E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 18 - Incident on Ath

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Incident on Ath by E.C.

Tubb

Chapter One

The figure was becoming far too bizarre in its depiction of

pain. Thoughtfully Cornelius studied it, unsatisfied; no one

locked in a personal hell of torment should present the likeness of

a clown. The jaw was disproportioned and he altered it with a

touch of the brush. The eyes, deeply sunken beneath flaring

brows, held what could be taken for a glint of ironic amusement

and the mouth, gaping, seemed to bear the ghostly vestige of a

smile. Only the body gave him satisfaction; thin, gaunt, the ribs

stark, the stomach a taut concavity, the musculature harshly

delineated. The toes, like the fingers, were indrawn in the

semblance of avian claws.

A man suspended by lashings holding his wrists to a beam.

One left to die in isolation. A simple theme— what had gone

wrong?

Irritably Cornelius set down his brush and examined the

painting with minute care. The background, a coiling mass of

amorphous vapor, was deliberately neutral as was the

foreground, a raw expanse of sand and stone. The cross-beam,

like those supporting it at either end, was of rough wood

depicted with the same lack of fine detail in order to throw the

suspended figure into greater prominence.

A man hanging, naked, lost in a universe of pain. One alone

and beyond even the concept of hope. A human creature in the

last stages of terminal agony. A victim. A sacrifice.

And yet, somehow, he had missed capturing the essential

ingredient. To simply depict pain was not enough; there had to

be an affinity between the viewer and the subject. A delicate

communication which would be marred by the slightest

inconsistency. Surely he had the details right?

Cornelius leaned back in his chair, thinking, blinking to sigh

with vexation. No, he had not been wrong about the anatomical

details. A man so suspended would have the entire weight of his

body thrown in a constriction against the lungs which would

require a constant effort to ensure an intake of air. Death would

come by asphyxiation but before that would be the struggle to

survive, muscles tensing to ease the constriction, those muscles

turning into areas of screaming torment when assailed by

cramps. And even when they failed to support the weight and so

ease the constriction death would not come swiftly. A man could

hang in such a position for days and, if provided with a block on

which to support his weight, even longer.

A thought, and for a moment he considered it, then shook his

head. To add a block, while enhancing the symbolism, would

ruin the composition. A second cross-beam would have to be

added lower down and would provide a distraction to the eye. An

upright surmounted by a cross-piece would serve, but that would

eliminate the frame in which the suspended man was centered.

No—man was trapped in a prison and the beams were symbols

of that. A cage grounded in dirt in which he could find nothing

but death and pain. A limited universe which held only anguish.

But how to convey the message?

How to eliminate the distracting hints of amusement in eyes

and mouth? The touch of the bizarre? The glint and twist, the

subtle but damning suggestion that everything was a joke and

death itself the final comedy?

"Cornelius!" The voice came from beyond the arched doorway

causing little tinklings to murmur from the crystal chimes

hanging beside the portal. Ursula, of course. Who else could

create music from shaped and suspended fragments of glass?

"Cornelius?"

She entered heralded by the whispering chimes, tall, slim,

graceful as she crossed the tessellated floor to stand beside his

chair. She was all in blue, a variety of shades which included her

eyes, her lips, the sheen of her hair. Deep colors rising from the

sandals which hugged her feet, to her cinctured waist, the swell

of high and prominent breasts, paling as they rose to frame her

softly rounded shoulders with azure, deepening again at her lips,

her brows, the crested mane of jewel-set tresses.

"Cornelius." Her hand fell to rest on his shoulder, long fingers

tipped with richly blue nails, tinted skin a background to the

gleam of gems set in wide bands of silver. Looking at the

painting she said, "Another composition. It's superb!"

"No."

"You are too critical. That man—I can feel his pain."

"And?" He shrugged as she frowned. "Is that all you see? A

man in pain—nothing else?"

Her hesitation was answer enough. He had failed and by

working on now he would only accentuate the failure. Later,

when less tired, he would again examine the painting.

