Once, on Zendhal I-but never mind. A man should not dwell in the past. Yet it is true that Arbush seems to have a wealth of odd scraps of information."

"Of Earth, perhaps?"

Shalout shrugged. "That you must ask him."

* * * * *

He sat where Dumarest had last seen him, crouched over the table in the salon, busy with his gilyre. Frowning he tuned the strings, listened, tuned them again, plucked a rill of chords and impatiently pushed the instrument away.

"Useless," he said as Dumarest joined him. "The notes are too shrill, too high. Quick-time has its blessing, but the enjoyment of music is not one of them. You wish to play?"

"Later."

"Your fortune, then."

"It has been told before."

"But not by me." Arbush reached out and took Dumarest's right hand, turning it so as to study the palm. For a long moment he concentrated, the fingertip of his free hand tracing the lines, their conjunctions. "Were you a woman I would use flattery and the older you were, the more I would use. Promises of loves to come and riches to be gained. Good health and stirring adventures of the heart. Instead I-"

He broke off, leaning closer, a subtle change coming over him so that the mask of banter turned into a thing more serious.

"You have killed, Earl, often; that I can see. There is much blood on your hands. Blood and sadness and great loss. An unhappy childhood, a lonely time; and there are long journeys made under the shadow of extinction."

Traveling Low, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead, lying in caskets meant for the transportation of beasts; risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap transportation.

The converse of High, in which the use of quick-time eased the tedium of the longest journey.

Dumarest said, dryly, "Now tell me something I do not already know."

"The future?" Arbush glanced up, his eyes intent. "There is danger, that is plain. Relentless enemies and- other things."

"Such as?"

"Death. With you it is very close. A familiar companion. And luck, more than your share. I think it would be wise to reconsider my invitation to play."

"Then let us talk." Dumarest pulled his hand free from the other's grip. "Tell me what you know of the Original People."

A veil fell across Arbush's eyes. "I do not understand."

"You mentioned them. The men of old who left the planet of their birth. You want the pure source?" Dumarest's voice deepened to hold the rolling echoes of drums. "From terror they fled, to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

"An intriguing concept, Earl, but obviously a barren one. How could all the peoples of the galaxy ever have lived on one world? Think of the numbers, the differences, it doesn't make sense."

"A world can be populated by a handful of settlers," reminded Dumarest. "And mutations could have caused the changes."

"True, but-"

"Terra," said Dumarest softly. "Another name for Earth. Tell me about Earth."

"A legendary world."

"So Shalout told me. I think you know better. How did you learn of the name? Why make a point of mentioning it?"

"For effect." Arbush leaned back, his eyes clear, calm in his composure. "The fabric of a song, no more. A device to titillate the sense of adventure. I picked up the name- somewhere, I forget just where. The fragment of legend also. Perhaps at a lecture I attended when young. Something overheard from a private conversation. Sit in any tavern and your ears will be assailed with rumors." He reached for a deck of cards. "Shall we play?"

"Later."

"I have disappointed you, but that cannot be helped. Ask what I know and the answers are yours. How Beint hurt his arm, for example. You have seen the engineer's hand. He was careless one night and was attacked in a dark alley by someone who carried a poisoned blade. The nerves are gone."

"The damage could be repaired."

"True, a regrowth, obtained on any decent world-with money, Earl. Beint does not have the money." Arbush turned over a card, the jester. Quietly he added, "He would do a lot to get it."

"And Shalout?"

"Beyond hope by now. The fungoid is eating itself into his brain. But he could spend what remains of his life in luxury-if he had the money."

"And you!"

Arbush turned over another card, the lady. He followed it with the lord. "Men, women and fools," he murmured. "And which one is you? Not the woman and not, I think, the fool." Riffling the deck he said, blandly, "Shall we play?"

* * * * *

The cabin had a door which didn't fit; a lock which now, for some reason, failed to work. The ventilator carried sounds of metallic impact, an off-center fan or one with a broken blade; sound enough to disguise the whisper of voices. Dumarest listened, then jumped down from the bunk to the floor. On the cot lay the hypogun he had already used; his system normal, the effects of quick-time neutralised.

When they made their move, he would be ready for them.

And the move would be made, the message had been plain. Arbush, for reasons of his own had betrayed the captain, reenforcing Dumarest's own suspicions. A wreck of a ship, a man who obviously wanted to hide, the hints they could have picked up on Tynar-the Styast had become a trap.

A trap which was about to close.

Dumarest heard the scuff of boots in the passage, a sudden sonorous chord, a muffled curse in Eglantine's voice.

"Tell that damned minstrel to be quiet!"

An order to Shalout, perhaps, but Beint would be the better choice. Hampered by his withered hand, he would be of less use in a struggle. Not that Eglantine expected one; as far as he knew Dumarest was locked in quick-time, a helpless prey.

In which case, why move now?

The radio, he decided. Eglantine had tried to use it and found it ruined. It would stay ruined, the components had been destroyed; no word could be sent ahead as to his coming.

Dumarest eased open the door.

Outside the passage was empty. If Beint had gone to join Arbush in the salon, then Shalout must be towards the right at the end of the passage leading towards the engine room. And Eglantine?

He caught the scrape of movement, the shift of air; he spun, one hand dropping towards the knife in his boot, the hand freezing as he saw the captain, the laser he held in one pudgy hand.

"Hold! Move and I fire!"

The gun was steady, the muzzle aimed low to sear legs and groin, the knuckle white over the trigger. A fraction more pressure and it would vent its searing beam; energy to burn clothes, skin, muscle and bone. To cripple if it did not kill.

