Lallia

I

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 in shy;vite suspicion with the resultant interrogation and intermi shy;nable delay. He regained his position before the mural as of shy;ficers 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 some shy;one?"

"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 pas shy;sage."

"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 identifica shy;tion.

"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 radio shy;active dating."

"Specialized work," said Dumarest. "It's a pretty impor shy;tant 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 hop shy;ing." 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 El shy;gart. 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. Ber shy;nard Sheyan was small. A ruff of white hair showed be shy;neath 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.

"You wanted to see me," he snapped curtly. For such a small man his voice was startlingly deep. "Why?"

"I want a job."

"Forget it. I've a full complement."

"No," said Dumarest flatly. "You haven't. You're short a handler. A bit of Elgart's past caught up with him and he's dead."

Sheyan narrowed his eyes. "This past you're talking about," he said softly. "You?"

"No. I just saw it happen. My guess is that Elgart was rotten. That he got his lacks from letting those riding Low wake without the benefit of drugs. One of them finally caught up with him." Dumarest's eyes were bleak. "If I'm right, he asked for all he got. The only thing is that he got it too easily. A man like that should be given a double dose of his own medicine."

To wake, rising through layers of ebon chill to light and the stimulating warmth of the eddy currents. . the scream shy;ing agony of returning circulation without the aid of drugs to numb the pain so that throat and lungs grew raw with the violence of shrieking torment.

Sheyan said quietly, "You've traveled Low?"

"Yes."

"Often?"

Dumarest nodded, thinking of a skein of barely remem shy;bered journeys when he'd traveled doped and frozen and 90 percent dead. Riding in the bleak cold section in caskets meant for the transport of livestock, risking the 15 percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Risking, too, the possibility of a sadistic handler who reveled in the sight and sound of anguish.

"So Elgart's dead," mused Sheyan. "You could be right in what you assume, but he didn't play his tricks with me. Even so, he came from one of the big ships and a man doesn't do that without reason. You want his job?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I want to leave Aarn," said Dumarest. "Working a pas shy;sage is better than traveling Low."

Anything, thought Sheyan, was better than traveling Low; but Aarn was a busy world and a hard worker would have little trouble in gaining the cost of a High passage.

He leaned further back in his chair, shrewd eyes study shy;ing the figure standing before him. The man was honest, that he liked, and he was an opportunist-few would have acted so quickly to fill a dead man's shoes. He looked at the cloth shy;ing, at the spot above the right boot where the plastic caught the light with an extra gleam. The hilt of a blade would have caused such a burnishing and it was almost certain that the knife was now tucked safely out of sight beneath the tunic.

His eyes lifted higher, lingering on the hard planes and hollows of the face, the tight, almost cruel set of the mouth. It was the face of a man who had early learned to live without the protection of house, guild, or combine. The face of a loner, of a man, perhaps, who had good reason for wanting a quick passage away from the planet. But that was not his concern.

"You have had experience?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I've worked on ships before."

Sheyan smiled. "That is probably a lie," he said mildly. "Those who ride Middle rarely do anything else. But could you perform a handler's duties?"

"It was no lie," said Dumarest. "And the answer is yes."

Abruptly Sheyan made his decision. "This is a rough ship. A small ship. Snatching the trade others manage without. Short journeys, mostly, planet hopping with freight and such, heavy loads and hard work. You'll be paid like the rest of us, with a share of the profit. Sometimes we make a pile, but mostly we break even. At times we carry passengers who like to gamble. If you accommodate them I get a half of the profit."

"And if I lose?"

"If you can't win then don't play." Sheyan leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. "Work hard, be willing, and cause no trouble. That way we'll get along. Questions?"

"When do we leave?"

"Soon. You'll find a uniform in Elgart's cabin." The captain looked curiously at his new handler. "Aren't you interested as to where we are bound?"

"I'll find out," said Dumarest, "when we get there."

The steward guided him to the cabin. He was young, recent to space with a voice which had barely broken, but already his eyes held a flowering hardness.

"Elgart was a pig," he said as he led the way from the captain's office. "Mean and close and hard to get along with. I'm glad he's dead."

Dumarest made no comment. Instead he looked at the walls and ceiling of the passage down which they passed. The plastic carried a thin patina of grime and was marked with a mesh of scratches. The floor was heavily scuffed, un shy;even in places, and showing signs of wear and neglect.