Rising, he applied solvent to his hands, ridding them of traces

of pigments. As he worked he said, casually, "Did you enjoy your

swim?"

"It was exercise."

"And Achiab? Was he also exercise?"

"When you are hungry, Cornelius, you eat." She turned to look

at an unfinished statuette. "You were busy and I was restless.

Achiab was a means of passing the time. We enjoyed an

interlude, together, though, I must admit, I was disappointed.

He was not as I remembered."

"Perhaps he, too, was merely hungry?"

"Perhaps."

"Or," he said dryly, "maybe he was simply bored."

She turned, stung, meeting his eyes as he finished cleaning his

hands, her own eyes hard beneath the finely drawn arch of her

brows. For a long moment she stared at him and then,

shrugging, turned away. A whisper came from the chimes as she

headed toward the door.

"Ursula—I'm sorry!"

She paused and turned, the suspended chimes catching the

vibrations of her voice, providing a muted accompaniment to

her accusation.

"You checked—why?"

"An accident."

"What I do, where I go, whom I see—what are they to you?"

"It was an accident, Ursula, you must believe me." He

gestured toward the painting. "I was studying this. The figure

seemed wrong and I was checking anatomical detail. And then, I

suppose—"

"You checked." Her voice cut short his words, caused tinkles

to stream like liquid notes from the chimes. "You asked and

pried. You had to know where I was and what I was doing.

Why?" And then, before he could answer, she added, softly, "Is it

because you are in love with me, Cornelius? Is that it?"

A way out and to accept it would be to save his dignity. And

there could be truth in it—why else had he wanted to know

where she had been and with whom she had spent her time? A

subconscious urge? An association of ideas? He glanced at the

painting—no, that was ridiculous. And yet love could be

considered to be a prison and the victim of the sweet madness as

firmly trapped as any prisoner.

The sweet madness—why had he called it that?

"Cornelius!" She had moved to close the gap between them

and now stood so close that her perfume was thick in his nostrils.

A heavy, slightly acrid scent, but one which went well with the

full sensuality of her lips, the sexuality of her breasts. "Why be so

diffident? If you love me then why not simply say so?"

And if he wanted her the same. He had enjoyed her in the past

and could again—the appetite she had spoken of was obviously

still unappeased. But it was her appetite, not his. As always after

working he felt drained.

"Ursula—"

"Don't say it!" Her hand rose to touch his lips. "I understand.

We have been close too long for me to take offense. You were

concerned about me and the question slipped out and how could

you avoid the answer? And I?" She shrugged and turned from

him to pace the floor, her sandals making small, firm noises, the

echoes from the chimes turning into explosive chords. "I'm

bored," she said, coming to a halt. "Bored."

"You could find diversion."

"What?" She waited as he thought, spoke as he blinked.

"Well? What do you suggest? Gorion's project for landscaping

the southern slopes? Sagittinia and her mobiles? Mitgang's

hunt? Belzdek's drums? Debayo and his hopes of contacting the

dead?"

"There's—"

"Don't bother. I know them all as well as you do." The chimes

caught the pad of her sandals and turned them into melodious

tinklings. "And don't suggest I take up painting. Or building. Or

manufacturing perfumes. Or—" She broke off, looking at her

clenched hands, the knuckles a pale azure beneath the tinted

skin like a child she said, "Cornelius, what shall I do?"

"Have patience."

"Wait! Is that all you can suggest? And while waiting?" She

answered her own question. "Where is your tekoa?"

Silently he gestured to where an ornate box rested on a small

table set against a wall. The lid opened to reveal swollen pods

brilliant yellow against the scarlet interior. Taking one she bit

into it and felt its released pungency fill her mouth with tingling

sweetness.

"Your first, Ursula?"

"Does it matter?" She selected another pod and slipped it into

her mouth, biting, chewing it and the other to a pulp. "You will

make love to me?"

