E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 19 - The Quillian Sector

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The Quillian Sector

#19 in the Dumarest series

E.C. Tubb

Cover art by H. R. Van Dongen

DEDICATION

To Julie Emma Hickmott

FIRST PRINTING, DECEMBER 1978

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

Chapter One

A great bowl of flowers had been set on a small table close to

the window so that their petals reflected the light in a mass of

glowing scarlet necked with amber, the stamens a brilliant

yellow around styles of dusty black. The bowl itself was of veined

porphyry, shaped with a rare elegance, curves melting one into

the other to form an object of both visual and tactile beauty. A

thing of delicate elegance in direct contrast to the room itself,

which was bleak in its Spartan simplicity, all white and

functional, the walls devoid of any decoration, even the carpet a

neutral gray.

A room in which to work, to study and to plan with all

distraction kept to a minimum. Something Irae could

appreciate, as he could not the flowers. They were an anomaly

and he crossed the room to stand before them, studying their

form and arrangement before lifting his head to stare through

the window itself.

It was set high in the building and framed a view of grim

desolation. The soil had been leached to expose the underlying

rock, the vegetation which once had covered it long since gone,

as were the minerals once contained within the stone. Machines

had dug and ripped and crushed and spewed their detritus,

turning a pleasant landscape into a barren wilderness.

Exploitation had left nothing but sourness and acid rains which,

even as he watched, came to add more corrosion to the thick

pane and the metal in which it was set.

Looking down, he could now understand the presence of the

flowers; the contrast they provided to the desolation outside.

"Caradoc's work," said a voice behind him. "He said that a

touch of color would help."

Turning, Irae said, "Help whom? You?"

An accusation, which Yoka dismissed with a small gesture of

a hand which seemed to be fashioned from transparent

porcelain. No cyber was ever fat, for excess tissue lessened the

efficiency of the physical machine which was the body, but Yoka

was skeletal in his thinness. Beneath the scarlet robe, his body

was reed-frail, his throat a match for the gaunt face and sunken

eyes which, with his shaven pate, gave his head the appearance

of a skull. A skull set with the jewel of his eyes which burned

now, as always, with the steady flame of trained and directed

intelligence.

He said, "No, Cyber Irae, the flowers are here to set at ease

those ushered into this chamber to wait. Naturally, you grasp the

underlying purpose."

A statement, not a question. For him to have framed the

sentence otherwise would have been tantamount to insult. No

cyber could avoid seeing the obvious, and now that Irae knew the

purpose of the room, the presence of the blooms and the position

they occupied was plain. A contrast and a good one; outside, the

bleak desolation of Titanus—within, the glowing color and

beauty of the flowers and what they, by association, represented.

The security of the Cyclan; the rewards and wealth and comfort

the organization could provide to any who engaged their

services. A contrast too subtle to be immediately appreciated by

any visitor, but it was there and would be noted on a

subconscious level.

"Caradoc shows skill and intelligence. An acolyte?"

"No longer." Yoka lifted a hand and touched his breast,

fingers thin and pale against the rich scarlet and the design

embroidered on the fabric, A gesture signifying the acolyte had

passed his final tests and was now one of their number. Beneath

his hand the Seal of the Cyclan glowed and shimmered with

reflected light. "A young man who shows promise. He should give

good service and rise high."

And would, unless he committed the unpardonable crime of

failure.

Irae looked again at the flowers, at the window and the

desolation beyond, thinking of others who had shown promise

and who had failed. Those who had paid with their lives because

of their failure. Others who had been broken. He did not intend

to become one of them.

He said, "You are certain Dumarest is not on this world?"

"I am."

"The prediction that he could be found on Titanus was of

seventy-three per cent probability."

"Not high."

"No, and obviously there were factors we could not take into

account. Even so, we must be close."

As they had been close before, each time to miss the quarry by

a few minutes of time, by coincidence, by the luck which seemed

to follow Dumarest from world to world. A trail marked by the

death of cybers he had killed in order to ensure his escape.

The irrevocable loss of trained and dedicated intelligences

which should have gone to swell the complex of Central

Intelligence.

The reward of every cyber who proved his worth.

"It is against all logic," said Yoka. "How could one man have

eluded capture for so long?"

Luck, and more than luck. The instinct which gave warning

when danger was close. The intelligence which recognized the

threat and remained alert for the little things which gave

warning—a stare maintained too long, a glance, a too-fortuitous

meeting, a proffered friendship, an unexpected invitation—who

could tell?

And yet, the Cyclan should be able to tell. The cybers, with

their trained minds which could take a handful of known facts

and from them extrapolate the logical sequence of events

encompassing any imaginable variation. To arrive at a deduction

and make a prediction which was as close as possible to actual

prophecy. They should know where a man on the move would

come to rest, had known, but still he had managed to dodge, to

stay one jump ahead.

For too long now. Too long.

Irae studied the flowers. Had an insect hummed among the

blossoms he would have been able to predict on which it would

next settle, on the pattern it would follow. Had he wanted to

snare it, he would have known exactly where to apply the

compound which would hold it fast.

An insect—why not a man?