"My name is Linardo del Froshure del Brachontari del Hershray Klarge," said the steward as they reached the cabin door. "But everyone calls me Lin. Will it be all right for me to call you Earl?"

"I've no objection." Dumarest pushed open the door of the cabin and passed inside. It was as he'd expected: a bare room fitted with a bunk, a chair, a small table. Cabinets filled one wall; the others bore lurid photographs of naked women. A scrap of carpet, frayed, covered the floor, and a player stood on the table. He switched it on and the thin, piping strains of cazendal music filled the air.

"Elgart was a funny one," commented Lin. "That music and this other stuff." His eyes moved to the photographs. "A real weird."

Dumarest switched off the player. "How many in the crew?"

"Five. You've met the captain. Nimino's the navigator and Claude's the engineer. Both are out on business, but you'll meet them later. Nimino's another weird and Claude likes the bottle." The steward's eyes dropped to Dumarest's left hand, to the ring on his third finger. "Say, that's quite a thing you've got there."

"The ring?" Dumarest glanced at it, the flat, red stone set in the heavy band. "It was a gift from a friend."

"Some friend!" Lin was envious. "I wish I had friends like that. You're wearing the cost of a double High passage at least." He leaned forward so as to study the ring more closely. "My uncle's a lapidary," he explained. "He taught me something about gems. That was before my old man got himself killed and I had to earn a living. I think he wanted me to join him in the business, but what the hell! Who wants to spend their lives stuck in a shop? My chance came and I grabbed it while it was going. Another few years and I'll become an officer. Then for the big ships and the wide-open life."

"Is that what you want?"

"Sure. What could be better?"

It was the defiance of youth, but Dumarest knew what the youngster didn't. The wide-open life he dreamed of was nothing but an endless journeying between the stars, con shy;stantly bounded by the monotony of imprisoning walls. The years slipping past broken only by planetfalls and brief dis shy;sipation. Those who rode Middle lived lives of incredible restriction despite the journeys they made. Too often they found refuge in strange diversions and perverted pleasures.

"So you haven't been very long on the Moray?"

"No," Lin admitted. "But it's the best kind of life a man could have. Moving, traveling, seeing new things all the time. Always gambling that the cargo you're carrying will be the one to hit the jackpot. At least," he amended, "it is in the Web."

"Is that where you're from?"

"Sure. Laconis. You've heard of it?"

"No," said Dumarest. He looked thoughtfully at the stew shy;ard. The boy was eager to enhance his stature by imparting information. It would do no harm to encourage him and perhaps do some good. "Tell me about it."

Lin shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. It's just a place. Some agriculture, a little industry, some trading. Mostly we mine the ridges for rare metals and gems, but that's for prospectors, mostly. The yield is too low for a big operation. There's some fishing, but nothing special. It's just a place like most of the Web worlds. You'll see."

Dumarest frowned. "Is that where we're bound? The Web?"

"Didn't you know?"

"It's a long way from here. What's the Moray doing on Aarn if it's a Web trader?"

The engines went on the blink." Lin was casual. "The old man managed to get a cargo and decided to have a refit. The stuff barely paid for the energy to haul it, but at least we got here for free. And you don't get Erhaft genera shy;tors as cheap as you can get them on Aarn."

"New generators?"

"Hell, no!" Lin was disgusted. "We could have got those in the Web. Reconditioned-but they'll do the job. Claude checked them out and he's satisfied. After all, it's his neck too."

"Yes," said Dumarest dryly. "Let's hope that he remem shy;bered that."

"Meaning?"

The boy was star-struck, despite his superficial hardness. His head was filled with dreams and he was unable to recog shy;nize unpalatable truths. He would learn fast-if he did not die before the opportunity to learn presented itself. Duma-rest was harsh as he looked at the steward.

"Meaning that he may not intend to rejoin the ship. That he could have been drunk at a critical time or, if not drunk, had his mind on a bottle instead of the job at hand. Damn it, boy, grow up! The universe isn't a place of heroes! Men are what they are and no one is perfect."

"Claude wouldn't do a thing like that." Lin's eyes be shy;trayed his uncertainty. "He likes to drink, sure, but where's the harm in that? And he teaches me things. Anyway," he added triumphantly, "the old man wouldn't stick his neck out like that. There's nothing wrong with those generators. There can't be."

