E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 06 - Lallia

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LALLIA

#6 in the Dumarest series

E.C. Tubb

Scanned by BW-SciFi

Proofed by books4all

converted to html and additional proofing for errors by someone else

Cover and interior art by George Barr.

To Stewart Sidney Elcomb

Chapter One

On aarn a man was murdered and Dumarest watched him die.

It was a thing quickly done in a place close to the landing field: a

bright tavern of gleaming comfort just beyond the main gate of the high

perimeter fence, a cultured place of softness and gentle lighting snugly

set on a cultured world. The raw violence was all the more unexpected

because of that.

Dumarest saw it all as he stood with his back to a living mural in

which naked women swam in an emerald sea and sported with slimed

beasts of obscene proportions. Before him, scattered over soft carpets,

the customers of the tavern lounged in chairs or stood at the long bar of

luminescent wood. An assorted crowd of crewmen and officers, field

personnel, traders, and transients. Bright among them was the gaudy

finery of pleasure girls, flaunting their charms. Soft music saturated

from the carved ceiling and perfumed smoke stained the air.

Against the softness and luxury the killer looked like a skull at a feast:

tall, horribly emaciated, eyes smoldering in the blotched skin of his face.

He was a mutant with mottled hair and hands grotesquely large, a sport

from some frontier world. He crossed to the long bar, snatched up a

bottle of heavy glass and, without hesitation, smashed it on the back of

his unsuspecting victim's head. Half-stunned, dazed, the man

turned—and received the splintered shards in face and throat.

"Damn you!" The mutant dropped the stained weapon as he spat at

the dying man. "Remember me? I swore I'd get you and I have. It's taken

years but I did it. You hear me? I did it! I got you, you stinking bastard!

Now roast in hell!"

A woman screamed and men came from the shadows to grasp the

killer. Dumarest took two long strides towards the door then paused,

thinking. The tavern was close to the field, police could not be far away

and it was possible that he had already been noticed. To leave now would

be to invite suspicion with the resultant interrogation and interminable

delay. He regained his position before the mural as officers poured into

the tavern. On Aarn the police were highly efficient, and they moved

quickly about the tavern as they quested for witnesses. Not surprisingly

they discovered them hard to find.

"You there!" The officer was middle-aged, his face hard beneath the

rim of his helmet. His uniform was impeccable and the leather of his

boots, belt, and laser holster shone with a mirror-finish. "Did you see

what happened?"

"Sorry, no," said Dumarest.

"You too?" The officer echoed his disgust. "Over fifty people in the

place and no one saw what happened." He glanced over his shoulder

towards the scene of the crime. "If you were standing here how could you

avoid not seeing? You've a perfect view."

"I wasn't looking that way," explained Dumarest. "I was studying

this." He pointed at the mural. "All I heard was some shouting. When I

turned the sport was standing over something on the floor. What

happened? Did he hurt someone?"

"You could say that," said the officer dryly. "He killed a man with a

bottle." He stared curiously at Dumarest, eyes narrowing as he took in

the gray plastic finish of pants, knee-boots, and tunic. The tunic was

long-sleeved, falling to mid-thigh and fastened high and snug around the

throat. It was unusual wear for a city dweller of Aarn. "Are you a

resident?"

"No, a traveler. I came here to arrange an outward passage."

"Why not go to the field office?" The officer didn't wait for an answer.

"Never mind. I suppose a tavern is the best place to do business if you can

afford it. Your papers?"

Dumarest handed over the identification slip given to him when he

had landed. The officer checked the photographic likeness and physical

details incorporated in the plastic. He softened a little as he saw the

credit rating.

"Earl Dumarest," he mused. "Planet of origin: Earth." He raised his

eyebrows. "An odd name for a world. I don't think I've ever heard it

before. Is it far?"

"A long way from here," said Dumarest flatly.

"It must be. Why did you come to Aarn?"

"To work. To look around." Dumarest smiled. "But mainly to visit

your museum. It is something rather exceptional."

He had struck the right note by his appeal to planetary pride. The

officer relaxed as he handed back the identification.

"We're rather proud of it," he admitted and then added, casually, "my

son has a position there. In the ancient artifact division, with special

reference to Aarn's early history. Did you know that once the planet held

an intelligent race of sea creatures? They must have been amphibious

and there is evidence they used fire and tools of stone."

"I didn't," said Dumarest. "Not before I visited your museum, that is.

Tell me, is your son a tall, well-built youngster with thick curly hair?

