Tubb, E.C. - Dumarest 13 - Eye of the Zodiac

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Eye of the Zodiac

#13 in the Dumarest series

E.C Tubb

Chapter One

At night the sound was that of a monster, a feral roar which

rose to the skies and was carried on the wind, a hungry growling

interspersed with staccato explosions which thickened the air

and left an acrid taint. At day the monster was revealed as a

conglomeration of men and machines which tore into the flank

of a mountain, delving deep, gutting ancient stone and

pulverizing rock for the sake of the metal it contained.

A dual operation, the metal helping to pay for the pass and

tunnel which would link inhabited areas, a passage which would

rob the sea and sky of expensive and dangerous transport.

One day it would be completed—but Dumarest had no

intention of seeing it. Already he had stayed on Tradum too long.

He stood by the door of the hut which housed fifty men,

looking towards the west, seeing the fabulous glory of the sunset.

Swaths of red and orange, pink and gold, streamers of purple

and emerald caught and reflected by the mist of scudding cloud

so that he seemed to be looking upward at the surface of some

incredible ocean.

A relaxing sight, something to ease the fatigue born of eight

hours continuous labor. Now he faced another shift as an extra

night-guard. Hard work but added pay. Soon, he would have

enough.

"Earl?" He turned as someone called. "You out there, Earl?"

Leon Harvey, young, thin, his face old before its time. He

stepped from the hut, bunking, a towel over his arm. His face

brightened as he saw Dumarest.

"You should have woken me," he accused. "You know how

Nyther is—once late on the job and you lose it."

"That could be a good thing."

"Why?" Stung, his pride touched, the youngster bridled.

"Don't you think I can take it?"

"Can you?"

"Sure I can. I'm tired, true, but I'll get over it. It just takes

getting used to. Anyway, I need the money."

Wanted, not needed, a difference Dumarest recognized if the

other did not. He made no comment, stepping to where a trough

stood beneath a line of faucets, stripping and standing beneath

one, water laving his head and body as he twisted a control.

Cold water piped from a mountain stream, numbing but

refreshing, causing goose pimples to rise on his skin, the chill

accentuating the pallor of the thin lines of old scars which

marred his torso.

Shivering, his lips blue, Leon hastily rubbed himself down,

"You're tough, Earl," he said enviously. "That water's close to

freezing."

Dumarest reached for his towel. In many ways Leon was a

nuisance, but he could recognize the youngster's need, even be a

little amused by his claim to affinity. He too had traveled, a few

trips to nearby worlds, but it was more than that which had won

his tolerance. The boy was star-crazed, filled with the yearning

for adventure, unable to see dirt and squalor for what it really

was. One day, perhaps, he would learn.

"Earl—"

"You talk too much."

"How else am I to learn." Leon watched as Dumarest dressed,

wearing pants, sturdy knee-boots, a tunic long in the sleeves and

fitting high around the throat. The gray plastic was scuffed in

several places, the glint of buried mesh showing, metallic

protection against the thrust of a knife, the rip of a claw.

Reflected light from the setting sun winked from the nine-inch

blade which Dumarest carefully wiped before slipping it into his

right boot.

"Earl!"

"What now?"

"When we get the money—when I get it—can I go with you?"

"No."

"Why not? We could travel together. I could help you, maybe,

and—why not, Earl?"

Too many reasons, none of which the youngster would

understand. His very desire for companionship showed how

unfitted he was to follow the way he had chosen. A man traveled

faster alone. It was easier to get one berth than two. And two

men would be easier to spot than one.

Dumarest said, "Forget it, Leon."

"Why? Is someone after you? Is that it, Earl? Are you in

danger of some kind?"

A guess—or perhaps a comment too shrewd for comfort.

Certainly too near the truth. Dumarest looked at the young face,

the haggardness it revealed, the fatigue. Medical science could

have made him appear younger, intensive training taught him a

part to play, rewards offered and promises made. There could be

a thousand like him scattered on worlds in this sector, placed

where a destitute traveler would look for work, waiting, watchful,

doing nothing until the time came to report to their masters.

Was Leon Harvey an agent of the Cyclan?

"Earl?"

"Nothing—I was thinking. Where is your home world?"

"Nerth. Not too far from here. I—"

"Nerth?"

"Yes. Earl, is something wrong? Your face—" Dumarest forced

himself to relax. It was coincidence, it could be nothing more. A

name which held a special association. Nerth, Earth, an

accident, surely. Yet hope, never dead, responded to the familiar

sound. A lure, perhaps? If Leon was an agent of the Cyclan, he

could have offered no greater enticement.

"Earth," said Dumarest. "You said Earth?"

"Earth?" Leon smiled. "Earl, are you crazy? Who the hell

would call any planet by that name? No, I said Nerth. It's a quiet

world, too quiet for me, I ran as soon as I got the chance. And

I'm going to keep on running. Just as soon as I get enough for a

passage I'm on my way. Right smack towards the Center. You've

been there, Earl?"

