Lallia

III

Dumarest stood at the head of the loading ramp and looked over the landing field at Hendris. It was small and, aside from the Moray, deserted. An acre of gritty soil lacking the usual perimeter fence, the surface scarred and blotched with weed. To one side a huddle of shacks stood in the shadow of a gaunt warehouse, flimsy structures advertising their poverty. More substantial buildings rested further back in the town, a listless flag signaling the whereabouts of a tavern. Edging the field a squat tower held the administration of shy;fices, the flat roof surmounted by the elaborate antennae of a supraradio.

A flash of yellow moved from the building: Yalung, prob shy;ably on his way to search for precious gems. Thoughtfully

Dumarest looked at the sky. It was dark, almost indigo, the ball of the sun halfway towards the horizon. It was a dull, angry red, the wide corona limned with sooty markings, the surface writhing as it fed on the dust. From a few parsecs it would be invisible, all radiation absorbed by the cloud before it could escape from the Web.

"Hey there!"

Dumarest looked down. A field loader had come from behind the vessel riding an antigrav raft loaded high with crates. He stared upwards, squinting.

"You the handler?"

"That's right."

"What happened to Elgart? I thought he was Sheyan's man."

"He was."

"Like that, eh?" The field loader shrugged. "Well, it's none of my business. You ready to take delivery?"

"Just a minute." Dumarest walked down the ramp until he stood level with the man. "When did the last ship leave here?"

"Three days ago. Heading Inside."

"And before that?"

"Maybe two weeks. Heading Inside." The man grinned. "I know what you're after, a ship out. Well, mister, you're not the only one. Sam Glegan at the hotel is getting fat on traders waiting to be carried out of the Web. It's been two months since the last ship headed that way and it could be as long again until the next."

Dumarest frowned. "Where's the next terminal?"

"Thermyle? That's in the next system. You could pick up a ship bound for there in maybe a month or so. Maybe less. They don't run much to schedule. Why the interest? You thinking of quitting the Moray?"

"Forget it." Dumarest looked at the crates. "Are they for us?"

"That's right. And there's three times as much waiting to be hauled. Where do you want it?"

"In the hold."

"Open up the hull and I'll oblige," said the field loader. "Failing that I can't do more than dump it. My job is to deliver it to the ship. How you get it inside is your problem." He guided the raft to the foot of the ramp and released the grapnels. Bobbing, the vehicle rose, an open frame be shy;hind the driver's seat. "Right," he said. "It's all yours."

The crates contained agricultural implements: hoes, ax heads, saw blades, scythes, plowshares, and rakes, together with rods and ingots of native iron. Each crate was heavier than the weight of a man. Dumarest lifted one and let it fall with a crash on the foot of the ramp. On normal vessels the loading ramp would have been powered, hooks and rollers carrying the cargo up to the hold where it could be stacked. On the Moray the power attachment refused to work.

The field loader delivered the second heap of crates as Dumarest walked from the vessel. He paused at the edge of the field looking to either side. Usually there would have been men looking for either work or passage but Hendris was a casual world and to wait for a ship was to starve. The edge of the field was deserted and Dumarest walked on to where the drooping flag hung over the tavern.

"Earl!" Claude shouted an invitation as he entered the long, bleak room. "Come and join me!"

The engineer sat slumped at one end of the bar, his broad, mottled face streaming with perspiration. One big hand was clamped around a tankard of fused sand. At his side Lin hovered, an attendant shadow. A straggle of men filled the rest of the place, most of them standing close to where Claude was sitting.

"Earl!" he shouted again. "Come and join me and my friends." His free hand thudded on the bar. "A drink for the handler!"

Dumarest ignored the foaming tankard the bartender slapped down before him. He said, "Claude, I want you back at the ship. The loading ramp isn't working."

"Why tell me?" The engineer emptied his tankard and reached for the one served to Dumarest. "The cargo's your job."

"And the ramp is yours. I'm not going to sweat because a fat, drunken slob is too lazy to do his work. Now get on your feet and get to it!"

Claude slowly rose from his stool, one big hand clenching the tankard. Thickly he said, "What did you call me?"

"A fat, drunken slob," said Lin. "I heard him."

"You stay out of this!" Dumarest didn't look at the stew shy;ard. Around him he heard the scuff of boots as men re shy;treated.

"A fat, drunken slob," said Claude softly. "A fat-"

His bulk belied his speed. He turned, his arm a blur as he smashed the edge of the tankard down on the counter, rising with a circle of jagged shards, thrusting them vicious shy;ly at Dumarest's face. Dumarest lifted his left hand, his palm smacking against the wrist, gripping, holding it firm- the broken tankard inches from his eyes. He could see the savage points, the little flecks of brightness in the fused sand, and thought of what the improvised weapon could do, what one similar to it had done on Aarn.