"Then where's the engineer?"

"I told you. He's out looking for business with Nimino."

"That's right," agreed Dumarest. "A weird out with a drunk. A happy combination. This trip should show us a lot of profit." He stressed the plural so as to let the boy know that he considered himself a part of the crew and, as such, had a right to be critical. "Do you think they'll find any?"

"I don't know," admitted the steward. "I doubt if Nimino will bother much. He's probably spending his time at some revival or other. He's religious," he explained. "I don't mean that he's a member of the Universal Church. He's that and a lot more. He dabbles in every cult going. Transmigration, Reincarnation, Starcom, Extravitalis, Satanism, Planarism, Amorphism-you name it and he's interested. His cabin's full of charms and fetishes, idols and symbols, sympathetic rela shy;tionship mandalas and inspired pictographs. When I said he was a weird that's what I meant."

"And Claude?"

"If there's a load to be found in a tavern then he'll find it," said the steward. "He got us a few crates of machine patterns-you'll have to check the temperature of those- strain-impressed molecular structure designs in a protoplas shy;mic gel. And he managed to pick up some new sonic drill recordings."

"Speculative buying," said Dumarest. "Just the sort of thing a drunk would find himself landed with. Anything concrete in the nature of paying freight?"

"Not as yet," said Lin reluctantly. "But don't get the wrong impression about Claude. He may appear to buy wild, but the things he gets have value in the Web. Ships aren't frequent out there, don't forget, and we call at a lot of minor worlds. I've known us to make a 1,000 percent profit on stuff you wouldn't look at twice on a planet like Aarn."

"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll take your word for it."

"They're good," insisted the boy. "Odd, maybe, but good. You just don't know."

Dumarest smiled. "I'm a little edgy and maybe too criti shy;cal. You know them better than I do. How long before we leave?"

The steward glanced at his wrist. "A couple of hours. Nimino will be back a good hour before then. Like to make a little bet?"

"Such as?"

"Even money that Claude doesn't come back empty-handed. Five stergols. Is it a bet?"

"It's a bet." Dumarest looked around the cabin. "Now, maybe, you'd better leave me to check my gear."

Alone, he tore the photographs from the walls, frowning at the lighter patches they left behind. A cabinet held a uniform and a suit of rough, protective clothing such as was worn by field loaders. Both were in stretch material, neither were as clean as they could have been. The uniform cap was battered, the visor cracked, and the sweatband stained and thick with grease. The late handler had not been a finicky man.

Other cabinets showed a pile of books in plain covers.

Dumarest flipped one open and listened to the soft ob shy;scenities whispering from the illustrated pages. Both voice and moving illustrations died as he closed the book and reached for another. They were all of the same type. A stack of recordings held cazenda music. A three-dimensional jig shy;saw lay in scattered pieces beside a chessboard and men. The pieces were of lambent crystal, intricately carved and of obvious worth. The board was an electronic instrument for the replaying of recorded games. A box held a few items of personal significance: a ring, a locket containing a curl of hair, a certificate issued by the medical council of Octarge, a pair of dice fashioned from animal bone, scraps and frag shy;ments of a man's entire life.

Dumarest looked further. A small compartment held a hypogun-the butt worn and the instrument almost cer shy;tainly poorly calibrated. Boxes held ampules of drugs which could be blasted by air pressure through clothing, skin, and fat directly into the bloodstream; quicktime, slowtime, anti shy;biotics, compounds for the relief of pain, the bringing of sleep, and the ease of tension. A shabby case held gleaming surgical instruments, and a thick book was an illustrated medical manual. Obviously, on this vessel, the handler was expected to double as physician.

Taking a handful of disposable tissues, Dumarest soaked them with sterilizing solution and swabbed the neck, wrists, and crotch of the uniform and protective clothing. Taking fresh tissues he wiped the sweatband of the uniform cap until it was free of dirt and grease.

Satisfied, he stripped off his tunic. The light from the over shy;head glowtube shone on the hard whiteness of his skin, throwing thin lines of scar tissue into prominence over chest and arms. The hilt of a knife showed above the waistband of his pants, the nine-inch blade gleaming as he threw it beside the tunic on the bed. The pants followed, and he stood naked aside from snug shorts.

