E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 24 - Nectar of Heaven

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Nectar of Heaven

E.C Tubb

Chapter One

All night the wind had droned over the workings dying at

dawn when a pale yellow sun had illuminated a world

transfigured by cold. Ice coated the mounds and gullies, frosted

the humped buildings, gave a transient beauty to the harsh lines

of functional machines. A thin, white blanket covered the torn

and ravaged soil, snow filling hollows and softening peaks, a dry

powder which held treachery.

"Dangerous." Hart Vardoon kicked at the accumulation, a

white dust flying from his boot. "Be careless and you could slip,

break a leg, maybe." He glanced at the humped machines.

"Worse, even."

Dumarest glanced at the mechanisms; tall, their fronts set

with curved teeth, the whole moving on wide treads. The

operators sat back and to one side guiding the tearing action of

the grabs which tore into the dirt and sent it in massed lumps to

one side. If a worker should slip and fall the chances were high

he would be unnoticed, his body joining the dirt in a red-stained

mass.

"A freak." Wiess had joined them. He stood shivering, his face

pinched beneath the surrounding fabric of his hood. "It's too

early for snow. Once the sun gets high it'll thaw the stuff to

water. Dry it out too," he added quickly. Sodden ground was

impossible to work. "A couple of hours should do it."

"You sure about that?"

"Take my word for it, Earl." Wiess shivered again and beat

patched gloves against his chest. "This is my third season and

I've seen freak storms before. We've got weeks yet, a month at

least."

Vardoon shook his head as the man walked off toward his

position. Behind him one of the machines woke to strident life,

others following, metal grating as treads joined grabs in

preparatory movement. Within minutes the workings would be

in full operation.

"What do you think, Earl? Has Wiess got it right?"

"You saw his clothing."

"Too thin and too worn. A blast would go right through it and

he hasn't the fat to fight cold. A gambler too."

"One who loses."

"As I've noticed." Vardoon scowled, scar tissue bunching on

his face, turning it into a mask of savage ferocity. "Three

seasons," he said. "Stuck on Polis for that long and he still lacks

decent clothing. What do you think, Earl?"

Dumarest studied the sky, the pale orb of the sun fogged by

high-drifting cloud. The wind had fallen but the air held a fresh,

astringent odor together with the bite of chill. Far to the north

rested a dullness; massed cloud laced with paler hues. Against

them a flight of birds arrowed toward the south.

"Well?" Vardoon was impatient. "Have we a month or what?"

Dumarest said, "I'm a stranger here, Hart, like yourself, but if

I had money owing I'd collect it now."

"I'm not fool enough to lend. So—" He broke off as an overseer

yelled his anger. "We'd better get to work before he blows his

top. See you later."

He moved off and Dumarest set to work. The workings were

open-cast mining, the machines ripping into the surface of an

ancient seabed, the lumps of dirt cascading from the grabs

containing nodules of manganese. With long-hafted hammers

Dumarest and the other scudgers broke up the lumps and

searched for the mineral. Pay was based on what they found.

It was hard, unremitting labor, today harder than usual. The

chilled ground yielded too slowly to the impact of the hammers,

the dirt taking too long to crumble. But, if nothing else, the

activity generated body heat.

Dumarest straightened, throwing back the cowl of the

thermal garment he wore over his own clothing, feeling the sweat

dry on his face beneath the touch of a gentle wind. To the north

the clouds were darker than before, the sun a little more hazed.

Turning, he saw a raft lift from the administration area, the

transparent canopy sealed, shimmering with reflected light as it

caught the sun, the shapes within humped and indistinct.

Vardoon joined him as the craft vanished toward the south.

"The top brass," he said. "On the run. They must know

something we don't."

"Maybe not."

"They've left, haven't they? The engineers, the assayers, the

rest." Vardoon slammed his hammer against a lump of dirt and

grunted as the head did nothing but indent the surface. "Three

hits to do the work of one. Five times as long to check for

nodules. How many have earned the price of a meal as yet? Now

that raft—what's the answer, Earl?"

It came during the noon break. Hunched in his furs, the

supervisor was curt.

"We're closing down. Hand in your tools before dark.

Tomorrow you get paid. Transportation to town will be provided

at noon."

A man chose to object. "Hell, why the hurry? It's early yet."

"That's right." The supervisor nodded. "If things were normal

there'd be five or six weeks before winter closed us down. But

things aren't normal. A storm's brewing and we want out while

the going's good."

"Can we take a chance?" Wiess? Dumarest looked and saw

another just like him, one just as desperate. "Work on for a

couple of weeks at least? Hell, man, we've had storms before."

"Sure, but it's too close to winter. We're closing down."

Dumarest reached for his stew as the protests continued. It

was thick, rich with synthetic meats, laced with spices, hot and

warming to throat and stomach. Top-brass food but he could

afford it. As he tore a morsel from a crust Vardoon slipped into

the seat at his side.