He said, "We know that Dumarest is among the worlds of the

Rift. That is a probability of ninety-nine percent. We have

checked the course of each vessel leaving relevant worlds and

have agents alerted at each port of call. All precautions have

been taken."

And still they hadn't proved enough. Like a ghost, Dumarest

had vanished, aided by the unpredictable, riding his luck until

even those searching for him had begun to doubt their powers.

"The Rift," said Yoka. "A good place for a man to hide." Too

good. A section of space in which suns burned close and worlds

were plentiful. An area in which opposed energies created

dangerous vortexes and regions in which matter itself could

cease to exist. A place in which planets rested in isolation in

whirls of dust, rolled hidden in masses of interstellar gloom,

hung like glittering gems in a web of destructive forces. A

haystack in which a wisp of straw could so easily be lost.

Irae lifted his eyes from the bowl of flowers and turned like a

scarlet flame to where Yoka stood respectfully waiting. "Your

conclusions?"

"Based on all available data, the probability of capturing

Dumarest at this time is fifty-three percent. Not until he is

located can we hope to gain information on which to base a

more favorable prediction."

"Fifty-three percent?"

"Low," admitted Yoka, "but I said 'capture,' not 'discover'. The

probability of spotting him is higher—seventy-six percent."

"Eighty-seven point five," corrected Irae. "You are too

conservative. Even if he is now in space he must eventually land

and when he does, an agent could spot him."

"If the man is at the right time, at the right place." Yoka had

the stubbornness of age. "It comes to a matter of logistics. In

order to maintain surveillance at every probable port of call at all

appropriate times, we need the services of an army of men. Add

to that the probability that he is on a planet and, unless he

makes a move, locating him will be far from easy. And we must

check all worlds." He ended, "In the Rift they are many."

He said it without change of the smooth, even modulation,

devoid of all irritant factors which all cybers were trained to

adopt. And yet, Irae caught the irony beneath the apparently flat

statement.

"You repeat the obvious, Cyber Yoka. I am fully aware of the

problem but we can eliminate a large area of low-order

probabilities. We have information as to where Dumarest was

last located, together with the names and routes of the vessels

which left at the critical time."

"Data?" Yoka stood, immobile, as he listened to the stream of

facts and figures, his mind assimilating, correlating, selecting

and discarding various possibilities until he reached a decision.

"You are correct. The probability that Dumarest will be

discovered within the Rift is as you say. The Quillian Sector. He

could be there now, but to locate him will not be easy."

"For a cyber?"

"For anyone but an expert hunter of men." Yoka added, "I

have one at hand."

Leo Bochner didn't look the part. While tall, he appeared slim,

almost womanish, his face unlined, his hands smooth, as was his

voice as he announced himself. He stood waiting with an easy

grace. Instinctively, he selected the one in authority, turning a

little to face Irae, recognizing that while younger than Yoka, he

held the command. A point Irae noted as he did the clothing;

good, yet not obtrusive; fine woven cloth cut to emphasize good

taste and not vulgar ostentation. Clothing which somehow added

to the effeminate impression he had gamed and which lessened

the threat of the man.

A mistake?

A less experienced man could have thought so and wondered

at Yoka's judgement, but Irae had long since learned to look

beneath the surface of apparent truth. Now, looking, he noted

the smooth pad of muscle beneath the skin of face, throat and

wrists. The iron beneath the smooth set of lips and jaw. The

carriage. The ingrained confidence in words and manner. The

eyes.

The eyes which, even as he watched, changed to give the lie to

the polished dress and manner; turning into those of a beast, a

wolf, a tiger, a hunter of prey.

Then, in a moment, they were again a part of the disguise,

calm, bland, faintly mocking.

Irae said, "Tell me something of yourself."

"I have, shall we say, a certain skill." Bochner's voice carried

no pride, it was merely a vehicle used to convey a fact. "I realized

I had it when very young and took steps to cultivate and perfect.

I have an affinity with wild things. I sense their habits and,

knowing them, can anticipate what they will do." He added with

the same easy tone, "I am probably the finest hunter ever to be

born on Pontia, and on that world you hunt or you starve."

"Animals." Irae watched the eyes as he spoke. "Beasts

operating on instinctive patterns of behavior."

He had looked for anger. None came, nor did the eyes change

as they had before. That, he knew, had been a demonstration, a

dropping of the veil to show a little of the real nature of the man.

Bochner said, "Beast or man, my lord, they are the same."

"A man can think."

"And for that attribute, has lost others. But we talk to little

purpose. My record is known to you."

A good one or he would not now be standing before them. A

noted hunter, a skilled assassin, but this time such skills would

be unwanted.

Bochner shrugged as Irae made that clear. "I understand. I

find Dumarest and hold him with the least amount of force

necessary until he can be handed over to your agents. Of course,

it may be that I shall have to cripple him to ruin his mobility.

Break his legs, for example, and even his arms. But his life will

not be in danger. That is acceptable?"

"We want the man unharmed and in full possession of his

mental faculties."