About twenty-five, with vivid blue eyes?" The officer had blue eyes and

the hair on the backs of his hands was thick and curled. "If so I may have

met him. A person like that was most helpful to me in my investigations."

"I doubt if that was Hercho," said the officer quickly. "He works in the

laboratories. Reconstruction and radioactive dating."

"Specialized work," said Dumarest. "It's a pretty important position

for a young man to hold. You must be very proud of him."

"He's done well enough for himself." The officer glanced to where two

men carried a stretcher towards the dead man. "May I ask what your

own particular subject of interest at the museum might be?"

"Navigational charts and tables," said Dumarest easily. "Really old

ones. The type which were in use before the Center-oriented charts we

have now. I didn't find any."

"I'm not surprised. We have data from over a hundred thousand

habitable worlds and ten times that many items on display, but there has

to be a limit. And perhaps you were looking for something which doesn't

exist. Are you sure there are such tables?"

"I think so," said Dumarest. "I hope so."

"Well," said the officer politely, "there's no harm in hoping." He

turned to move away then halted as Dumarest touched his arm. "What is

it?"

"A matter of curiosity," said Dumarest. He nodded to where the

attendants carried a sheeted figure towards the door of the tavern. "That

man. Who was he?"

"The victim?" The officer shrugged. "No one special. Just a handler

from one of the ships."

"The Starbinder?"

"The Moray. Captain Sheyan's vessel. His name was Elgart. Did you

know him?"

"No. I was simply curious."

Dumarest turned to stare at the mural as the dead man was carried

away.

The Moray was a small ship, battered, old, standing to one side of the

busy field as if ashamed of associating with her sister vessels. Her captain

matched his command. Bernard Sheyan was small. A ruff of white hair

showed beneath his uniform cap. His face, beneath the visor, was

seamed and scored with vicissitude and time. He leaned back in his chair

and stared up at Dumarest over the wide expanse of his desk.

"You wanted to see me," he snapped curtly. For such a small man his

voice was startlingly deep. "Why?"

"I want a job."

"Forget it. I've a full complement."

"No," said Dumarest flatly. "You haven't. You're short a handler. A bit

of Elgart's past caught up with him and he's dead."

Sheyan narrowed his eyes. "This past you're talking about," he said

softly. "You?"

"No. I just saw it happen. My guess is that Elgart was rotten. That he

got his lacks from letting those riding Low wake without the benefit of

drugs. One of them finally caught up with him." Dumarest's eyes were

bleak. "If I'm right, he asked for all he got. The only thing is that he got it

too easily. A man like that should be given a double dose of his own

medicine."

To wake, rising through layers of ebon chill to light and the

stimulating warmth of the eddy currents… the screaming agony of

returning circulation without the aid of drugs to numb the pain so that

throat and lungs grew raw with the violence of shrieking torment.

Sheyan said quietly, "You've traveled Low?"

"Yes."

"Often?"

Dumarest nodded, thinking of a skein of barely remembered journeys

when he'd traveled doped and frozen and 90 percent dead. Riding in the

bleak cold section in caskets meant for the transport of livestock, risking

the 15 percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Risking, too, the

possibility of a sadistic handler who reveled in the sight and sound of

anguish.

"So Elgart's dead," mused Sheyan. "You could be right in what you

assume, but he didn't play his tricks with me. Even so, he came from one

of the big ships and a man doesn't do that without reason. You want his

job?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I want to leave Aarn," said Dumarest. "Working a passage is better

than traveling Low."

Anything, thought Sheyan, was better than traveling Low; but Aarn

was a busy world and a hard worker would have little trouble in gaining

the cost of a High passage.

He leaned further back in his chair, shrewd eyes studying the figure

standing before him. The man was honest, that he liked, and he was an

opportunist—few would have acted so quickly to fill a dead man's shoes.

He looked at the clothing, at the spot above the right boot where the

plastic caught the light with an extra gleam. The hilt of a blade would

have caused such a burnishing and it was almost certain that the knife

was now tucked safely out of sight beneath the tunic.

His eyes lifted higher, lingering on the hard planes and hollows of the

face, the tight, almost cruel set of the mouth. It was the face of a man

who had early learned to live without the protection of house, guild, or

combine. The face of a loner, of a man, perhaps, who had good reason

for wanting a quick passage away from the planet. But that was not his

concern.

"You have had experience?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I've worked on ships before."