"So now we know." He set down his own bowl and reached for

his spoon. "It's time to move on." He frowned at the continued

noise. "Listen to them howl. Crazy—did they think the job would

last forever?"

Dumarest shrugged. The noise was born of desperation, of

those who had hoped to accumulate a stake so as to move on

from the trap that was Polis. A futile hope—the pay was too little

to provide other than sustenance. Now they had lost even that.

But, tonight, the sharks would be hungry for a final killing.

"Beldo's planning a game," said Vardoon. "Cash or paper

against pay. Want in?"

"No. How's he going to make sure he collects?"

"A list from the office and a few goons to take care of trouble."

Vardoon tore at his bread. "They can be handled. You've run a

table before, Earl, right? Maybe we could make a killing."

As Beldo hoped to do, as Imman, as Tai'Hun and a couple of

others. Predators who would skin the stupid and the desperate

with marked cards, loaded dice, fixed games. A part of camp life

no matter what the world. Leeches tolerated by the authorities

for the kickback they provided.

"Did you hear that?" Wiess came to join them. He was

trembling. "Down and out—just like that! How am I going to get

by? It takes money to gain the shelter of town, more to eat and if

I fall sick—what the hell can I do?"

"Pray," said Vardoon. Dumarest was more helpful.

"Offer yourself on contract," he advised. "You'll get food and

shelter in return for work."

"Sure." Wiess was bitter. "Twenty hours a day and sleep in a

corner. Winding up with a debt I won't be able to pay. So next

season I get sold to the owners as a drudge." His hand lifted to

pull at his tunic, the imagined collar around his throat. "I'd end

up a damned sight worse than I am now."

"You'd be alive," said Dumarest. His bowl was empty and he

pushed it aside. Hours of daylight remained and should not be

wasted.

That night the wind was gentle but the ice remained and the

clouds to the north were higher, darker, closer than before.

Masses of vapor in tormented balance, turbulence which created

vortexes, temperatures balanced on a delicate edge. High-flying

craft could have seeded the mass with chemicals and artificially

created eletro-compounds to trigger the mass into release and

quietude but the operation took money and materials the mine

owners were unwilling to spend. The profits were too small as it

was, the season closing, why waste effort for so little reward?

A sudden gust sent hail rattling against the windows and

Dumarest turned, tense, relaxing as he isolated the cause of the

sound. Vardoon grunted from where he stood next in line.

"You've fought, Earl. On Jaldrach?"

"No."

"Other places, then. I can spot a mercenary—a good one

responds to the sound of gunfire like a well-trained dog." His

eyes roved over the neutral gray plastic of Dumarest's tunic and

pants, the high boots, the hilt of the knife riding above the right.

A match for his own dull olive, the boots different, the material

lacking the polished places on which protective armor had

rested. Neater, more recently refurbished, but to his eye an

unmistakable uniform.

That of a traveler, a rover, an adventurer among the stars.

Ahead of them a man swore in shocked disbelief.

"This all? Hell, I damned near broke my back for a week and

for this?"

"You owed for shelter, clothing, a shot of antibiotics when you

skinned your knee. Next!"

A big man, smiling, a sheaf of paper in his hand. Slips given

by those he had skinned. The official checked them, paid, looked

to the next in line.

A short line—too many had nothing to collect.

Outside, the rafts were loading the men bound for the town.

Two lifted as Dumarest watched, rising slowly, veering as their

drivers gained altitude, heavy, sluggish craft, designed more for

the moving of freight than speed. Neither was canopied and the

men crammed into the open bodies huddled together for

warmth. Above, the sun had just passed zenith.

"Keep moving there!" the supervisor yelled to those handling

the loading. "Get 'em full and get 'em on their way!" He turned,

scowling, his face clearing as he saw Dumarest. "Earl! I've been

watching out for you. Got a minute?"

Dumarest hesitated, glancing at the loading area. Two rafts

remained, both rapidly filling.

"There'll be more," said the supervisor. "Everyone will get

transport."

"When?"

"Later today. The first ones were hired to do a double trip.

You'll lose nothing by waiting—at least you'll have cover."

The ones expected had canopies, then. A comfort worth the

delay.

"Just a word," said the supervisor, "but let's get into the

warm."

His office was snug, adorned with maps, prints, geological

schematics. A pile of manganese nodules rested on a table with

the assay report beside them. A hammer stood in a corner

together with a pair of boots caked with dried mud. A parka

hung on a nail behind the door. From a cupboard the supervisor

took a bottle and two glasses. Pouring, he offered one to

Dumarest then lifted his own.

"Health!"

A toast to which Dumarest responded. The spirit was raw and

heavy with the odor of smoke, but his system was grateful for the

warmth it gave.

"A bad one," mused his host. "The storm, I mean. We got a

special report—but I guess you know that."

"I suspected it when I saw the administrators leave."