"No."

"You're a fool." Chewing she moved toward the window and

stood before the high, arched opening which framed the vista

beyond. A third pod followed the others to fill her mouth and to

muffle her voice. "A fool," she said again. "Why refuse when it

means so little?"

But already the refusal was a thing of the past and the

rejection of no importance. Nothing, now, was of importance.

Not her irritation, her boredom, her lack of diversion, the

cramped routine of monotonous days. All were lost in the soft

mantle of the euphoria which enveloped her with memories of

sweet pungency.

She felt nothing as Cornelius guided her to a chair, saw

nothing as he turned it to save her eyes from the glare of the

setting sun, heard nothing as he left the room and gave her over

to darkness and dreams.

From the shadows the voice was a plaintive wail, "Mister,

please help me. For the love of God give me food. I starve!"

Dumarest walked on, keeping to the roadside edge of the

sidewalk, giving the shrouded mouth of the alley no more than a

single glance. Someone lurked inside and he saw a lifted hand, a

pale, strained face, eyes which held desperation. A girl barely

more than a child, dressed in rags, cheeks sunken, hair a mess,

naked feet crusted with sores. An object of pity but on Juba

things were not always what they seemed. The girl need not be

alone. A pimp could be crouching behind her in the shadows

poised to rise, to strike, willing to kill in order to rob. The girl

herself could be a predator offering herself as bait or she need

not be a girl at all but a youth acting the part.

"Mister, please! Food for my baby! My body for a crust!"

The voice grew ugly and snarled an obscene curse as

Dumarest moved on. He ignored it as he had the plea; to yield to

anger and seek revenge would be to run into a trap if the beggar

were other than what she seemed.

"Mister!" A harlot this time, tall, thin, her face masked with

paint, perfume enveloping her like a cloud. The figure hugged by

glistening plastic was lush and firm but her mouth matched the

hardness of her eyes. "You lost? Lonely, maybe?"

"Lost."

"Looking for something?" Her voice was suggestive. "A game?

A girl?"

"The field."

"You won't find it in the Maze." Her voice held mockery.

"Drugs, yes, debauchery and degenerates if that's what you want,

drink and all manner of dubious delights. But the field, no." She

blinked at the coin he slipped into her hand. "What's this for?"

"An entertainer should be paid."

"An entertainer? But I'm a—" She broke off, laughing. "So I'm

an entertainer."

"And one with a way with words." He smiled as she searched

his face with her eyes. "And I could use a guide." He added a

second coin to the first. "Which way to the field?"

"Straight ahead, third right, bear left, aim for the pylon and

turn sharp left when you reach the fountain." She hefted the

coins in her palm. "For as much again you could have me for

what's left of the night."

"Thank you, no."

"I'm safe, mister. No hidden pimp or spiked drinks at my

place. No?" Her sigh of regret was genuine. "A pity. Well, good

luck—and watch yourself."

A warning which applied to all worlds but which had special

meaning on Juba. A planet circling a sullen red giant hugging

the fringe of the Rift. One exploited by entrepreneurs for the

minerals they ripped from the soil. The dumping ground of

criminals, the culture a seething mess of opposed interests. The

rich lived in safe, strong houses set high on the hills surrounding

the field. The merchants and traders used hotels and areas

patrolled by armed and watchful guards. The poor rotted in

hovels, working, starving, dying to be flung into the mud. The

Maze was a vicious playground in which there was no law other

than that of the jungle. A festering sore in which only the strong

could hope to survive. "No!"

Dumarest heard the cry as he neared the fountain and he

halted, listening, eyes searching the area. Light came from

scattered lanterns; floods of lambent color cast by bulbs set

behind tinted panes the swaths of brightness edged with somber

shadows. The fountain itself depicted three interwound figures

locked in a suggestive embrace, the water rising from their

juxtaposition spraying into an umbrella which fell with muted

tinklings. "No! Please, no!"

