The Jester at Scar

Chapter Four

Heldar felt the gnawing pain in his chest, the scratching irritation and the liquid demanding release. He coughed; the initial expelling of air triggered a bout of hacking which left him weak. Grimly, he looked at the red flecks staining his hand.

The small, round vendor with the ruff of yellow at wrists and ankles looked at him with sympathy. "You need help," he said. "Why don't you see a physician?"

Heldar grunted. The station had no resident medical technician, only a snap-freeze cabinet where the severely infured could be held in stasis and the deep-sleep facilities, which could be adapted to promote healing. All else had to wait until a traveling physician arrived to ply his trade. Such doctors had a strict order of priority: money came first. Heldar had to raise a loan.

Craden shook his head when Heldar mentioned it. He was new to Scar, but was far from inexperienced. Casually he inspected one of the yellow ruffs circling his wrist, "You work for the company, don't you? Wouldn't they make you an advance?"

"Zopolis wouldn't lend his own mother the price of a meal," said Heldar viciously. He had already tried and been refused. The pain in his chest mounted and he coughed again. When he recovered he looked frightened. "It's killing me," he gasped. "What the hell can I do?"

The vendor inspected his other ruff. "Beg," he suggested. "What else?"

Heldar left the room and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. It seemed to cover most of the sky with the glowing fury of its disk, but that was an optical illusion. It was big, but not that big. If it had been Scar would long ago have shattered into a ring of debris.

He coughed again. The chest pain was getting worse as it grew hotter and there was still more heat to come. Heldar reached back to where his hat hung from his neck on a thong and drew it over his eyes. Beg, Craden had advised. But from whom? The monks had nothing but the barest essentials. The factor couldn't give what he didn't have, and neither he or anyone else would make what would have to be an outright gift of money.

He stared over the field, seeing the ships waiting to carry their passengers home and others discharging people in order to get away. They were commercial, and, if they carried a physician at all, he would be exactly the same as the one in Hightown. There was only one chance, the small, private vessel with the peculiar insignia. It carried royalty and would be certain to have a physician. Maybe, if I'm humble and pile it on? He coughed again and spat a mouthful of blood; there would be no need for pretense.

* * *

"Sit down," said the doctor. "Relax. Throw your head back until it touches the rest. Farther. That's right. Now just relax."

Gratefully Heldar did as ordered. He felt euphoric, still unable to believe his luck. Coincidence, he told himself. I just managed to see the right man at the right time, the boss man himself. I hit the right button and he did the rest.

He heard metallic tinklings behind him and resisted the desire to turn. The doctor's voice was flat and indifferent.

"Do you wish to stay, my lord?"

"Will you be long?"

"For the examination? No, my lord."

"Then I will stay," said Jocelyn. He looked down at the patient's face. "You have nothing to worry about," he soothed. "Just do as Erlan tells you to do."

Erlan, thought Heldar, the physician. And the one who just spoke is the boss man, the ruler of Jest. But where were the courtiers? The guards? He felt the desire to cough; then something entered his mouth and sent a spray down his throat, killing the desire. He tensed.

"Relax," said the doctor sharply. "Constriction of the muscles does not ease my task."

Something followed what had contained the spray. Seemingly huge, it slid down his throat, probing past the back of the throat, the tonsils and penetrating into the windpipe. There was a soft hissing, and abruptly he lost the sense of feeling from his mouth to his lungs. Wider tubes followed; he could tell by the mechanical dilation of his mouth.

"I have expanded the path to the lungs, my lord," said Erlan, as if commenting to a colleague. "Now we pass down the light, so, and swivel, so." He drew in his breath. "A classic case," he murmured. "Extreme erosion of the junction together with scarification of the trachea and widespread seepage." His voice faded as he manipulated more instruments. Metal scraped on crystal. Heldar felt something tickle deep in his chest, then the tube was withdrawn from his throat and another spray returned feeling to the numb areas. Automatically, he coughed.

"Some wine?" Jocelyn extended a glass filled with amber glintings. "Sip," he advised, "your throat is probably a little tender."

"Thank you, my lord." Heldar sat upright and turned his head. Erlan sat at a microscope studying a slide. As he watched he changed it for another and increased the magnification.

"Well?" said Jocelyn.

"There is no doubt, my lord." Erlan straightened from his instrument and casually threw both slides into an incinerator. A flash of blue flame converted them both to ash. "The man is suffering from a fungous infection, obviously parasitic and of some duration. It could have been caused by a single spore which has increased by geometrical progression. Both lungs are affected, the left almost hopelessly so, and the inevitable result, unless there is surgery, is death."

Heldar gulped his wine, oblivious of the sting to his throat.

Jocelyn was gentle. "Therapy?"