Sheyan smiled. "That is probably a lie," he said mildly. "Those who

ride Middle rarely do anything else. But could you perform a handler's

duties?"

"It was no lie," said Dumarest. "And the answer is yes."

Abruptly Sheyan made his decision. "This is a rough ship. A small

ship. Snatching the trade others manage without. Short journeys, mostly,

planet hopping with freight and such, heavy loads and hard work. You'll

be paid like the rest of us, with a share of the profit. Sometimes we make

a pile, but mostly we break even. At times we carry passengers who like to

gamble. If you accommodate them I get a half of the profit."

"And if I lose?"

"If you can't win then don't play." Sheyan leaned forward and rested

his arms on his desk. "Work hard, be willing, and cause no trouble. That

way we'll get along. Questions?"

"When do we leave?"

"Soon. You'll find a uniform in Elgart's cabin." The captain looked

curiously at his new handler. "Aren't you interested as to where we are

bound?"

"I'll find out," said Dumarest, "when we get there."

The steward guided him to the cabin. He was young, recent to space

with a voice which had barely broken, but already his eyes held a

flowering hardness.

"Elgart was a pig," he said as he led the way from the captain's office.

"Mean and close and hard to get along with. I'm glad he's dead."

Dumarest made no comment. Instead he looked at the walls and

ceiling of the passage down which they passed. The plastic carried a thin

patina of grime and was marked with a mesh of scratches. The floor was

heavily scuffed, uneven in places, and showing signs of wear and neglect.

"My name is Linardo del Froshure del Brachontari del Hershray

Klarge," said the steward as they reached the cabin door. "But everyone

calls me Lin. Will it be all right for me to call you Earl?"

"I've no objection." Dumarest pushed open the door of the cabin and

passed inside. It was as he'd expected: a bare room fitted with a bunk, a

chair, a small table. Cabinets filled one wall; the others bore lurid

photographs of naked women. A scrap of carpet, frayed, covered the

floor, and a player stood on the table. He switched it on and the thin,

piping strains of cazendal music filled the air.

"Elgart was a funny one," commented Lin. "That music and this other

stuff." His eyes moved to the photographs. "A real weird."

Dumarest switched off the player. "How many in the crew?"

"Five. You've met the captain. Nimino's the navigator and Claude's

the engineer. Both are out on business, but you'll meet them later.

Nimino's another weird and Claude likes the bottle." The steward's eyes

dropped to Dumarest's left hand, to the ring on his third finger. "Say,

that's quite a thing you've got there."

"The ring?" Dumarest glanced at it, the flat, red stone set in the heavy

band. "It was a gift from a friend."

"Some friend!" Lin was envious. "I wish I had friends like that. You're

wearing the cost of a double High passage at least." He leaned forward so

as to study the ring more closely. "My uncle's a lapidary," he explained.

"He taught me something about gems. That was before my old man got

himself killed and I had to earn a living. I think he wanted me to join him

in the business, but what the hell! Who wants to spend their lives stuck in

a shop? My chance came and I grabbed it while it was going. Another

few years and I'll become an officer. Then for the big ships and the

wide-open life."

"Is that what you want?"

"Sure. What could be better?"

It was the defiance of youth, but Dumarest knew what the youngster

didn't. The wide-open life he dreamed of was nothing but an endless

journeying between the stars, constantly bounded by the monotony of

imprisoning walls. The years slipping past broken only by planetfalls and

brief dissipation. Those who rode Middle lived lives of incredible

restriction despite the journeys they made. Too often they found refuge in

strange diversions and perverted pleasures.

"So you haven't been very long on the Moray?"

"No," Lin admitted. "But it's the best kind of life a man could have.

Moving, traveling, seeing new things all the time. Always gambling that

the cargo you're carrying will be the one to hit the jackpot. At least," he

amended, "it is in the Web."

"Is that where you're from?"

"Sure. Laconis. You've heard of it?"

"No," said Dumarest. He looked thoughtfully at the steward. The boy

was eager to enhance his stature by imparting information. It would do

no harm to encourage him and perhaps do some good. "Tell me about it."

Lin shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. It's just a place. Some

agriculture, a little industry, some trading. Mostly we mine the ridges for

rare metals and gems, but that's for prospectors, mostly. The yield is too

low for a big operation. There's some fishing, but nothing special. It's

just a place like most of the Web worlds. You'll see."

Dumarest frowned. "Is that where we're bound? The Web?"

"Didn't you know?"

