Web of Sand

Chapter Four

Waking was a dream in which he rose slowly through layers of ebon chill, counting seconds, waiting for eddy currents to warm his body, electronic stimulus to activate his heart and lungs, drugs to eliminate the agony of returning circulation. A nightmare of traveling low, occupying a cabinet meant for the transportation of beasts, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

He had ridden like that too often, wondering each time if he would wake, welcoming each resurrection as it came.

Dreams. A plethora of faces which swam out of darkness to blur and vanish even as formed. One more stubborn which remained. A ghost with scarlet hair forming an aureole about a familiar face. The lips, the chin, the bottomless pools of the eyes. A sight which had started him, creating the moment of inattention which could have cost him his life.

Had he really seen her?

Could Kalin still be alive?

He turned, muttering, reliving old memories, old pain. Seeing again the woman he had known, the wonderful, beautiful thing she had been. Long gone now, vanished, only the gift she had given him remaining in his mind. The secret stolen from the Cyclan for which they hunted him from world to world. The key which would give them the domination of the galaxy.

"Dumarest!" The voice was dull, muffled. "Earl Dumarest!"

A voice backed by small, familiar sounds; a rustle of garments, of glass tapping against plastic, the soft susuration of a fan circulating air. A touch against his upper lip and acrid odors stung his nostrils.

"Dumarest. Wake up, man. Wake up!"

A command coupled with a reenforcing of his identity; standard practice when reviving a man who had been subjected to shock. Again the odors stung his nostrils, banishing the last shreds of sleep, but it was pleasant to lie and feel the pulse and surge of life. A comfort to stretch and feel the smooth embrace of sheets against his naked skin, the yield of a pneumatic mattress. The voice grew sharp with impatience.

"Can you hear me? Answer if you can. Answer!"

"I can hear you." Dumarest opened his eyes and looked at the face above his own. A young, smooth face, the features thinly precise, the eyes detached, the mouth a little too full but time would eradicate the hint of caring humanity. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"

The eyes blinked. "You are unusual. I would have bet you would have asked where you were."

"I know where I am. On Harge and this is a hospital. How long?"

"A day; an hour for diagnosis and examination, two hours slow time, the rest drug-induced sleep. How do you feel?"

"Hungry." To be expected-the two hours under slow time had accelerated his metabolism so that he had lived days in subjective time. Dumarest looked at his arms, noted the small, near-healed puncture in the hollow of one elbow. The mark left by intravenous feeding. "Glucose?"

"That and saline and a few other things. You had some cracked ribs, extensive bruising, slight concussion, torn muscles and strained ligaments. There is also minor kidney damage. The ribs had been treated with hormone glue to promote rapid healing and the kidney damage has been corrected. Just take things easy for a while and you'll be fine."

"How did I get here?"

"Carried by porters, I guess. The usual method. I only saw you after you'd arrived. Sit up now. Throw your legs over the edge of the bed. Dizzy? Bend your head down between your knees and it will pass. All right now?"

Dumarest nodded as he lifted his head. The nausea still remained in his stomach but the sudden giddiness and vertigo had gone. He looked at the instrument before his eyes.

"Hold steady now," said the doctor. "Just a final check. Look to the right… to the left… up… down… fine! Here!"

From a side table he lifted a container and removed the lid. Taking it Dumarest sipped and recognized the basic food of all spacemen; a compound thick with protein, sickly with glucose, tart with citrus and laced with vitamins. In space a cup was food enough for a day.

"Thanks." He handed back the empty container. "My clothes?"

"In that cabinet."

"My knife?"

"There too." The doctor looked appraisingly at the naked torso, the thin cicatrices of old wounds. "Just remember what I said and take things easy for a while." He took a card from his pocket, made check marks, signed and passed it over. "Take this to the desk in reception before you leave. They'll check you out. Don't forget to do it-the guards can be touchy."

"And the cost?"

The doctor shrugged, "I wouldn't know about that. The desk handles all matters of finance."