"The infection is aerobic. It would be possible to seal and collapse one lung and coat the area infected of the other with inhibiting compounds. The capability of respiration would be greatly reduced; the patient would have to rest with the minimum of effort for at least a year."

"The alternative?"

"Complete transplants, my lord, either from an organ bank or from new organs grown from the patient's cells. The former would be quicker, the latter more to be preferred, but in both cases a major operation coupled with extensive therapy is unavoidable."

"But he would live?"

Erlan sounded a little impatient. "Certainly, my lord, the operation would be a matter of routine."

"Thank you," said Jocelyn. "You may leave us." He turned and poured Heldar more wine. "You heard?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And understood?" Jocelyn was insistent. "I mean really understood?"

"Unless I receive an operation I shall inevitably die," said Heldar, and then added, "my lord."

Jocelyn sighed. "Exactly. I wanted to be sure you fully comprehended the situation. I can, of course, arrange for you to have the necessary treatment but there are conditions."

"Anything," blurted Heldar, "anything at all, my lord."

"You would come with me to Jest under restrictive indenture?"

Heldar nodded. What had he to lose? "When?" he asked. "The treatment, my lord, when would it be given?"

"That," said Jocelyn softly, "depends entirely on yourself; not as to when, of course, but whether or not it will be given at all." He reached behind him to where the wine stood on a table. A coin rested beside the bottle. He picked it up and tossed it to Heldar. "Look at it," he invited. "It will decide your fate."

"My lord?"

"On one side you will see the head of a man. I have scratched a line across his cheek, a scar. The other side bears the arms of Jest. Spin the coin. Should it fall with that side uppermost you will receive your needed treatment, but if the other side should be uppermost, the scar, then you belong to this world and I will not help you."

Heldar looked at the coin, then raised his eyes. "My life to depend on the spin of a coin? My lord, surely you jest?"

"No," said Jocelyn, "I do not jest." His voice hardened. "Spin!"

The coin rose, glinting, a blur as it climbed to hesitate and fall ringing to the deck. Jocelyn glanced at it, his face expressionless. Unbidden, Heldar rose, crossed to where it lay and looked down at the shining disk. He felt the sudden constriction of his stomach.

"Luck is against you," said Jocelyn quietly. "It seems that you are fated to die."

* * *

The interior of the shed was cool with a brisk crispness which stung like a shower of ice, refreshing as it hurt, waking senses dulled with seemingly endless heat. Kel Zopolis paused, enjoying the coolness, and then, remembering the cost, walked quickly down the shed.

"Wandara!"

"Here, Boss." The overseer came from behind a machine, wiping his hands on a scrap of waste, his white teeth flashing against the ebon of his skin. "The cooling plant is switched off," he said before the agent could raise the matter. "I was just testing the machines to make sure they'll work when we want them."

"And?"

"Fully operational," said the overseer, "hoppers, slicers, balers, everything." He walked beside Zopolis down the length of the shed and opened a door, waiting for the agent to pass through before following him and closing the panel.

Beyond lay a second shed filled with equipment. A line of rafts, each with a thousand cubic feet of loading capacity, rested against one wall. Suits, boots, masks and sprays hung neatly on hooks. A heap of wide-bladed machetes rested on a bench beside a grinding wheel. They were thirty inches from pommel to point, the blades slightly curved and four inches across at the widest part. Zopolis lifted one and swung it, enjoying the heft and balance of the well-designed tool.

Wandara spoke as he tested the edge.

"I'm sharpening them up, Boss, giving them a real, fine edge. They'll cut through any fungus on the planet."

And more than a swollen stem, thought the agent, as he replaced the machete. He remembered a time two seasons back, or perhaps three, when two crews had fallen out, each accusing the other of cheating. Then the machetes had been used as swords. Even now he could remember the mess, the blood and the cries of the wounded.

"The rafts," he said. "I want them all ready to operate within five hours."

"They're ready now, Boss." Wandara sounded hurt. "You didn't think I'd play around with machetes if the rafts needed checking?"

"No," said Zopolis. Pride, he thought. I've hurt his pride. Aloud he said, "I'm sorry. It was foolish of me to ask."

The overseer grunted, mollified. "Starting to harvest, Boss?"

"Soon. I'm taking a survey to check the state of the crop. If it's ready we'll start right away. In any case, you can pass the word that we'll be needing men."

"Sure, Boss. The same terms?"

"Piecework, yes, but we've got to cut the price by five percent." Zopolis didn't look at the other man. "It isn't my doing," he said. "I'm just following orders. It's a reduction all along the line."

"The processing sheds too?"

