Tubb, E.C. - Dumarest 31 - The Temple of Truth

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The Temple of Truth by
E.C. Tubb
Chapter One
Karlene shivered. Thirty dozen perlats had been slaughtered
to provide her furs yet still she felt the cold. An illusion—born of
snow and ice and the pale azure of an empty sky. The visual
effects overrode the electronic warmth cosseting her body and
she lifted her hands to draw the soft hood closer about her face.
"Cold?" Hagen had noticed the gesture. "Are you cold?"
"No."
"Then—"
"Nothing." An answer too curt and she expanded it as she
swept a hand at the vista before them: a landscape of white
traced with azure and flecked with motes of nacreous sheen. Out
there perspective was distorted so that the mound she looked at
could have been a hundred yards distant or a thousand, the dune
a thousand or ten.
"There's no warmth," she complained. "No shelter. It's all so
bleak. So inhospitable."
He said, "Erkalt is a frigid world, but it has its uses."
"Such as?"
"Low-temperature laboratories. Some mines. Some—" He
broke off, knowing she knew the details. "As a site for the
games," he said. "As a frame for your beauty. An ice queen
should rule over a world of ice."
Empty flattery but she restrained her annoyance. Instead she
walked to the edge of a shallow ravine, one barely visible against
the featureless expanse. It was empty; a gash cut deep into the
snow, pale shadows clustered in its depths. No trace of life yet;
looking at it, she felt the familiar touch in her mind.
"Something?" Hagen was beside her, his eyes searching her
face. "You catch the scent?" His tone sharpened as she nodded.
"When? Soon? Late?"
"Late." The touch had been too gentle. "Sometime ahead but
too weak to tell when."
Time and cause—variables beyond her control. Duration
weakened impact so that a dire event in the distant future would
register as a small incident almost due. An irritation, but one he
had no choice but to accept. Now he slipped an arm around her
shoulders and led her from the treacherous lip of the ravine.
"Probably a perlat slaughtered for its hide or some other small
animal ending its life." He kept his tone light, casual. "Victim of
some predator, no doubt. Don't worry about it."
Good advice; to brood on death and fear was to invite
madness. Yet, at times, it was hard to ignore the shadows which
stretched back through time. In that ravine a creature would die
and would know terror before it expired.
"We'll try over to the east," said Hagen. His tone, still light,
masked his impatience. "Once we find the right place we can set
up the scanners."
"If we find it," she said. "And if it's the right one."
"It will be—you'll see to that."
His assurance held the trace of threat, but she said nothing as
he led the way to where the raft stood on the frozen snow. The
driver, muffled in cheap furs, touched a control as they climbed
aboard, and a transparent canopy rose to enclose the body of the
vehicle and protect them from the wind. It droned as they rose, a
bitter, keening sound, and she shivered again as the raft moved
away from the lowering sun.
"Still cold?" Hagen was concerned. "Perhaps you are ill. I
think you should see a doctor when we get back to town."
"No!" Her refusal was sharp. "There's nothing wrong with me.
It's just this damned planet."
The snow and ice and shriek of the wind. A sound as if a lost
soul was crying its grief as it quested empty spaces. Beneath the
raft the ground was a blur of whiteness; a board on which, soon,
a bloody game would be played. What did a quarry feel? Fear,
that was certain, a rush of terror prior to a savage end, but what
else? Hope, perhaps? The belief in the miracle which alone could
bring safety? Regret that greed and love of life had led to a frigid
hell?
The heaters had taken the chill from the air within the canopy
and she loosened the hood, throwing it back from her head and
face to release a cascade of hair. It fell in a cloud of shimmering
whiteness over the pearly luster of her furs; hair as white as the
snow below, as white as the blanched pallor of her skin.
An albino; beneath the silver-tinted contact lenses she wore,
her eyes held the pinkness of diffused blood.
"You're beautiful!" Hagen was sincere in his appreciation,
eyes studying the aristocratic delicacy of her face; the high
cheekbones, the hollow cheeks, the thin flare of nostrils, the
curve of lips, the rounded perfection of the chin. Beneath the furs
her body was lithe with a rounded slimness. "An ice queen, as I
said."
A mutant and hating it despite the wealth it had brought her.
Hating the talent she possessed which set her apart, now again
making itself manifest within the secret convolutions of her
mind.
"Karlene?" Hagen had seen the sudden, betraying tension.
"Something?"
"I think so."
"Strong? Close?" He ceased his questioning as she raised a
hand. Waited until it lowered. "No?"
"A scent, but it was weak. Where are we?"
Too far to the east and distant from the city. The raft turned
as he snapped orders at the driver, slowing as it circled over the
too-flat terrain. Hopeless territory for the games as the fool
should have known. The vehicle straightened, humps rising in
the distance, to become mounded dunes slashed with crevasses
torn by the winds, gouged with pits fashioned by storms.