Reception lay at the end of a passage and contained a desk backed by enigmatic panels touched and graced with multi-hued points of light. A computer terminal, Dumarest guessed, one showing the occupancy of the hospital at all times together with full financial details. His eyes studied the place as he walked slowly toward the counter, the women in attendance. Reception was smaller than he'd expected, a few benches, some tables, a vending machine selling drinks and snacks. Doors bearing various numbers lined the walls and one, wider, the exit, was flanked by a pair of watchful guards. More, he was sure, would be stationed at the far end of the exit-passage, but it was worth a try.

"Your pass?" A guard extended a hand as Dumarest approached the door. He looked at the card the doctor had checked and signed. "This isn't a pass. Report to the desk and get proper clearance."

He watched as Dumarest obeyed, one hand resting on his belt close to a holstered weapon, his eyes suspicious. If the hard-faced woman who took the card had noticed the incident she made no comment. Feeding the card into a slot she busied herself with a keyboard, tore a slip from the printout, attached it to a file and placed it before Dumarest.

"Sign on the bottom line, please." She watched as he scrawled his name. "Thank you. Here is your pass."

"Is that all?" He took the yellow slip. He had expected a bill and a large one. "How about the cost?"

"Payment has been taken care of, sir."

"By whom?"

"I am not at liberty to say." She added, blandly, "A friend is waiting for you in the outer hall."

It was larger than reception, lined with benches, each seat occupied with someone needing medical aid; a woman with a seared cheek, a man nursing a broken hand, a child with a face blotched with ugly sores. To one side sat a line of beggars, one with the gray of brain showing through plastic covering the hole in his skull. He held a chipped bowl in trembling, palsied hands. The label around his neck read; OF YOUR PITY HELP THIS MAN. The bowl was empty.

"Earl!" Kemmer stood beside the outer door, smiling, lifting a hand as he called. As Dumarest joined him he said, "It's good to see you. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"Hungry? There's a place close to here which sells a decent stew. Cheap too as prices go. No?"

"No."

Food could wait. Dumarest led the way outside. The passage was wide, arched, the floor littered with benches; free seating accommodation provided by the hospital. Between them stood coin-operated diagnostic machines together with others selling a variety of drugs. Most were busy. Finding an empty bench Dumarest sat and, as the trader plumped down beside him, said, "What happened?"

Kemmer was direct. "You'd won the crowd, Earl. When you went down they yelled for your life. You'd been in for almost ten minutes and had put up a good show. They didn't want to see you killed-not when you couldn't put up a fight."

So he had been carried from the arena. "Did you pay for my treatment?"

"How could I?" Kemmer spread his hands. "You'd gone down, Earl. You'd lost." He added, bleakly, "We all lost. The money Carl got from Matpius, that we won betting, that we already had. All of it." He fell silent, brooding over the loss then said, "Didn't they tell you inside?"

"No." A problem but one which could wait. "Where's Carl?" He frowned at the answer. "In jail? Why?"

"It was when you went down," explained Kemmer. "The crowd was for you but the sannak wanted your blood. Carl jumped into the arena. He had a laser and used it. A disguised weapon-you know what mercenaries are. They feel naked without a gun. It stung the beast and sent it back to its den. Carl wasn't able to escape. The guards grabbed him and charged him with possessing an unregistered weapon within the city limits. They fined him a thousand kren."

The value Matpius had placed on a human life. Dumarest narrowed his eyes, thinking, seeing in imagination the old man jumping, staggering a little as he landed, rising to face the sannak with the laser his only defense. A small weapon it would have to be. Powerful enough to kill a man at close range but it could have done little more than singe the creature's scales.

He said, "We must get him released. Have you money?"

"A few coins. Enough for a meal or two but nothing more." He met Dumarest's eyes. If lying, he was convincing but, if lying, he would later be dead. A fact he recognized as he said again, urgently, "Earl, I swear it! I wouldn't hold out on you!"

Dumarest said, "Let's find out about Carl."

He was in a jail housed down a gloomy passage the walls polished and smoothed by the impact of countless bodies. Inside a desk faced a semi-circle of cells, each with a door pierced by a small grill, each with a number. Faces appeared at some of the grills as their footsteps echoed in the cavernous area. The smell was that of prisons everywhere; a combination of urine, excreta, sweat, stale air and disinfectant.