Dumarest said, blankly, "Captain! Is there something wrong?"

"Shalout! To me!"

The knuckle had eased a little, no longer white; the captain more certain of his command of the situation. He stood in a cabin, the door barely open; the gap just wide enough to show his face, the weapon he held. As the navigator came running down the passage from the engine room Eglantine said, sharply, "That's close enough. Watch him. Burn his legs if he tries anything."

Shalout, like the captain, held a laser. He halted, twenty feet from Dumarest.

He said, puzzled, "He's riding Middle like the rest of us."

"Yes." Eglantine opened the door wide and stepped into the passage. "Proof of what I suspected, if I needed proof at all. Why should an honest man suffer the tedium of a journey when there is no need?"

Dumarest said, "Your drugs are old, Captain. They lack effectiveness. I woke and was riding Middle. I was about to obtain more quick-time from the cabinet. Now, perhaps, you will tell me what is wrong."

"The radio is ruined. You must have done it. Where are the components?"

"You need guns to ask me that?"

"They could be in his cabin," said Shalout. "Shall I search?"

For a moment Eglantine hesitated, then shook his head. He had the advantage and wanted to retain it. With the navigator in the cabin he would be left alone with Dumarest. "No. He will tell us where they are." The laser moved a little, menacing. "You will tell us."

Dumarest said, "Here?"

The passage was narrow, with an armed man at front and rear; he would be caught in the cross fire if he tried to attack. In the salon, perhaps, he would stand a better chance, even with Beint present. Arbush would, he hoped, be neutral if not an ally.

As if the man had caught his thoughts the sudden thrum of a gilyre rose from the compartment to send echoes along the passage; a stirring, demanding sound, hard, imperious.

A voice rode with it, bland, more than a little mocking.

"Are we to be left alone, my friend? Were you sent here to keep us out of the way? Does the Styast now carry two crews, when it used to carry one? Are secret deals being made and fortunes promised? If the trap has been sprung, where is the victim?"

Eglantine shouted, "Arbush! Shut your mouth!"

As the gilyre fell silent, Beint loomed at the end of the passage.

"So you've got him," he rumbled. "Good. Bring him in here so we all can listen to what he has to say."

He backed as they passed, his withered left hand rucked into his belt, his right holding a short club of some heavy wood. It made little slapping sounds as he struck it against his thigh. Arbush sat on the table, the gilyre on his lap, blunt fingers idly stroking the strings; tapping the wood so as to produce a soft thrumming interspersed with the whisper of simulated drums.

He said, "Captain, you could be making a mistake."

"No mistake." snapped Eglantine. "The radio proves that. Why should a man want to ruin the instrument?"

"Why did you want to use it?" Dumarest looked at the round face, the splintered glass of the eyes. "What need did you have for it? And why was I not told? Do you forget that I chartered this ship?"

"I am the captain!"

"And a thief. You took my money and reneged on the deal. Why?"

Eglantine shrugged. He was more relaxed now, the laser hanging loose in his hand, confident of his mastery.

"A man wanting to charter a ship for a single passage. A man without cargo who is willing to pay highly for the privilege. You could have bought High passage on a score of ships for what you paid. And then your demand we follow a random course. I asked myself why? Are you interested in the answer?"

"Tell me."

Let the man talk; while he did so he would relax even more. And his words would hold the attention of the others, reassuring them of their anticipated wealth. And, while he talked, it was possible to plan.

Dumarest moved a little, so as to rest the weight of his hip against the table. Shalout would have to be saved, his skill would be needed. Beint also; the engines needed constant attention if they were not to drop from phase. Arbush was an unknown factor; as yet he had shown himself to be a friend, but it would be a mistake to rely on him and he was expendable.

As was Eglantine.

Any ship was lost without its captain, but emergencies happened and Eglantine was a poor specimen of his kind. The condition of the Styast proved that. Without him it would be possible to reach their destination, and all navigators held a basic skill. Shalout could do what had to be done if Eglantine were to die.

And the man had to die.

Dumarest altered his position a little more as the captain talked, proud of himself, his conclusions.

"Ten thousand ermils," he said. "A healthy sum, but a man worth that could be worth much more. And a man does not run without cause. Then I remembered things I had heard on Tynan. A reward offered-need I say more?"

Dumarest said, "Why not? Are you afraid the others will know as much as you?"

"We share! It is agreed!"

"Share-how much? The little you choose to give them?" Dumarest shrugged, casual as he shifted position once more; edging along the table so as to narrow the distance between himself and the captain. "Or perhaps they trust you. Rely on your word-as I did!"

"You-?"

Dumarest moved, muscles exploding in a burst of controlled energy; the knife lifting from his boot as he neared the captain, thrusting as the gun lifted, catching the laser in his left hand to turn as the dead man fell, the hilt of the knife prominent over his heart.

"Drop the gun! The club! Do it!"

He fired as they hesitated, wood smoking, the club falling as Beint snatched away his hand.

"Shalout! Don't, you fool!"

The navigator dropped his gun at Arbush's shout. He looked dazed, numbed; eyes wide as he looked at the dead captain, the pool of blood in which he lay.

"Fast!" said the minstrel. He had not moved from where he sat. "I've never seen a man move so fast. Once you had the gun, you could have killed us all. Why didn't you?"

"I need you," said Dumarest harshly. "Beint, get to the engines. Shalout, you-"

He broke off as the lights quivered. A shrill hum came from the bulkheads; a thin sound, rising, penetrating, hurting the ears. Abruptly the ship seemed to twist in on itself; the edges of the compartment turning into curves, the bulkheads into corrugations.

"Dear God!" screamed Shalout. "We're in a warp!"