He twisted and, as the shattered tankard dropped to the floor, balled his right fist and struck at Claude's jaw.

"All right," he said to Lin as the engineer fell. "When he wakes up get him back to the ship." To the others stand shy;ing around he said, "You've helped him to drink his pay, now you can help him to do his work. I want six men to load the Moray. You six. Let's get on with it."

Nimino entered the hold as Dumarest was securing the last of the cargo. He stood by the open port, his slim figure silhouetted against the angry ball of the sun, the darkness of his skin merging with the darkness of shadow. Teeth and eyes caught reflected light and made touches of transient brilliance, fading gleams accentuated by the movements of his hand, the polish of his nails.

"I hear that you've been having a little trouble, Earl."

Dumarest lifted a crate and swung it into position. "Noth shy;ing that I would call trouble."

"No? Lin tells it differently. He is entranced by the man shy;ner in which you co-opted labor to move the cargo. And he is bemused by the speed of your movements. The way in which you caught Claude's wrist. To hear him relate the story is to believe that you moved far more quickly than is considered possible."

"Lin is young," said Dumarest.

"And the young tend to exaggerate." Nimino moved a lit shy;tle, resting his shoulder on the edge of the open port. "True, but the facts remain. Have you ever undergone specialized training? I ask because the school of Jengha Dal teaches a system by which the reflexes can be accelerated. Do you know of it?"

"No."

"Perhaps your formative years were spent on a world of excessive gravity," mused the navigator. "But no, your phys shy;ical development contradicts that supposition. As your strength contradicts the assumption that you are a common traveler who chooses to work a passage from fear of riding Low."

Dumarest stacked the final crate and turned to look at the navigator. "Did I say that?"

"Sheyan assumed it; but, of course, he was wrong. Those who travel Low have little body fat and less strength. The caskets enfeeble them. You are far from feeble."

"And you are too curious," said Dumarest flatly.

"Perhaps, my friend, but it is said that the path to knowledge lies through the asking of many questions. For example, I ask myself why a man such as you should have been in such a hurry to leave Aarn. For fear of a man? A woman? I think not and yet you chose to leave on a ship like this. Perhaps Fate was pressing at your heels, in which case a man has no choice. But, again, why on a ship like this? Your experience must have told you what the Moray is. A scavenger sweeping between close-set stars. Lin joined us, true, but he knew no better. Claude had no choice and Sheyan is snared in an economic trap."

"And you?"

Nimino shrugged. "An astrologer predicted that I should find great knowledge in a cloud of dust. The Web is such a cloud."

"And the knowledge?"

"Is still to come."

Some knowledge, perhaps, but the navigator would be learned in the ways of trading. And perhaps more. He could easily be a sensitive, a clairvoyant able to peer into the fu shy;ture, or a telepath with the skill of reading minds; or per shy;haps he could sense impending danger as an animal would sense.the approach of a hunter. Or he could simply be highly curious and inordinately suspicious.

"It will come," said Dumarest. "When the time is ripe. Until then it could be a good idea to concentrate on your books."

"You dislike my curiosity?"

"I dislike anything which seems to have no purpose," said Dumarest. "And I cannot understand why you should be interested in me."

"In the Web a man needs to know with whom he travels," said Nimino quietly. "A little you have shown of yourself. Not much, but a little. For example I now know that you are not easily cowed. That you are accustomed to violence. That your reflexes are amazingly fast and that you are looking for something. A planet named Earth. Well, wherever it is you will not find it in the Web. I would venture to guess that, by mischance or the workings of fate, you have found yourself in a blind alley. The Moray is not an easy ship to leave."

Not easy but neither was it hard; Dumarest could walk off now, but what then? Weeks and perhaps months of waiting stuck on this barely colonized world, exposed to anyone who wanted to find him, vulnerable if they should. He shrugged, trying to throw off the feeling which had fol shy;lowed him from world to world and was with him still. The sense that someone was at his back, watching, waiting to pounce. And it was not wholly a thing of imagination.

The dead man Yalung had spoken about. He had been a thief and Dumarest had stunned and tied him fast. Later he had found him dead and had gone immediately to the field. Luck had seemed to favor him when the handler had been murdered in the tavern but now he wasn't so sure.

Luck-or design?

And, if the latter, why?

"You are thinking, Earl," said Nimino breaking the shy silence. "What about? The cargo?"

Dumarest was willing to change the subject. "It's heavy."

"And valuable, despite what you are probably thinking. We traded the machine patterns for it and the buyer must have been satisfied to have delivered the goods so promptly." The navigator stepped deeper into the hold and kicked one of the crates. "Iron," he said. "Many of the inner worlds lack heavy metals and some of them need the oxide in order to provide trace-elements in the soil. We shall turn this load with profit. They are poor worlds, Earl. Starvation planets for the most part, colonized by mischance rather than intent. Surely you have come across such worlds before?"