"Santis?" The officer in charge ran his finger down a list, "Number eighteen. You come to pay his fine?"

"Not yet," said Dumarest. "What's the position?"

"Strangers?" The officer had the cold, searching eyes of a serpent. For a long moment he remained silent then, curtly, "He's got five days to raise the money. After that he starts collecting interest on his fine and cost of keep. His debt can also be sold to the highest bidder at open auction. To get free he has to clear it together with any accumulated interest. Compound, naturally."

"How much?" said Kemmer.

"Ten percent."

"A year?"

"A month. The standard rate." The officer pressed a button and, as the guard he had summoned came from the shadows, said, "This officer will show you out."

"Just a minute," said Dumarest. "What about his gun?"

"Confiscated."

Outside Kemmer drew in his breath and shook his head. "That about does it. I'd forgotten about the gun but it's not going to do him any good. Still, it was worth the try. Now what?"

Dumarest said, "We find Marta Caine."

She sat at a table following the dance of a small, white ball. One which skittered around the edge of a spinning wheel as her mind calculated the odds, the chance of its coming to rest on the red or black or the blank on which none were paid. Working the system which had first promised so much and which now was letting her down. And yet, with it, Corcyra had always won.

Against the squared baize she could see his face, one eyebrow lifted, the mouth quirked as if in secret jest. The face she had so often looked at as he lay beside her in the warm, soft bed, all passion spent, relaxed, finding time for the words he loved, the spells he wove with his endless tales. The secret he had imparted to her; he one which he swore enabled him to gamble and always win.

"Your bets!" The croupier stood with his hand on the wheel. "Make your bets!"

Time to make her move; a chip on the red, two on the black, one on low numbers, three on high. A spread which guaranteed nothing but the stretching of her resources yet which needed to be followed in order to eastablish the following wagers.

The wheel spun, the ball settled, came to rest. Black and high won and she felt relief as she scooped up her chips. Now for the next step and she waited as again the ball danced and again she won. Once more now, plunging deep, and then finish. Corcyra had been insistent on that. Three wins in a row and be satisfied-to continue was to invite ruin. And yet, when the luck was with her, it was hard to leave.

The decision was made for her by the settling of the ball and she watched, face impassive, as her chips were raked from the table. Now it was all to do again, to wait and watch and place small bets in an elaborate pattern. To calculate and try to ignore the tightening of her stomach, the mounting panic as luck went against her. Once she had thought Corcya weak-now she knew better. It took guts and courage to sit and risk the sum total of your resources in order to win enough to live on for a day. And then to return on the morrow and do the same. To follow the pattern, losing, still to play, still to follow the system when every nerve and sinew cried out in protest.

And, when winning, to know when to stop.

"Your bets! Place your bets!"

The ball bounced and settled and with a sigh of relief she scooped up her winnings and rose from the table. The net gain this time had been a little more than the last and far more than the disastrous one before, but she still lacked the security she craved. The bracelet she had pledged would have to stay with the jeweler as would her ring and the pendants she had worn in her ears.

"Marta!" Kemmer was heading toward her. "Marta, my dear, how nice to bump into you like this!"

She said, acidly, "Coincidence, Maurice?"

"No." He was bluntly honest. "I've been looking for you. We both have. Earl is downstairs. You weren't at home so we come looking."

"And found me." She moved farther from the table toward a shaded alcove where vending machines dispensed an assortment of drinks. A coin bought her a measure of water laced with alcohol and flavored with lemon. Kemmer joined her as she sat. "Unless you buy a drink you will be ejected," she warned. "You have money?"

"Not for luxuries. Could we walk?"

That at least could be done without charge but she was tired, the tables imparted a greater strain than was apparent, and she was in no mood to wander while he babbled. In no mood either to dispense charity but, as the attendant came edging toward them, she handed the trader a coin. To her surprise he handed it back.

"I'm not here for a handout."

"Then what?"

"Earl will explain." His face lightened as he looked past her. "Here he is now."

Dumarest carried a wrapped package beneath one arm. Setting it on the table, he fed coins into the vending machine, the watchful attendant moving away as he set drinks next to the package. To Kemmer he said, "Have you told her?"