"Anything?" Hagen glanced at the sun as she shook her head.
Soon would come the night, the winds, the impossibility of
further search. To the driver he said, "Drop lower and head for
the north. Cut speed."
"But!"
"Do it!"
Too low and too slow over such broken terrain could lead to
disaster; sudden winds, rising from uneven ground, could catch
the raft and bring it to destruction. Fears the man kept to
himself as he handled the controls.
Waiting, watching, Hagen forced himself to be patient. There
was nothing more he could do and his tension could affect the
woman's sensitivity. Now Karlene was in command. Until she
scented the node, they must turn and drift and turn again in an
ever-widening circle. He had chosen the ground, the decision
based on skill and experience, but only she could determine the
node.
"You've found it?" He had spotted her tension. "The scent?"
She nodded, one hand to her throat, eyes wide at the touch of
horror.
"Close?"
"Close." She inhaled, fighting to be calm. "Close and strong.
God, how strong!"
The node. The spot where the game would end. Hagen sighed
his relief. Now he could relax. The rest was just a matter of
routine.
***
Leaning back in his chair, Dumarest looked away from his
hungry guest. Brad Arken was more like a ferret than a man;
thin, sharp-faced, with eyes which quested in continual
movement. His clothing was shabby, his skin betraying chronic
malnutrition. To feed him was a kindness, but Dumarest was not
being charitable.
"Earl?"
"Help yourself. Eat all you want."
The bread, the vegetables, the bowl of succulent stew. He had
barely touched them but he had guessed the other's hunger.
Could guess, too, at his desperation; the reason he had selected
him from those hiring their labor, the reason he had invited him
to dine.
Now, as Arken ate, Dumarest looked around. The restaurant
was contained within the hotel in which he had a room. Warm
light bathed the area enhancing the comfort of soft carpets and
heated air. To one side a facsimile fire burned against a wall, the
bed of artificial logs glowing red, gold, amber and orange in a
framework of black iron.
A glow which merged with the yellow illumination from the
lanterns and threw touches of color on the flesh and finery of the
others seated at their tables. A crowd, mostly young, all
apparently wealthy. They were in an exuberant mood.
"Voyeurs," said Arken. "Here to enjoy the games. Watching in
comfort while others do the work. At least they'll keep warm."
His plate was empty, the bowl also. The vegetables were barely
touched but the bread had vanished and Dumarest guessed it
now reposed beneath the other's blouse. He lifted a hand as
Arken wiped his mouth on a napkin. To the waitress who
answered his signal he said, "Wine. A flagon of house red."
It arrived with glasses adorned with delicate patterns
engraved in the crystal. Dumarest poured, Arken almost
snatching up his glass, downing half its contents at a gulp, then,
almost defiantly, swallowing the rest.
As he reached for the flagon Dumarest clamped his fingers on
the neck.
"Later. First we talk. I'm looking for a man. Maybe you can
help me find him. He's old, scarred down one cheek, gray hair
and, maybe, a beard." Scant details but all he had. "Celto
Loffredo. Once he was a dealer in antiquities."
Arken said, "Erkalt's a big world but sparsely inhabited. The
city here, a few installations at the poles. They are staffed by
technicians employed by the companies who own them and
they're choosy about who they take. An old man, even if
indentured, wouldn't be worth his keep. Which brings us back to
the city. I guess you've checked the usual sources? Hotels and
such?" As Dumarest nodded he continued, "So he isn't living
easy and a man without money has little choice. If he's alive he
must be on the brink."
"As you are?"
Arken said nothing but the answer was in his eyes and, as he
reached again for the wine, Dumarest released his grip on the
flagon.
As the man filled his glass Dumarest said, "This is free but it's
all you're going to get. Locate the man I want and it's worth a
hundred."
"That isn't enough."
"All I want is a time and place."
"I'll have to check the warrens." Arken was insistent. "Spread
the word and ask around. On Erkalt no one does anything free.
I'll need cash for expenses, bribes, sweeteners. How badly do you
want to find him?" Dumarest didn't answer, and Arken drank
and shrugged before drinking again. "All right, so it's your
business, but we'd find him quicker if I could put others to work.
And it would help if I'd more to go on."
The man was right, but Dumarest had no more to give. A
name, a vocation, the hint that the man could have information
he wanted. Details gained on another world and a hope followed
because he had nothing else.
"How much will you need?"
"For expenses?" Arken didn't hesitate. "A hundred, at least.
More if you want to hurry things along. I'll need to hire men to
go looking and there are a lot of places Celto could be. But a
hundred should do it."
He refilled his glass, looking at Dumarest, hoping he had
struck the right note, named the right price. Too little and he
would have undervalued himself and lessened the chance of
profit. Too high and he could have lost an opportunity. It
depended on his host but Arken thought he recognized the type.