Backward planets at the end of the line. Dead worlds without industry or work for transients, making it impossible for them to gather the cost of a Low passage.

"I've seen a few," said Dumarest. "They are bad places for a traveler to find."

"No world is a good one on which to be stranded," agreed Nimino. "You must tell me about them some day. In return I will tell you of Clothon, of Landkis and Brame. Sacred places all. Planets which have known the tread of those closer to the Ultimate than we. Holy places."

"Each world is a holy place," said Dumarest quietly. To those who believe it so."

"And Earth? Is that mysterious world such a place?"

"Perhaps." Dumarest looked past the navigator to where two figures approached the ship from across the field. "The captain and our passenger. When do we leave?"

"Before sunset."

"To where?"

Nimino's laugh was mocking. "Does it matter, my friend? To us, all worlds are much the same: places to reach and leave with the minimum of delay. But, if you are interested, we head for Argonilla."

They were five hours on their way when the engineer sent for Dumarest. He looked up from where he sat at his console, the winking lights of monitoring instruments throw shy;ing patches of transient color across his mottled face. On one side of his jaw a purple bruise spread high up his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Earl," he said. "I was drunk and didn't know what I was doing. You've got to believe that."

"All right," said Dumarest. "You were drunk. I believe you. Is that what you want?"

"I want you to understand. I felt sick when Lin told me what I'd tried to do. I mean that, Earl."

"Sure you do-until the next time." Dumarest stared down at the engineer, remembering the shattered tumbler, the stabbing points. "But if it happens again I'll kill you."

"You mean it," said Claude. "And I don't blame you. But it was the drink, not me." He blinked at the winking lights, touches of gaudy brightness illuminating his eyes. "It gets into me sometimes. The drink, I mean. It turns sour and then it's a sort of devil that's got to break loose. Anything can do it. One minute I'll be laughing and then, just like that, I'll be in a killing rage. That's why I'm not on the big ships," he confessed. "I was drinking on duty, the chief bawled me out and I smashed him up with a wrench. I didn't kill him but he was pretty bad. They gave me fifty lashes and threw me out. They marked my papers, too, and you can't get a berth on a decent vessel without them. Not on any ship as an engineer. Sheyan didn't seem to mind-with the little I get from my share he had no choice." He stood up from the console and held out his hand. "Can we forget it, Earl?"

The Moray was too small a vessel to harbor bad feelings.

Slowly Dumarest took the proffered hand. "All right," he said. "But remember what I told you."

"I'll remember." Claude winced as he touched his cheek. "I've got reason not to forget. You damn near broke my jaw."

"It hurts?"

"Like hell. Can you give me anything for it?"

"Sure," said Dumarest. "Can you come to my cabin?"

Claude glanced at his instruments. "Not just yet. Give it to Lin to bring down. I want him to see the board when we reach supraspeed. The more experience he gets the bet shy;ter."

Dumarest found the steward in his cabin reading a worn copy of an engine manual and handed him the hypogun.

"This is for Claude," he said. "Take it down to him right away and give him one shot just over the bruise. Aim the nozzle within three inches and pull the trigger. Make certain you don't hit the eyes. Understand?"

Lin nodded, dropping the book as he rose. He stooped, picked it up, and carefully placed it on his bunk. "You and Claude all right now, Earl?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad. He's a good man, stupid when he hits the bottle but nice in a lot of other ways. Did I tell you he was teaching me how to be an engineer?"

"You did-and you'd better get that dope to him fast. We're close to supraspeed. Bring the hypogun back to me afterwards."

Dumarest was in his cabin when the steward returned. He sat on the edge of his bunk, a deck of cards in his hands, the cards intermeshing with a dry rustle as he manipulated the pack. Lin watched with interest; then, as he replaced the hypogun in its cabinet, said, "Why won't you let me join the game, Earl?"

"I told you: you'd lose."

The youngster was argumentative. "How can you be sure of that? Yalung said that the stakes needn't be high and he keeps asking me to join in. It wouldn't hurt to let me play, sometimes."

"You've got other things to do," said Dumarest. "Studying, for one. You won't become an officer if you waste your time and money."

"Please, Earl!"

Dumarest looked up and saw the young face, the eyes now drained of their superficial hardness and filled with the aching desire to know, to learn, to gain precious knowl shy;edge. To become adult in the shortest possible time. Once he had felt exactly the same: impatient with the slow pas shy;sage of the years and eager to gain experience so as to catch up. He had gained it, learning the hard way, surviving his mistakes and paying for his failures.

But how to pass on the accumulated knowledge of years?