"It's a long way from here. What's the Moray doing on Aarn if it's a

Web trader?"

"The engines went on the blink." Lin was casual. "The old man

managed to get a cargo and decided to have a refit. The stuff barely paid

for the energy to haul it, but at least we got here for free. And you don't

get Erhaft generators as cheap as you can get them on Aarn."

"New generators?"

"Hell, no!" Lin was disgusted. "We could have got those in the Web.

Reconditioned—but they'll do the job. Claude checked them out and he's

satisfied. After all, it's his neck too."

"Yes," said Dumarest dryly. "Let's hope that he remembered that."

"Meaning?"

The boy was star-struck, despite his superficial hardness. His head

was filled with dreams and he was unable to recognize unpalatable

truths. He would learn fast—if he did not die before the opportunity to

learn presented itself. Dumarest was harsh as he looked at the steward.

"Meaning that he may not intend to rejoin the ship. That he could

have been drunk at a critical time or, if not drunk, had his mind on a

bottle instead of the job at hand. Damn it, boy, grow up! The universe

isn't a place of heroes! Men are what they are and no one is perfect."

"Claude wouldn't do a thing like that." Lin's eyes betrayed his

uncertainty. "He likes to drink, sure, but where's the harm in that? And

he teaches me things. Anyway," he added triumphantly, "the old man

wouldn't stick his neck out like that. There's nothing wrong with those

generators. There can't be."

"Then where's the engineer?"

"I told you. He's out looking for business with Nimino."

"That's right," agreed Dumarest. "A weird out with a drunk. A happy

combination. This trip should show us a lot of profit." He stressed the

plural so as to let the boy know that he considered himself a part of the

crew and, as such, had a right to be critical. "Do you think they'll find

any?"

"I don't know," admitted the steward. "I doubt if Nimino will bother

much. He's probably spending his time at some revival or other. He's

religious," he explained. "I don't mean that he's a member of the

Universal Church. He's that and a lot more. He dabbles in every cult

going. Transmigration, Reincarnation, Starcom, Extravitalis, Satanism,

Planarism, Amorphism—you name it and he's interested. His cabin's full

of charms and fetishes, idols and symbols, sympathetic relationship

mandalas and inspired pictographs. When I said he was a weird that's

what I meant."

"And Claude?"

"If there's a load to be found in a tavern then he'll find it," said the

steward. "He got us a few crates of machine patterns—you'll have to

check the temperature of those— strain-impressed molecular structure

designs in a protoplasmic gel. And he managed to pick up some new

sonic drill recordings."

"Speculative buying," said Dumarest. "Just the sort of thing a drunk

would find himself landed with. Anything concrete in the nature of

paying freight?"

"Not as yet," said Lin reluctantly. "But don't get the wrong impression

about Claude. He may appear to buy wild, but the things he gets have

value in the Web. Ships aren't frequent out there, don't forget, and we

call at a lot of minor worlds. I've known us to make a 1,000 percent profit

on stuff you wouldn't look at twice on a planet like Aarn."

"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll take your word for it."

"They're good," insisted the boy. "Odd, maybe, but good. You just

don't know."

Dumarest smiled. "I'm a little edgy and maybe too critical. You know

them better than I do. How long before we leave?"

The steward glanced at his wrist. "A couple of hours. Nimino will be

back a good hour before then. Like to make a little bet?"

"Such as?"

"Even money that Claude doesn't come back empty-handed. Five

stergols. Is it a bet?"

"It's a bet." Dumarest looked around the cabin. "Now, maybe, you'd

better leave me to check my gear."

Alone, he tore the photographs from the walls, frowning at the lighter

patches they left behind. A cabinet held a uniform and a suit of rough,

protective clothing such as was worn by field loaders. Both were in

stretch material, neither were as clean as they could have been. The

uniform cap was battered, the visor cracked, and the sweatband stained

and thick with grease. The late handler had not been a finicky man.

Other cabinets showed a pile of books in plain covers.

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LALLIA#6intheDumarestseriesE.C.TubbCopyright©,1971,byE.C.TubbAllRightsReserved.ScannedbyBW-SciFiProofedbybooks4allconvertedtohtmlandadditionalproofingforerrorsbysomeoneelseCoverandinteriorartbyGeorgeBarr.ToStewartSidneyElcombChapterOneOnaarnamanwasmurderedandDumarestwatchedhimdie.Itwasathingquicklyd...

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 06 - Lallia

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