"No."

"Told me what?" Marta looked from one to the other. "What the hell do you want?"

"Money." Dumarest was curt. "Carl is in jail and I want to get him out. You can help me. Don't worry-you won't lose by it."

"You're damned right I won't!"

"That is," he amended, "you won't lose if you cooperate." Casually he touched the package. "Did Maurice mention we looked for you at home? Just as well we did, in a way. Your door-"

"What about it?"

"Nothing." His smile was a mask. "A good, strong door," he mused. "Thumb-print lock too. Usually they're safe but you have to be careful to pull the panel tight when leaving. And even then there are ways-" He broke off, again touching the package, glancing at the busy tables. "Have any luck?"

"That's my business."

"I'm just asking." Dumarest took a sip of his drink. "You know, Marta, we're really in the same position. We all have to find some way of surviving while holding on to enough money to buy a passage on the next ship. Carl's been unlucky. So have you in a way. But if you were to lend Carl money to get out of jail you'd have not only a friend but an income. Interested?"

"I've got an income."

"The tables?" He shrugged. "Follow that route and there can only be one ending. Haven't you learned yet the one inescapable truth about gambling? That those who need to win never do?"

"Some-"

"Yes," he said. "We've all heard of the man who backed all he had on a throw of the dice and won and backed again and kept on winning until he owned a world. The woman who risked her child and ended by gaining freedom for all her tribe. The boy with nothing but his blood who ended with riches. And, of course, there are those who profess to make a living at the tables. Some do, I admit it, but not many and they are of a special type. Sensitives, the near-clairvoyant, those with some unusual talent. Others play the odds but only on games they can control. That wheel has no feelings. That ball obeys no laws. Neither can be bluffed. And the percentages are always with the house."

"Maybe."

"I'm offering you a certain profit."

She said, coldly, "I'm not interested. You go your way and I'll go mine."

"A pity." Dumarest half finished his drink and, again, his hand rested on the package: "I was thinking of your singing jewel. Here it would be a novelty if used correctly; demonstrated at private gatherings, for example, used to add a new dimension to a party or to entertain after dinner. You'd need guards, of course, to protect it. A thing like that could fetch a high price if offered in the right market. That is unless it was stolen first-you get my point?"

"You bastard!" She looked at the package, the same size as the box holding the jewel, remembered what he had said about the door-how else did he know the type of lock it had. "My jewel! You've stolen it!"

"Carl could be one of your guards, Maurice another. It would be safe then. And an agent could be found to find you work. But if you don't want to use it then I'll find another way." Rising he picked up the box. "Stay with her, Maurice. Don't let her call the guards until I'm well away."

"No!" Thought of losing the jewel made her feel sick. "You thief! You can't-"

But he could and would; his face told her that. Hard, firmly set, the mouth a thin, cruel line. A man intent on survival, a beast at war in a familiar jungle. And, once sold, the jewel would be lost. Her complaints would be ignored-who would care about a stranger?

"A loan," whispered Kemmer. "For God's sake, Marta, it's only a loan."

A stack of chips-she had them in her hand. Plastic discs convertible to cash against the loss of her jewel. "Here!" They rattled as she threw them on the table. "How much do you want? A thousand? Twelve hundred? Fifteen?" She watched as Kemmer scooped them up. "Now give me my jewel, you bastards! My jewel!"

"Maurice!" Dumarest waited until the man had gone. Quietly he said, "Your jewel is safe, Marta. I haven't got it, see?" Opening the wrappings he displayed a fiber carton. It was empty. "It's safe at home."

A trick. A bluff and for a moment she wavered between relief and anger. To have been taken in like a stupid child!

Her own fears turned against her, used as a weapon. She looked at the drink Dumarest placed in her hand.

"Get it down," he urged. "You'll feel better."

"You cheated me!"

"No," he corrected. "Pursuaded you."

"Tricked me. Conned me like an expert." As he'd promised, the drink had helped and, after all, what had she lost? "All that trouble," she said. "For an old mercenary. Why? What is Santis to you?"

"He saved my life." Dumarest found more coins as the attendant came moving again toward them. "Have another drink and I'll take you home."