"Yes, but we'll reserve those jobs for the weak and incapable." The ones who've starved too much and too long, he thought, the ill, the chronically sick, the dying. "I'll have a word with Brother Glee about that. He'll know who to pick." He glanced sharply at the overseer. "Something on your mind?"

"Heldar, Boss, I don't want him around."

"Why not? He's a regular."

"He's trouble. There's talk of someone moving claim markers and stealing original finds. I don't figure on letting him use our rafts and our time for his own business."

"He was on scout duty," mused Zopolis thoughtfully. "It would give him the opportunity. Do you think he's guilty?"

Wandara shrugged. "I don't know, Boss. He could be; he knows a lot about electronics and could rig up a detector. I just don't want him around."

"Ground him," decided the agent. "Put him to work here in the sheds. Give him three days; and if he starts to loaf, get rid of him."

Leaving the overseer, he walked down the shed to where the door stood open. He opened it still more and stepped outside. The sun was nearing its zenith and the heat was stifling. The dull red light of the sun stained the ground, the buildings and the faces of those walking about the station, so that it seemed they all lived in a giant oven.

He caught a glimpse of motion and turned. A raft was rising from Hightown, anti-gravity plates robbing it of weight and the engine sending it silently through the air. Beneath a transparent canopy, a cluster of tourists sat in air-conditioned comfort. They were all looking downward at the weird forest of colorful growths spreading all around the station to the limits of visibility.

Zopolis sighed, envying them a little. They could sit and watch and wonder at the fantastic configurations of the exotic fungi, at their monstrous size, endless variety and incredible rate of growth. He had to test and judge and select the exact moment to commence the harvest. If it were too early, the crop would lack flavor, if too late, there would be no time to gather the quantity needed to make the operation a financial success. The fungi would reach maturity, produce spores, lose quality, and, worse, perhaps be contaminated by harmful elements.

Not for the first time he wished that he had taken up a different profession.

* * *

The entertainment had been discreetly advertised as a program of strange and unusual practices of a cultural nature collected on a score of primitive worlds. To Adrienne it was a monotonous collection of boring filth.

The whippings didn't disturb her and neither did the flayings, cuttings, scarification of tender organs and feats of drug-assisted endurance; Eldfane had hardened her to the spectacle of pain. On that rough world, punishment was public and, if any sightseers gained an erotic satisfaction from the spectacle it was an unintentional bonus. To her, pain was meant to hurt and nothing else. As for the rest, she grew impatient with the sighs and inhalations of the others crowded in the small auditorium. Surely there was nothing strange about sex.

Impatiently she turned, searching for her maid. The girl sat with her eyes enormous, her moist lips parted and her body twitching in time to the hiss and crack of the whip. Colors from the three-dimensional representation flowed over her flawless skin and touched her dark hair with shimmers of rainbow brilliance.

"Keelah!"

The girl blinked. "My lady?"

"Attend me!" Adrienne rose, careless of the comfort of those to either side and careless of those she thrust aside on her way to the exit. The anxious entrepreneur bowed as she approached.

"My lady, I trust the performance did not offend?"

"You did ill to invite me," she snapped. "The factor will hear of this, and," she added, "it would not be for you to visit either Jest or Eldfane. My father has a way of dealing with vermin of your kind."

"My lady?"

"Stripped," she said brutally, "castrated, blinded and released in the streets as sport for the mob."

Regally she swept through the corridors of Hightown. A scarlet shadow detached itself from a bench and fell into step at her side.

"Do you return to the ship, my lady?"

She did not look at the cyber. "You have some other suggestion?"

"A raft could be hired if you wish to see Scar. The growths at this time of the season are extremely interesting. The visual aspect, too, is most unusual."

With an effort she restrained her temper, remembering who the cyber was and what he represented. The Cyclan was quick to avenge any injury or slight done to its members.

"Thank you, Yeon, but no." Spitefully she added, "Have you any other suggestions?"

"There are always the information tapes on Jest, my lady."

Irritably she thinned her lips, half suspecting him of irony. Surely he must know that she was in no mood for education. A guard at the exit bowed as they approached, opened the first door and bowed again as they passed. There were two more doors and a second guard stood before the final barrier. As they passed into the open air a man flung himself at her feet.

"My lady! Of your charity, save a dying man!"

She stepped back, suddenly fearful. Assassins had been known to adopt strange disguises.

"Please, my lady!" Heldar raised distorted features to her. "A word with your husband on my behalf-a single word!" His voice rose as she stepped farther back. "At least let me spin again! It is my life, my lady, my life!"

"What is this?" Anger replaced her fear. Where were the guards, the retinue without which one of her station should never be without. "Who are you?"

Yeon stepped between the groveling suppliant and the woman. "Attend your mistress," he said to the girl and then he said to Adrienne, "My lady, do not concern yourself; the man is distraught. With your permission, I will attend to the matter."

