E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 27 - Earth is Heaven

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Earth is Heaven by E. C.

Tubb

Chapter One

With a jerk he was awake, sweating from dreams of blood and

death and remembered pain. The walls of the cabin seemed to

swirl in the faint glow of artificial dawn, then it was over and

Dumarest sat on the edge.of his bunk, sucking air into his lungs,

conscious of the sweat dewing face and naked torso. The product

of nightmare born of fatigue induced by too many watches

maintained too long.

And yet?

He leaned back to rest his shoulders against the bulkhead,

aware of the metal, the bunk on which he sat, the ship in which

they were contained. It enclosed him like a thing alive, the pulse

of the engine transmitted by hull and stanchions emitting a

whispering susurration which hung like a fading ghost echo in

the air. Beneath his questing fingers he felt the reassuring tingle

which told of the Erhaft field in being. The ship, wrapped in its

cocoon, was still hurtling between the stars. It made a sealed

world of warmth and security against the hostile environment of

the void.

Yet something was wrong.

Dumarest sensed it as he looked around the cabin; the

familiar tension which warned of impending danger. A prickling

of the skin and an unease which he had learned never to ignore.

He rose, reaching for his clothing, donning pants, boots and

tunic to stand tall in neutral grey. From beneath his pillow he

lifted his knife, steel flashing as he thrust the nine inches of

curved and pointed steel into his right boot. Here, in his cabin

on his own ship, he should be safe, but old habits died hard.

Ysanne reared upright as he opened her door, arms lifting,

lips parted in a smile.

"Earl! How nice of you to come. How did you guess I'd been

hoping you'd join me?" Her smiled changed into a frown as she

saw his expression. "Trouble?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"The field?" She touched the bulkhead, repeating his earlier

test, registering her relief at what she found. "It's still active. We

aren't drifting, thank God. So what's the matter?"

"I can't tell. It's just a feeling I have." Dumarest looked at the

woman, at her hair, her face, the smooth contours of her body

bared by the fallen cover. Looked and saw nothing but the

specialist she was. "Join Andre and make a check. I'll be with

Jed."

Craig didn't move as Dumarest entered the engine room. The

engineer sat slumped before his console, a bottle standing to one

side, a vial containing tablets close to his hand. A broad man, no

longer young, rust-colored hair cropped to form a helmet over

his skull. The scar tissue ruining his face gleamed with reflected

light. "Jed?"

"I wasn't asleep!" Craig reared as Dumarest touched his

shoulder. "I was just easing my head—the damn thing aches like

fury."

Dumarest said nothing, noting the sweat dewing the man's

face, the rapidity of his breathing. Lifting the bottle he tasted the

contents, finding water sweetened and laced with citrus. The

tablets were to ease pain.

He said, "I want a complete check of all installations. Start

with the generator."

"It's sweet." Craig gestured at the panel. "See? Every light in

the green. No variation to speak of. Which is just as it should be.

It's a new unit, Earl. And I supervised the installation myself."

The truth and checks proved its efficiency. As they did the

power supply, the monitors, the governors and relays, the

servo-mechanisms.

Batrun called from the control room. "Ysanne told me of your

fears, Earl. Have you found anything wrong?"

"Not as yet, Andre. You?"

"All is functioning as it should be. Maybe you had a

nightmare. Ysanne—" Her voice took over from the captain's.

"All clear as far as I can make out, Earl. But we're getting close to

the Chandorah. We'll have to change course if we hope to avoid

it." She added, musingly, "Maybe that's what your hunch is all

about. The Chandorah's trouble enough for any ship. You knew it

was close and it could have played on your mind."

Maybe, but Dumarest didn't think so. He said, "How's your

head?"

"It feels heavy. Why?"

"Andre?"

"A slight ache. Pills will cure it."

The pills should have cured the engineer's, but even as

Dumarest turned from the intercom he saw the man help himself

to more. Headaches—his own temples had begun to throb,

lassitude, excessive warmth—why had he been so blind?

"The air," he said. "Something's wrong with the air. Let's

check the plant."

Access lay behind a panel lying in a compartment thick with

crude adornment. Graffiti showed in a profusion of images,

hieroglyphs, names. Scratches incised by a variety of hands;

bored mercenaries, passengers, crewmen, poor wretches held

captive before being sold into slavery. In its time the Erce had

carried them all.

The panel itself was five feet high, three broad, edged with

hexagonal bolts. On it some unknown artist had drawn a picture

of grotesque obscenity. It blurred as Dumarest heaved on his

wrench, sweat stinging his eyes, the picture taking on a new and

different form. The writhing limbs became a surround for the

central figure, the wantonly cruel face altering to adopt the stark

outlines of a skull. An optical illusion reminding the viewer that

things are not always what they seem.

Craig grunted as the panel swung open. "I'll make the check.