Dumarest looked at the cards. It was a normal deck with ace, lord, lady, jester, and ten to the deuce four times re shy;peated in differentiating colors. Abruptly he riffled the deck and slammed the cards on the table supporting the player.

"You want to gamble," he said. "We'll do just that. Make a bet and cut-highest wins."

"That's a kid's game." Lin was disgusted. "A matter of luck."

"You think so?" Dumarest picked up the deck and separated three cards. "How about this, then? Find the jester." He held two cards in his right hand, one in his left. The jester was the lowest of the cards of his right. "See it?"

Lin nodded.

"Now bet." Dumarest moved his hands, the cards fall shy;ing on the top of the player. "Which is the jester?"

"This one." Lin reached out to turn it over and winced as Dumarest caught his wrist. "Earl! What the hell!"

"This isn't a game," said Dumarest flatly. "Where's your money?"

Lin found coins and dropped them on the selected card.

Dumarest turned it over. "You lose. Try again."

Lin lost a second time, a third. At the eighth failure he glared at Dumarest. "You're cheating!"

"No, how can I do that? The cards are all in front of you." Dumarest picked them up and showed their faces to the steward. "I'm outguessing you, that's all. You lack the ex shy;perience to know what I'm doing. And you lack the ex shy;perience to gamble with Yalung. He'll take you for all you've got."

Lin was stubborn. "The luck could come my way."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," said Dumarest im shy;patiently. "Not when you're playing with a professional gambler. And there's something else." He scooped up the money Lin had lost and heaped it to one side. From the deck of cards he dealt two, one to either side of the coins. "We're playing for the middle," he explained. "And I'm betting one thousand that my card is higher than yours."

"A thousand!" Lin looked defeated. "I can't see you. I haven't that much money."

"So you lose." Dumarest picked up the coins. "You can't win against someone who can beat every bet you make. Understand?"

He didn't, of course, and he wouldn't grasp the point of the demonstration until he'd learned it the hard way. But Dumarest had done his part. Dropping the coins into Lin's hand he said to the relieved steward, "Stick to your books. Watch the play if you like, but remember-don't gamble out of your class."

Words, he thought as he followed Lin from the cabin, and ones which made good sense. But since when have the young ever listened to good advice? He would play and he would lose, and maybe he would learn after he had paid the price. But he wouldn't play on this ship and certainly not with Yalung.

Dumarest thought about the passenger as he made his way along the passage towards the control room. The yellow-faced man remained an enigma; the secret parts of his mind were bounded with layers of protection. Of only one thing was Dumarest certain: the man was addicted to gambling; he would play long past the time when other men would have become satiated. And he played shrewdly and well.

The door to the control room was unlocked. Dumarest pressed it open and stepped into a cool dimness where ma shy;chines held a life of their own and instruments shone in soft reflections. To one side Nimino straightened from where he had stooped over a panel and raised a hand in warning.

"No noise," he said. "No sudden movement, Earl. It would be most unwise."

Dumarest followed the direction of his eyes. Slumped in the shielding confines of the big control chair, Sheyan's head was invisible beneath a mass of pulsing gray. It fitted like a cap, leaving only the mouth and nostrils clear.

"A symbiote from Elgart," explained the navigator quietly. "In return for a little blood it provides tranquilizing dreams. I remove it long before we are due to land."

"How long?"

"An hour. Sometimes more. What does it matter?"

A captain who was blind and deaf to any impending danger. It mattered!

"He cannot stand the sight of the stars," said Nimino, guessing Dumarest's thoughts. "And he cannot leave the ship. He travels with fear as his constant companion. Call him a coward if you wish, but the fact remains."

"There are cures," said Dumarest. "Psychological manip shy;ulations."

"Perhaps, but not for Sheyan. His trouble cannot be cured, only accepted. For he is terrified of death and extinction. He will not accept the truths men have discovered: that one does not lead to the other. And without that convic shy;tion he is lost. The symbiote enables him to forget what he dare not face."

"He is mad," said Dumarest. "Insane."

"Can we really blame him? His life has been spent in the Web. How long can any man tread the edge of danger and remain wholly sane?" Nimino lifted his arm and pointed to shy;wards the screens. "Look at it, Earl. Try to imagine what you cannot see. The forces which are in continual imbalance as the stars fight for supremacy. That is why it is called the Web. Channels of relative safety run between the gravi shy;tational wells of stars and planets, slender lines like the filaments of a mass of gossamer. We have to follow them, threading our way with the aid of electronic sensors, balanc shy;ing our speed and energy against external forces. And al shy;ways, at any time, that delicate balance can be upset. Con shy;traterrene matter exploding in a sun, a meshing of electro shy;magnetic fields, solar flares and even the juxtaposition of worlds. And also there is the dust. Earl, no man who has not traversed the Web can appreciate its dangers."