"Yes."

"And you'll come with me?"

"Before we can go anywhere," said Dumarest. "We need the

money."

* * *

They all needed money, the men who worked on the project,

contract slaves killing themselves with labor to pay an

ever-expanding debt. Men who had accepted an advance, spent

money on clothes, drinks, luxury foods. They had tried to recoup

by gambling and had lost. They stood in the middle of the hut,

watching with envious eyes as others, luckier or more sensible,

played with cash they still could call their own.

The lure of easy money, a fortunate win which would enable

them to pay off what they owed, accumulate a little more, get a

stake with which to beat the system. Some managed it, the

majority did not. They would work until they died, the victims of

speed-accentuated risks, of haste-compounded errors. Fools who

had walked willingly into a trap.

Elg Sonef was not one of them. He was a big man, squat, his

face seamed, the knuckles of both hands scarred, the spatulate

fingers surprisingly deft as he manipulated the deck of cards.

Every hut held one of his kind, the man who ran the game, who

used fists and feet to collect and to maintain his monopoly.

"The more you put down the more you pick up," he droned.

His voice was harsh, rasping, careless of the exhausted men

trying to sleep in the double-tiered bunks. "Come on, lads, why

hesitate? The canteen has a new consignment of liquor and you

get paid in two days time. A little luck and you could take your

pick of the seraglio. Why wait for luxuries?" Cards riffled from

his fingers. "Make your bets. Even money on any choice."

The game was high, low, man-in-between, a simple game with

simple rules. A cloth was spread on the table divided into three

sections, each section with three parts. A card was dealt face up

before each of the three main sections and players bet on

whether it would be the highest, lowest or, the one between the

others in value. Duplicates canceled out the middle. If all values

were alike they paid high.

Sonef was playing by his own rules, ignoring relative odds and

ensuring that, with all sections covered, he had a high

advantage. An advantage increased by his own skillful dealing.

Dumarest watched, a little amused, wondering how the

players could have been so gullible. At his side Leon said,

wistfully, "Earl, we could double our stake in a few minutes with

luck."

"Luck?"

"You think he's cheating?"

Dumarest was certain of it, but it was not his concern. He

turned from the cluster of players and moved towards his bunk,

thumbing open the small box at the head. The towel was still

damp, but if he left it exposed it would be stolen. He threw it

into the container and slammed it shut. It would stay that way

until the lock recognized the imprint of his thumb.

"It's getting late, Leon. Let's eat."

The canteen was a crude hut filled with tables and benches,

staffed with old men and cripples, a scatter of Hyead. Dumarest

stepped aside as one came towards him busy with a broom. A

thin, stooped figure, dressed in filthy robes tied with knotted

string. A ravaged face, peaked, the eyes slotted like those of a

goat. Blunt horns rose above a tangle of hair, gray shot with

russet. The hands which held the broom were four-fingered

claws.

Despised, degenerate, the product of wild mutations, found

running like animals in the mountains by the early settlers and

now used as servitors.

Cheap labor, working for discarded clothing and scraps of

food, kicked, cursed, or ignored by men who were themselves

little better than beasts.

Dumarest led the way to the counter, picking carefully at the

food, selecting items high in protein and low in bulk. An

expensive choice, but one which gave better nutritional value

than the steaming chaff bought by the majority.

As they ate Leon said, "Earl, how did you know Sonef was

cheating?"

"Did I say he was?"

"No, but was he?"

"You saw the way he dealt, cards face up and using no regular

rotation. He was manipulating the bets, letting the low stakes

win, taking the high. Once you know how to bottom-deal it's

easy."

"Could you do it?"

Dumarest ignored the question. "Tell me about Nerth."

"It's a dump."

"And?"

"It's just a world, Earl. A backwater. Mostly farms, no

industries, hardly any cities. Ships are rare. They only call to pick

up furs and gems, and deliver tools and instruments. No one

with any sense would want to go there."

"And you ran," said Dumarest quietly. "Why?"

"Why did you?" snapped Leon. "What started you on the

move?" Immediately he was contrite. "I'm sorry, I guess that's

none of my business. Let's just say that I was bored."

"A young man," said Dumarest. "You had a family, a home?"

"If you can call it that, yes." Leon stared down at his plate,

then seemed to come to a decision. "I belonged to a commune,

Earl. It lay well back in the hills and was as isolated as you could

get. Maybe I'm a freak of some kind, but I couldn't accept what

they had planned for me. The tests, the ritual, the arranged

marriage, the duties." His laugh was bitter. "The duties. Can you

guess what they would have been? Just guarding a lot of old

records. A Keeper of the Shrine. In twenty years, maybe, I'd have

made assistant Guardian. In fifty, I might have even become the

Head. Fifty years of dusting, brooding, worshiping—I couldn't

face it, I had to run."