There isn't room for two and I know what I'm doing." He

fumbled at the edge of the opening and light flared to illuminate

cleats and grills bearing small strands of colored material which

fluttered in the wind created by the passage of air. "We've

circulation at least. Give me time and I'll make a full report."

Dumarest said, "Just find out what's wrong."

He waited as the engineer delved into the plant, hearing

scrapes and metallic sounds, a muffled cursing. When he

returned he was blunt.

"It's dead, Earl. The fans are working but the exchangers are

useless. We're down to negative efficiency. It's the catalysts," he

explained. "You know how they work. Air is circulated through

the exchangers and wastes are removed; dust, foul odors, all the

rest of it. The catalysts take care of the oxygen content. Ours

don't."

"Repairs?"

"Sure—as soon as I get replacements."

No solution in the present circumstances. Dumarest said,

"Can't something be done with what we have? The units rebuilt

or reconditioned?"

For answer Craig held out a thing of plastic and metal; it was

shaped, fitted with vanes, set with holes, rimmed with frets now

pitted and scarred. A catalyst unit now almost unrecognizable as

such.

"The rest are about the same."

Useless even for scrap. "How long, Jed?"

"Can we last?" Craig frowned, thinking, one hand rising to

touch the scar along his face. "Not long," he decided. "Call it a

matter of days—a week at the most. That's using all resources.

We'll have to land, Earl. And soon."

That decision was backed by Ysanne when she joined

Dumarest in the salon with her charts and almanacs. "With only

a week's air we've little choice. We can reach Aschem or Trube.

Aschem is the closest. We can make it in good time."

He said, "If we hadn't discovered the breakdown for, say, a

couple more days where would we have had to land?"

"Aschem." She didn't hesitate. "It's on our line of flight."

And, on Aschem, the Cyclan would be waiting.

Dumarest was certain of it. The stale air would have left them

no choice as to destination and, but for his instinct, the

breakdown wouldn't have been discovered. The headaches would

have been put down to excessive fatigue; the lassitude the same;

the sweating an added inconvenience. The build-up of carbon

dioxide would have been an insidious poison dulling the very

intelligence needed to discover it.

Sabotage—the incident reeked of it, but he said nothing.

"Earl?" Ysanne stared at him, frowning. "We have to pick one

or the other," she reminded. "Do I change course for Trabe?"

"No."

"But—"

"We maintain our present course." He wanted to do the

unexpected. To avoid the waiting trap. He said, "Jed was too

pessimistic, we can make the air last longer than a week. And we

can do without replacement parts for a while. All we need is a

world with breathable air. It's up to you to find us one."

"I'm a navigator," she said tightly. "Not a miracle worker.

And, in case you've forgotten, we're heading into the

Chandorah."

The region was rife with danger for any vessel venturing too

close. The very radiance which gave the stars their splendor

rilled space with roiling forces; surging waves of radiation when

caught and guided by etheric currents cojoined to form nodes of

gravitational flux and areas of violent destruction. These

vortexes could take a ship and twist it into a parody of its

original shape. The energies would turn metal into incandescent

vapor, flesh and bone into a fuming gas.

She said, when he made no comment, "Do we have any

choice?"

"No."

"I'm remembering it's your neck too," she said. "And I can

guess why you don't want to land on Aschem. The Cyclan. I know

they're after you and, one day, I might be told why." She looked

at her hand, clenched to form a fist as it rested on a chart. "One

day—when you trust me enough."

That knowledge she was better without. Dumarest said,

quietly, "Can you do it? Find us a world with air we can tank?"

"In the Chandorah? In a week?" Her shrug was expressive. "I

hope to God it's enough!"

There had been no obsequies. The incident had been handled

by the Cyclan with the cold efficiency which was its pride and

power. Elge was dead, his body and brain reduced to a pinch of

ash, and the only regret possible was that the once-keen

intelligence which had lifted him so high was irrevocably lost.

Now he was nothing but a notation in the data banks and a new

Cyber prime would take his place.

Himself? Avro considered it as he left the chamber where he

had supervised the disposal. He was suited for the position; a

judgment based on intellectual assessment and not on pride. He

had all the needed attributes and his record was free of taint.

From a young child, as a new inductee, later as an acolyte then

as a cyber, he had worked hard and well and achieved maximum

rating. Now he calculated his chances, using his trained skill to

evaluate the facts and to extrapolate the most probable sequence

of events.

He would be among those selected for consideration by the

Council to fill the vacant office—the probability was as close to

certainty as anything could be. He would be chosen above all

others aside from one—and Marie would be the other prospect.

The probability of his being chosen over the other was in the

order of…

"Master!" The figure in the scarlet robe broke into his

introspection as the cyber claimed his attention. "The Council

summons you to appear before them. You will follow me into

their presence."

The ritual was loaded with ancient associations. It was born

of the need of the Council to remind any future cyber prime that

it and not he was the true power of the Cyclan. This check would

hold wild ambition in rein or prevent deviation from the master

plan, a proven necessity, as so recently demonstrated. If Elge had

not been eliminated, if the madness which had afflicted his mind

had been allowed to flower unchecked, the result would have

been chaos.