A man who lived soft and could afford to be generous; the food
and wine was proof of that. He dressed plain but that was not
uncommon; many tourists tried to seem what they were not. The
grey tunic, pants and boots looked new and the knife carried in
the right boot could be for effect.
"Well?" The wine had bolstered his courage and Arken
pressed his advantage. A man alone, looking for another on a
strange world, would need local help. And, if he was in a hurry,
he wouldn't want to waste time. "Is it a deal?"
A parasite eager to suck blood—Dumarest recognized the
type. Had recognized it from the first and had set the stage to
achieve the result he wanted. Arken's greed, channeled and
contained, would make him a useful tool.
"Here. A hundred for expenses." Coins rattled on the table
beneath his hand then, as Arken reached for them, steel
whispered from leather as Dumarest lifted the knife from his
boot. In the illumination the blade gleamed with the hue of
burnished gold but the needle point resting against Arken's
throat held the burning chill of ice. "Rob me and you'll regret it. I
want you to believe that."
"I—" Arken swallowed, cringing from the knife, the threat
clear in the eyes of the man who faced him. No tourist this,
despite his soft living and casual hospitality. No easy gull to be
robbed while fed empty lies. "Man! For God's sake! There's no
need for this!"
For a moment longer the steel held his eyes, then it vanished
as quickly as it had appeared. Arken touched the place where it
had rested, stared at the fleck of blood marring his hand. A
minor wound, barely noticeable, but the blade could have as
easily opened his throat. Wine spilled as Arken tilted the flagon,
a small pool of ruby resting on the polished wood of the table.
One which looked too much like blood.
He said, unsteadily, "Why do that? We had a deal. You can
trust me."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"I'll find him," promised Arken. "If Celto Loffredo is alive I'll
find him."
"Tell him nothing when you do. Just bring me word."
Arken nodded, gulping at the wine in his glass, looking at the
soft comfort of the room. Those present had seen nothing of
what had taken place; Dumarest had masked the incident with
arm and body. He remembered the speed, the sting of the point,
the naked ferocity he had seen in the eyes and face of his host.
There had been no pretense. It had been no empty threat.
"A hundred?"
"Five," said Dumarest. "Less a hundred for each day I'm kept
waiting. Keep me waiting too long and I'll want to know why."
He touched a finger in the pool of wine and drew a ruby streak
over the table. "If you want to quit leave now."
Arken resisted the temptation. His head tilted as Dumarest
rose to his feet, yellow light casting a sheen on the smoothness of
his clothing. Somber garb but as functional as the man himself.
A hard man who followed a hard road—Arken's hand shook as
he reached for more wine.
The restaurant had two doors: one which led through a
vestibule to the outside, the other leading into the hotel, the bar,
the small casino the place contained. Dumarest heard the click of
balls, the chant of a croupier as he fed a spinning wheel.
"Pick your combination. Red, black or one of each. Three
chances of winning at every spin of the wheel. Place your bets,
now. Place your bets!"
An adaption of an ancient game but one with a false
attraction. Winners gained two to one which made the house
margin unacceptably high to any knowledgeable gambler. Even
so the table was crowded, a matron, her raddled face thick with
paint, squealing her pleasure as both balls settled in the red.
"I've won! Jac! I've won!"
Her escort, young, slim, neat in expensive clothing, dutifully
smiled his pleasure at her success. Dumarest watched as he
helped pile the winnings into a rounded head, two chips
vanishing as, deftly, he palmed them from sight. A bonus to add
to his fee for the company he provided, the kisses he would give,
the caresses she would demand.
"Earl!" The voice was high, clear, rising above the sound of the
tables. "Earl Dumarest! Here!"
She was tall, slender, hair neatly cut in a severe style which
framed the sharp piquancy of her face. Her smile widened as
Dumarest moved toward her. He smiled back; Claire Hashein
had once been close.
"Earl, it's good to see you again." Her hand, strong,
long-fingered, rested on his arm. "What brings you to Erkalt?"
"What brings you?"
"Business." Her shrug was expressive. "Some fool of a
manufacturer thinks the local furs are unique and insisted that I
make a personal selection of the best. Nonsense, of course, any
competent furrier could do the job as well as I can, but why
should I argue when all expenses are being paid? Anyway, it suits
my purpose. You?"
"It suits my purpose also."
"Naturally."
Her hand fell from his arm and she stared up at him, head
thrown back a little to expose the long, clean lines of her throat.
Now, no longer smiling, she looked older than she had. A skilled
and clever woman who wore exuberance like a mask. Then,
abruptly, she was smiling again.
"I'm really pleased to meet you, Earl. You came on the Canedo
?"
The last ship to have landed. "Yes."
"I've been here days. We traveled on the Gual. A ghastly
journey. The talk was all of the games. I was bored to tears but
Carl loved it. He's a natural-born hunter. We met on Servais
while I was completing an assignment. Creating a wedding gown
for the daughter of the local magnate," she explained. "I guess
her recommendation got me my present commission."
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