Dressed in the uniform, he took up his own things, folded them, and stuffed them into a cabinet. Carefully he adjusted the uniform cap until the cracked visor shielded his eyes and then, after a final inspection, left the cabin and made for the section of the ship which was his responsibility.

Like the cabin, it was as he'd expected. The banks of sterilizing ultraviolet lamps showed dark patches where units needed replacing. The caskets in which livestock were transported showed obvious signs of lengthy disuse, and several of the cargo restraints were inoperative. He paused beside the crates of machine patterns, checking the temperature against the thermostat setting. There was a three-degree difference on the wrong side and he changed the setting hoping that the cargo had not suffered damage.

Thoughtfully he made his way to the salon. Here the passengers, if any, would spend their recreational time- which meant all of it on short journeys-drawing their ra shy;tion of basic from a spigot on the wall. That, at least, was functioning as it should and he drew a cup of the thick mixture, sipping the warm compound of glucose, protein, and vitamins as he studied the furnishings.

"Pretty rough, aren't they?" Dumarest turned and looked at the man who had silently entered the salon. He was middle-aged, his face thin beneath his uniform cap, his eyes startlingly direct. The insignia on collar and breast was that of a navigator. "My name's Nimino." He held out his hand. "You're Earl Dumarest. The captain told me we had a new handler. Welcome aboard."

His handclasp was firm, the skin dry and febrile. "Well, what do you think of the Moray?"

She was a bad ship in bad condition. Five men were too few to crew such a vessel, small though she was. Main shy;tenance suffered and the outward dirt was a sure sign of inner neglect. Dumarest took another sip of basic and said, "I've seen ships in worse condition."

"In a scrapyard," agreed Nimino. "So have I. But as operating vessels in space?" He shrugged. "There could be worse tucked away in some forgotten corner of the galaxy, but I doubt it. Certainly there are none in the Web. Each time we commence a journey we take a gamble with death and our profit, if any, is earned with tears of blood."

"Then why stay with her?"

"Why not? If death is waiting to claim a man-what dif shy;ference where he may be? And then again, my friend, per shy;haps, like you, I have little choice." The navigator glanced at the cup in Dumarest's hand. "Hungry so soon?"

"No."

"The habit of a traveler then," said Nimino, smiling. "Eat while there is food available for you never can be certain as to when you may have the opportunity to eat again. If nothing else, Earl, it tells me what you are."

Dumarest finished the contents of the cup and dropped it into the receptacle provided. "And you?"

"I am a weird, didn't Lin tell you that? I believe that there is more to the scheme of things than a man can per shy;ceive with his limited senses. Electro-magnetic radiation for example. Can a man see infrared or ultraviolet? Tell the presence of radio waves, of magnetism, of the ebb and flow of the energies of space without mechanical aid? Of course not. And yet still men deny that there could be higher realms of existence than those we know. You are interested in such things?"

"No."

"Then you also think that I am a weird?"

"I don't give a damn what you are," said Dumarest blunt shy;ly. "Just as long as you're a good navigator."

Nimino laughed. "At least you are honest, my friend. Have no fear, I know my trade. And I know the Web, which is a thing few men can say without boasting. As long as the generators do not fail, I can take the Moray where we want her to go. Unless fate decides otherwise," he added. "Against fate what chance has limited man?"

"In my experience those who talk of fate usually do so to provide themselves an excuse for failure," said Dumarest. The banality of the conversation was beginning to annoy him. The navigator's place was on the bridge, for until he gave the word the ship could not leave. "And it is wrong to rely on superior powers. Even if they existed, it would be wrong. Wrong and foolish. I do not think you are a foolish man."

"And I do not think you are wholly what you seem." Nimino smiled again, his teeth flashing in the cavern of his mouth, startlingly white against the rich darkness of his skin. "Certainly you are not a common traveler, and few handlers trouble themselves with philosophical concepts. But enough of this wrangling. We are shipmates for good or ill and we both have our duties. Until later, my friend. I anticipate many pleasant hours."

Fifty-seven minutes later they left Aarn, rising on the magic of the Erhaft field from the ground, through the at shy;mosphere, and up into space where their sensors quested for target stars.

Twenty-six minutes after that, Dumarest paid five stergols to the steward.

Lin had won his bet. Claude had found them a passenger.