The voice again, strained, echoing its fear and terror. A high

voice accompanied by the sudden pad of running feet. A quick,

hard tattoo which came from beyond the fountain. "Feld!"

A deeper voice which snapped a name and more footsteps,

wider spaced and yet as hurried, which carried a man around

the bulk of the fountain toward where Dumarest stood. Light

rested between them, a patch of emerald which showed a peaked

face with sunken eyes and a mouth which gaped above a ruff of

beard. The hands, lifted, held a net and the belt hugging the

waist supported a club.

A man hurrying to cut off another's escape. A woman, from

the sound of the voice and the rapidity of the footsteps. Another,

at least, would be following her and there could be more.

Hunters after easy prey. Vultures avid to peck flesh and bone, to

strip, to use, perhaps to kill and certain to maim.

"Feld!"

The running man checked as Dumarest called his name,

halting to turn, frowning, the net lifting high as Dumarest

lunged forward, his right hand weighed with the knife he had

lifted from his boot. Nine inches of honed and pointed steel

which flashed green in the light as it lifted to slash at the net the

man threw at him, to drop, to lift again as the bearded mouth

opened to yell. Before the alarm could be given the point had

driven up beneath the jaw, pinning it to the palate, driving

higher to crash through the sinus cavities and come to rest in the

brain.

"Feld!" The deep voice, urgent now. "Hurry, damn you! Get

her!"

Dumarest turned, tearing free the knife as the rapid tattoo of

footsteps came to a sudden halt. Backed as she was by an umber

glow he could see nothing but a shape haloed with a fuzz of hair,

a hand lifted as if in mute appeal, a body which cringed as he

moved toward it.

"No! Dear God, no!"

"Feld?" The deep voice snarled its impatience. "What the hell

are you waiting for?"

He came from behind the woman, tall, massive, a round head

set like a ball on a thickly columnar neck. The skull was coated

with bristle and the ears flared in a fashion which would have

been comical had he not radiated an aura of primeval savagery.

He was not alone. Beside him, gliding on padded feet, was a

creature almost as tall as a man, furred, high-pointed ears

cocked over a sloping skull. The mouth, gaping, held pointed

incisors. A mutant, the product of wild radiations which had

twisted normal genes and resulted in something from nightmare.

A freak but a dangerous one; Dumarest caught the gleam of

retractable claws as the thing lifted its hands.

To the woman, not looking at her, Dumarest said, "There is a

dead man behind me. He has a net and a club. Get to him and

use them against the mutant Move?"

If she obeyed, the furred thing would follow her, eager to

prevent her escape. If she had spirit and was not totally numbed

by fear she could engage its attention for long enough to give

Trim time to settle the giant But, in any case, the big man had to

come first.

He leaned forward as Dumarest approached, scowling, one

hand lifting to his waist.

"Feld? Is that you? What the hell are you playing at?"

Unless he was blind he would have recognized Dumarest for a

stranger so the words were to provide a distraction. Dumarest

moved as the hand lifted from the belt, closing the distance

between them before the weapon it held could be brought into

play. Air whined as his knife slashed upward, the edge meeting

the hand at the joint of the wrist, dragging, slicing through skin

and fat and tendon, releasing a shower of blood, moving on as it

grated against bone.

A cut which did no more than maim, but the laser fell from

the numbed fingers as the giant yelled and drew back the fist of

his other arm.

And yelled again as the knife, moving upward, changed

direction to slash at his eyes.

Dumarest felt the tip hit the cheek, scrape over the bone and

miss the eyeball by a fraction before slicing the nose. A cut which

released blood but failed to blind as he'd intended. As the knife

whined on its way the cocked fist slammed forward.

As he fell Dumarest heard the woman scream.

He rolled as he landed on the cobbles, rising to dodge the

vicious kick the giant aimed at his face, dodging another as he

regained his feet. The blow had numbed his right shoulder and

would have smashed his skull had he not risen to block it and

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