"How?"

"I—does it matter?"

A boy, twisted, unsettled according to his fellows, a rebel, a

failure. Someone who would have planned, waited and stolen

when the time came. Something of value which would have been

sold to gain the initial passage money—an old story and a

familiar one. Only the name held an unusual connotation. Nerth.

"You spoke of records. What were they?"

"Books, papers, I don't know." Leon shrugged at Dumarest's

expression. "I never saw them. They are held sacred. A load of

superstitious rubbish, of course, but there it is. Once a year we

had a ceremony and everyone congregated, and chanted and

acted like a bunch of fools. I'm well out of it."

Coincidence or design? If the latter, then the boy was a good

actor, if he were the boy he appeared to be. A question which

would have to be resolved and soon. A decision made—and if he

guessed wrong then his life would be at stake.

Dumarest leaned back, studying the young face, the eyes.

Would the Cyclan have been so obvious? The name, the talk of

ancient records, a secret to be found, an answer to be gained

perhaps. The answer for which he had searched for so long.

Nerth… New Earth… Earth—there had to be a connection.

"Earl?" Leon had become aware of the scrutiny. "Is anything

wrong?"

"No." Dumarest rose to his feet. "We'd better get moving. I'll

join you at the hut."

"Why not go together?"

Dumarest made no answer, crossing to a vending machine,

waiting until the other had gone before filling his pocket with

bars of candy.

* * *

As usual, Nyther was in a foul mood. He stood behind his desk

in the guard hut, a big man with a craggy face and hard,

unrelenting eyes. His shoulders strained at the fabric of his

uniform, a bolstered laser heavy at his waist. He nodded as

Dumarest entered and crossed to a table to collect his

equipment.

To Leon he said, "You looked peaked, boy. I'm not sure you

can handle the job."

"I can handle it."

"Maybe, but I'm putting you under Nygas. If you want to quit,

now's the time."

A threat and a warning. Nygas was noted for his ferocity. Men

who slept on duty under his command woke up screaming with

shattered bones.

"I'm not quitting."

"Then get out of here." As the boy left Nyther said to

Dumarest, "I'm putting you on free-patrol, Earl. Work the

southeastern sector. It means an increase and a double bonus if

you catch anyone stealing. I've had a gutful of losses and it has to

stop."

"More lights would help."

"More lights, more men and more equipment," agreed Nyther

bleakly. "Given the money, there's always an answer. But we

haven't got the money so it's no use dreaming about it. Just stay

alert, keep moving, summon help if you think you need it, and

remember the bonus."

Outside night had fallen, the area illuminated by floodlights

set on pylons, swaths of brilliance cut by paths of shadow, the

face of the workings a blaze of eye-bright glare. Men moved

about it like ants, machines throbbing, diggers, loaders, trucks,

making an endless snarl.

Dumarest turned, heading towards his position, moving in

shadow and noting everything he saw.

A group of men arguing, on the edge of a fight, ready to kick

and pummel.

A crane, the load swinging dangerously, carelessly held.

An overseer, yelling, his arms flailing to accentuate his orders.

And, everywhere, the signs of haste and urgency, the traces of

poverty and neglect.

Of men, never of machines. The Zur-Sekulich Combine took

care of their own.

The roar from the workings died a little, fading to a grating

susurration as Dumarest neared the edge of the construction

site. Stores and supplies stood in neat array, crates piled high,

lashed and sealed, standing until needed. The ground was rough,

bristling with rocks, laced with small cracks which could trap a

foot and break an ankle. The pylons were fewer, the shadows

wider.

Passing the last of the crates Dumarest halted, his body

silhouetted against the light. For a long moment he stood clearly

visible to anyone who might be watching from the surrounding

darkness, then he moved to one side and rested his back against

a crate.

There were ways to guard a depot and of them all, the

Zur-Sekulich had chosen the most inefficient. There should have

been infra-red detectors set in an unbroken ring about the area,

men with light-amplifying devices on continual watch, rafts with

sensors to spot any movement in the darkness. There should

have been a close-mesh fence twenty feet high with special areas

for the stores.

All things which cost money. Men and equipment which were

unproductive and therefore undesirable. It was cheaper to use

men, to send them out and, if they should be killed, where was

the loss?

Dumarest had no intention of getting himself killed. He had

chosen a better way.

Awhile and he moved again, standing before the light,

returning to his former position. To one side, something moved.

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EyeoftheZodiac#13intheDumarestseriesE.CTubbChapterOneAtnightthesoundwasthatofamonster,aferalroarwhichrosetotheskiesandwascarriedonthewind,ahungrygrowlinginterspersedwithstaccatoexplosionswhichthickenedtheairandleftanacridtaint.Atdaythemonsterwasrevealedasaconglomerationofmenandmachineswhichtoreintot...

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Tubb, E.C. - Dumarest 13 - Eye of the Zodiac

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