She nodded and swept towards the ship, fuming with rage. I, the queen of a world, to be treated so! And still Jocelyn refuses to leave this backward place. Still he insists on playing his stupid games, making his stupid promises and talking all the time of destiny and fate.

But there was one thing at least she could do.

"Quick-time?" Jocelyn rose from his chair as she burst into his cabin with her demand. "Are you so bored?"

"I am."

"But there is so much to see. You could visit Lowtown- Ilgash will accompany you-or inspect the village around the station. We could invite the factor and a few others to a meal, and surely Hightown has something to offer in the way of entertainment."

She was insistent. "I did not leave Eldfane to be stranded on this apology of a world. You seem able to amuse yourself, but I cannot. I see no pleasure in walking through slums, eating with commercially-minded fools or watching unsavory images. I refuse to suffer longer because of your whims."

"Suffer?" Jocelyn stepped close and looked into her eyes. "Are conditions so unbearable?" he asked softly. "I had the impression that we were on our honeymoon. There are many ways, in such circumstances, to alleviate the slow passage of time."

"Must you talk like a peasant!" Memory of the recent entertainment brought a red flush to her cheeks. "There will be time enough to conceive an heir after we land on Jest. Until then, I demand to be spared further humiliation. At least quick-time will shorten this interminable period of waiting. I shall, of course," she added, remembering the girl's nubile beauty, "expect Keelah to attend me."

Jocelyn frowned, understanding the innuendo, and his face grew hard. "I am sorry. It would not be convenient at this time to grant your request."

She looked at him, eyes wide with incredulous anger.

"You are my wife," he said. "As such, your place is by my side. Because things are a little tedious, do you imagine that you can escape them by running away?" His voice was a hammer driving home the point it was essential to make. "Jest is not a soft world, Adrienne. There is much that will prove tedious and unpleasant but will have to faced. I suggest that you begin to learn the basic elements of self-discipline."

He was being unfair and knew it. Eldfane, also, was not a soft world; but the aristocracy had cushioned themselves against its natural harshness by becoming encysted in ritual and formality. Now, as his wife, Adrienne expected to be the head of such a world within a world. It was best to disillusion her now.

Training helped her to contain her anger. "You are well named," she said coldly, "but I do not appreciate the jest. Neither, do I think, will my father."

He bridled at the threat. "You wish to break the contract? Let me warn you that, if you do, you will not be welcome at your father's house. He has too many daughters still unwed. Why else do you think he was so eager to give me your hand?"

Immediately he repented of his cruelty. "Adrienne," he said, softly. "I did not marry you simply for your dowry, nor because we are genetically compatible and should have no trouble obtaining issue. I married you because-"

"You needed a wife to breed more fools," she interrupted savagely, "a woman to bring you goods and credit and the loan of trained and intelligent minds. Well, you have those things, but do not expect to gain more. And do not expect me to aid you with your insane projects. I do not relish being the butt of lesser folk. I, at least, have dignity."

"And can you live on that?" Her rejection sharpened his rage. "You dislike slums, but are there no slums on Eldfane? You sneer at commercially-minded fools, but who else is to plot our prosperity? Unsavory images are only what you make of them and, in any case, who are you to either judge or condemn?" He fought his anger, drawing air deep into his lungs and wondering where his sense of the ridiculous had gone. Now, above all, he needed the soothing balm of humor. "Scar is a backward world," he said. "There is no industry here, no real population, certainly no ruling class. These people will mostly be gone at the end of summer and we shall, most probably, never see any of them again. So, my dear, why be concerned over your image?"

"Is pride a garment to be taken off and put aside?" Her voice was thin and acid with dislike. "I gain no pleasure from this conversation. With your permission, my lord, I will retire."

He sighed as she swept from the room. Women, who can gauge their emotions? Perhaps I've been wrong to deny her the use of quick-time. The hours drag and who knows what mischief a bored and idle woman might do? And yet she has to learn, accept the fact that life has to be lived, if nothing else.

He sat down and picked up his book. He held it in one hand as he stared at the cover, but he did not see the stained and crumbling material beneath the plastic seal. He was thinking of other things. Jellag Haig for one. The trader was hovering on the brink of decision, a little more pressure and he would surely yield.

Thoughtfully, Jocelyn leaned back in his chair.

It would be best to make him a baron, he decided, to begin with, at least. Later, if he proved himself, he could be elevated to an earl or even a duke, but first he would be a baron.

Baron Jellag Haig of Jest.

It made a satisfying mouthful and would please his family. He would have an armored crest together with a residence and an estate, a small residence and a big estate.

Land was cheap on Jest.