But, while remaining sane and efficient, the cyber prime was

the most powerful man the galaxy had ever known.

And the Cyclan was the most powerful organization.

"Report!" Dekel headed the Council, sitting at the head of the

long table, his thin face shrouded by the cowl of his scarlet robe.

He was an old man, as they all were old, for it took time to gain

high position and the experience needed to temper judgment.

More time to set the need of efficiency above all else. This trait

was now demonstrated by Dekel—there was no reason why Avro

should waste time when he could give his report while waiting

for the final decision of the Council.

He said, "Elge has been disposed of. The erasure is complete

and the ash disseminated."

A life ending in failure was the most heinous crime of all as

far as the Cyclan was concerned. To be punished with total

erasure. Not for the late cyber prime the reward of having his

brain incorporated with others, forming the massive complex of

Central Intelligence. There, sealed, fed with nutrients, tended

and protected he would have resided, alive and aware, a mind

released from the hampering confines of the body. The goal for

which every cyber strove. One Elge had lost.

"He was mad," said Thern from where he sat close to Dekel.

"Insane. We can but hope his investigations did nothing to

aggravate the deterioration of the units under study."

Boule said, "Should we countermand the order not to destroy

them?"

Avro realized the question was aimed at himself. Without

hesitation, for to hesitate was to admit indecision, he said, "No.

Elge's reasoning at the time the decision was made remains

sound. Isolated as they are, the units are as safe as they can be

made. Much can be learned from them. Destroyed, they are

valueless."

"Yet the problem remains."

And would always remain until the cause of the affliction

which turned some of the massed brains insane had been

discovered and eliminated.

Icelus, recently elevated to the Council, said, "Your

conclusions?"

Was that a test? Every move he had made, every word he had

spoken since Elge had been deposed had been a test. Now, to

repeat the obvious would be to prove himself inefficient. To

ensure that not now or later would he ever gain higher authority

than he held at this moment.

Had Marie been examined?

How to best demonstrate his better suitability?

After a moment personal ambition was lost in the greater

need. A cyber served the Cyclan not self. Pride, greed, anger,

hate, love—all were emotions which had been eradicated by

training and surgery to leave a living robot of flesh and blood.

Efficiency, reason, logic—the base of every cyber's thinking and

the root of his being. To be otherwise was to be insane.

Avro said, "The continued efficiency of Central Intelligence is

of paramount importance. To maintain that efficiency is of

prime concern."

"We know this." A reproof? Icelus's voice was its usual even

monotone but the words themselves carried a warning. "Is your

conclusion merely to state the obvious?"

"To recapitulate the position."

"Of which we are all aware." Dekel shifted a little in his chair.

Without the facility provided by the massed brains the Cyclan

would be crippled. The cybernetic complex was the heart and

brain of the organization. "You have more?"

"A proposal." Avro looked from one to the other anticipating

their reaction. Boule and Alder would be slow to respond; both

were old, both hovered on the edge of diminished intellectual

ability. If they were wise, neither would be at the next meeting of

the Council. They would yield their position and accept their

reward. Glot could vote either way. Icelus? He, like the others,

would surely recognize the merit of the plan. He continued, "As

the continued function of Central Intelligence is of prime

importance, I suggest that all efforts be directed toward that

end."

"All?" Boule voiced the objection. "The entire resources of the

Cyclan? And what of the master plan?"

Dekel said, "To use excessive effort to achieve a desired effect

is contra-efficient. But your proposal merits examination.

Elaborate."

"From a study of all available data I have reached the

conclusion that the key to the problem lies with the man

Dumarest. Find him and we regain the secret of the affinity twin.

With it we can cure the malady afflicting the units."

"There is no proof of that." Thern was quick with his

comment.

"True, but the probability is in the order of eighty-three per

cent." A prediction based on negative findings but valid just the

same. When all else had failed what remained must contain a

potentially higher value. A fact they all knew and Avro did not

make the mistake of adding explanation. He said, "We must find

Dumarest."

"Another obvious comment to add to the rest." Alder's tone

was as smooth as the others' but his words held a bite. "We have

been searching for Dumarest since it was known he possessed

the secret. We are still working to capture him."

"And will fail as before." Avro voiced his certainty. "Fail and

perhaps leave more dead cybers as proof of our inefficiency. How

often must we repeat an experiment before we are willing to

accept the results? Dumarest is no ordinary man. The record

makes that clear."

"You suggest?"

"He be hunted by a team dedicated to his capture."

"Hunted? It has been tried."

"By a man trained to hunt beasts." Avro looked from Alder's

face, his eyes meeting those of the others in turn. "Dumarest is

not a beast but a clever, cunning, resourceful and ruthless man

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 27 - Earth is Heaven

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