"Smart." The supervisor refilled both glasses. "I've been

watching you, Earl. You and some others. How are you fixed for

a stake?"

"I can manage."

"So I imagined-—a pity in a way, but if you were like the rest

we wouldn't be talking. I'll make it short. If you want I can offer

you a winter job."

Dumarest shook his head.

"Now take your time," urged the supervisor. "Think about it.

Shelter and food and warmth until the next season. Subsistence,

but a smart man could add to it. One who can handle a deck, for

example?" His eyes were direct. "You know what I'm talking

about?"

"You've money here," said Dumarest. "Machines, stores,

housing, tools, equipment and all the rest of it. It's cheaper to

hire guards than to move it."

"That's right. Take on the job and you'll be on the cadre next

season. Regular pay, no sweat with the hammer, one of the

established. An easy number," he urged. "Extra pay for handling

a digger. Just run guard during the winter, do your duty, help

entertain the others and you'll not regret it." He frowned as

again Dumarest shook his head. "No?"

"No." Dumarest finished his drink. "But I thank you for the

offer."

"It's a good one," the supervisor insisted. "And yours if you

want it."

"For how much?"

"As I said, you're smart." The man smiled and moved thumb

against finger in an unmistakable gesture. "Ten percent for

me—fair?"

More than fair. The man was entitled to his reward for giving

a snug berth and what it entailed. But Dumarest had other

plans.

"Thanks for the drinks," he said. "But the answer's still no.

Why not try someone who needs the job more than I do? Wiess,

for instance."

"A loser." The supervisor shook his head. "You know better than

that, Earl. He's broke and desperate. He'll cut corners on the job,

try to steal, try to build a stake by cheating at cards. They'll catch

him and we'll be a man short. I can't risk the trouble." He

shrugged, corking the bottle. "Well, think it over. I like the way

you went to work yesterday when most of the others were

flapping their gums. Change your mind, let me know, eh?"

It was late when the rafts finally returned. Dumarest moved

forward with those waiting, while an overseer snapped his

impatience.

"Come on! Come on! Get aboard or get left. You miss this trip

and you walk!"

A man said, "Which raft do I take?"

"Any you like—no reservations. Just get on and let's finish the

closedown."

The man ran to where a raft was almost full. It lifted as he

swung himself into the body, his legs kicking as others hauled

him to safety. Wiess, panting, ran past Dumarest and swore as

Vardoon barred his passage.

"What the hell? Let me on!"

"Take another one." Vardoon called to Dumarest as the man

scuttled away. "Here, Earl! Over here!"

The raft he had chosen was small, canopied, the body fitted

with longitudinal benches. The driver sat at his controls in the

front, turning as Dumarest climbed aboard. He said, to Vardoon,

"That's enough, friend. We've a full load."

The raft could have held more but Dumarest didn't argue. A

light load meant greater speed and safety. He sat on one of the

benches as the canopy swung into place. Beyond it the other rafts

lifted, fanning out as they headed toward the town. One

remained, the last aside from themselves. The overseer was

talking to the driver and, as Dumarest watched, he shrugged and

turned away. A final straggler made his way to it, climbed

aboard, sat waiting.

"Up," said Vardoon to the driver. "Let's move!"

He joined Dumarest as the vehicle lifted, the antigrav units in

the hull emitting a thin whine—an unusual sound and Dumarest

frowned as he heard it. Normally the lift was silent, only the

forward propulsion creating a drone from the air. But the wind

may have aggravated a structural defect, badly designed units or

a faulty repair giving rise to an organ-like resonance.

"Polis," said Vardoon. "I'll be glad to see the back of it. Short

seasons, extremes of heat and cold, people living like moles aside

from a brief period a couple of times a year." He made a sound

as if about to spit. "You can keep it. New to you, Earl?"

"No."

"I guess not. A traveler lands on many strange planets. Me, I

like civilized worlds. Societies which can afford to pay for certain

pleasures. People who like their comfort and are willing to do

something to get it."

Like waging war with hired soldiers. Using profits to buy

another's blood. Dumarest stirred, looking down at the ground

now far below. An unbroken expanse of whiteness which rippled

as if at the touch of a caressing hand. The kiss of wind which

stirred it as if it had been a sea. To the north the sky was dark

with menace.

"Damned storm." A man sitting opposite scowled at the

terrain. "A few more weeks and I'd have saved enough to buy a

Low passage. Now I'm stuck for the winter. Come the next

season I'll be ready to work for essentials. Damn the luck!"

"Some make their own," said another. "I hear Beldo cleaned

up."

"So did Tai'Hun." A man sitting at the rear of the driver

added his share to the conversation. "Some make it the easy

way." His eyes rested on Vardoon, moved toward Dumarest.

"Some don't need to make it at all."

"Meaning?" Vardoon's face twisted in a snarl. "If you've

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 24 - Nectar of Heaven

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