"You want the man in any way he can be delivered," said

Bochner flatly. "As long as he is alive on delivery. If that isn't the

case, why send for me?" His eyes moved from one to the other of

the scarlet figures. "I shall not let you down, my lords. My

reputation was not gained by bungling my commissions. And,

speaking of commissions my fee—"

"Will be paid," said Yoka. "The Cyclan does not break its

word."

A bow was Bochner's answer, but Irae added more; it was well

that the man should remember the power of the Cyclan, and that

it could take as well as give.

"You will be rewarded," he said, "with wealth and property

should you succeed. With something less pleasant should you

fail."

"I shall not fail."

"How can you be sure? How can you even know you will find

him?"

"When you cannot?" Bochner was shrewd. "Or when you do,

you always seem to arrive too late? The answer is basically

simple; you hunt a man but I hunt a beast. You operate on the

basis of pure logic, but a man is not a logical creature and does

not follow a nice, neat, predictable path. Not a man with sense.

Not one who knows he is being hunted. Not one who is afraid.

Such things confuse the normal pattern. Watch such a man as I

have and you will see his instincts guide his decisions. A ship

arrives—shall he take it or wait for the next? The same with a

raft, a cab, a caravan. The same with a hotel, a meal, a drink in a

tavern. The shape of a door can send quarry scuttling into

hiding. The whisper of a woman who, by chance, speaks his

name. The look of an official which, misunderstood, can lead to

flight. How can you predict exactly where he will go when he

doesn't even know himself? What he will do, when what he is

permitted to do depends on chance?"

He was over-simplifying and was wrong in his assessment of

the ability of the Cyclan, but Irae did not correct him. Neither

he, nor any cyber, wished to advertise their abilities to those who

had not hired their services. And the 'chance' to which Bochner

referred was not a matter of infinite variables, as he seemed to

think, but a limited set of paths determined by prevailing

factors. A man stranded on an island could only escape by sea or

by air. Without the means to fly, he was limited to the sea.

Without the means to construct or obtain a boat, he could only

swim. If unable to swim, he would be forced to wade the

shallows. Knowing the man, the circumstances, there was

nothing hard in predicting what he would do and where he

would go.

Irae said, "Do you know the Quillian Sector?"

"As much as any man can know it."

"Which is to say?"

"Parts well, other parts not so well, a little not at all. But

then," Bochner added, "no one knows them—the worlds hidden

in the dust and those caught in the mesh of destructive forces.

There are rumors, but that is all."

"Expeditions sent and lost," said Yoka. "Companies formed

and dissolved, as the investigations they made turned to nothing.

We are not interested in such planets. We are only interested in

your quarry."

"Dumarest."

"Yes, Dumarest You are confident you can track him down?"

"Guide me to a world and if he is on it, I will find him. More,

give me a cluster of worlds and I will show you which he will

make for. You think I boast?" Bochner shook his head. "I speak

from knowledge. From conviction. From experience."

"A claim others have made. Now, they are dead."

"Killed by Dumarest?" Bochner looked at his hands. "I can

take care of myself."

A conviction shared by others before they had died, but Irae

didn't mention that. Instead, he said, "Tell me one thing,

Bochner. Aside from the reward, why do you want to hunt

Dumarest?"

"Why?" Bochner inhaled, his breath a sibilant hiss over his

teeth. "Because if half of what you've told me is true, then he is

the most wily, the most dangerous and the most interesting

quarry I could ever hope to find."

The ship was small, unmarked; The crew, taciturn servants of

the Cyclan. Alone in his cabin, Bochner went through his routine

exercises, movements designed to keep his muscles in trim and

his reflexes at their peak. When Caradoc opened the door he was

standing, dressed only in pants, shoes and blouse, a knife

balanced on its point on the back of his right hand, which was

held level at waist height. As the young cyber watched, he

dropped the hand and, as the knife dropped towards his foot

snatched at it with his left hand, catching the hilt and tossing it

upwards to circle once before catching it in his right.

"A game," he explained. "One played often on Vrage. There we

stood naked and held our hands at knee height. Miss and you

speared a foot. There was a more sophisticated version played

for higher stakes in which, if you were slow, you usually died."

Idly, he spun the knife. "You have used a blade?"

"No."

"You should. The feel of it does something to a man. Cold,

razor-sharp steel, catching and reflecting the light, speaking with

its edge, its point, words of threat and pain. Watch a man with a

knife and see how he moves. A good fighter becomes an

appendage of his weapon. A man with a gun gives less cause for

concern. Why? Can you tell me why?"

"A gun is dispassionate. Everyone knows what a knife can do."

"Cut and slash and maim and cripple. True, but a gun can do

that and more. But still the psychological factor remains." Then

in the same tone of voice he added, "Is that why Dumarest

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TheQuillianSector#19intheDumarestseriesE.C.TubbCoverartbyH.R.VanDongenDEDICATIONToJulieEmmaHickmottFIRSTPRINTING,DECEMBER1978 PRINTEDINU.S.A.ChapterOneAgreatbowlofflowershadbeensetonasmalltableclosetothewindowsothattheirpetalsreflectedthelightinamassofglowingscarletneckedwithamber,thestamensabri...

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 19 - The Quillian Sector

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