E. Tubb - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

"Earl! Tell me about Kalin. Kalin, Earl, tell me about her."

A voice like the wind, formless, disembodied, a thing to be ignored in the pursuit of bitter memory and yet enough to guide the direction of thought.

Kalin who had succumbed to temptation. And who, in the end, had given him the formula stolen from a secret laboratory of the Cyclan.

A secret they had to regain.

A thing which would accelerate their domination of the galaxy, their aim and ambition. Once they had it every ruler and person of influence would become an extension of their organization, the mind of the cyber residing in a new body, moving it as a puppet, making it their own.

Incredible power, and the Cyclan would move worlds to regain what they had lost: the secret sequence of the units forming the chain.

"Earl?"

Dumarest moved, fretful, images dissolving and being replaced by new. A horde of men busy at work, an entire planet devoted to a single aim. Workers of the Cyclan busy trying to resolve the combination, but mathematics was against them. The total of all possible combinations of fifteen units was high. Even if they could make and test one every second it would take them four thousand years to cover them all.

"Earl! For God's sake answer me! Earl!"

The voice again, louder, demanding, imperious. A thunder in his ears. Dumarest forced open his eyes, they were matted with dried pus, the lids heavy, the light streaming through them a red-hot sword plunging into his brain.

"Wa-" He tried again, mouth and lips refusing to respond, his tongue a puffed and cracked mass of raw tissue. "Water… give me water."

It flooded over his lips and chin, made wetness on his naked chest. With the liquid gurgling came the voice, rising, breaking.

"Thank God, Earl! Oh, thank God! I was so afraid. Earl! Keep living, my darling. Keep living!"

"How… long…"

"Days. Days and days. Don't go away again. Stay with me, Earl. Don't get delirious again. Stay sane, damn you! I need you! Stay sane!"

A voice like a whip, the lash cutting through the fog, the terror he heard in it, the fear a stimulus to exert his strength. It was barely enough for him to keep his eyes open, to form words.

"Water. Give me more water."

A shadow and a seeming deluge which filled his mouth and pressed into his lungs. Coughing he expelled it, a spray which lifted like a fountain, glittering droplets falling like jewels. Dimly he was aware of his nudity, of the stickiness of his body, its heat and aching discomfort and, above all, the fatigue.

"Tired," he mumbled. "Tired."

"Earl! Stay alive, Earl! Live!"

He would try but it was hard to think and impossible to remain alert. His eyes closed and, in the darkness, Dumarest felt himself slipping back into the safe, warm haven he had constructed in his mind as a defense against pain. A warren into which he would mentally crawl to suffer the grinding ache of disorientation.

The last thing he consciously heard was the harsh sound of a woman's tears.

The room was a jewel carved from an emerald, the light soft through windows with tinted panes, the coloring of walls and floor matching that of the ceiling, the furnishings a variety of kindred shades. From the bed Dumarest looked at it, ran his hands over silken covers shimmering with the delicate hue of early petals. Green, a restful color, one designed to alleviate fear. He knew he must be in a hospital.

"Welcome to the living." A man stepped from behind the head of the bed where he had stood out of Dumarest's field of vision. He was slender, of medium height, his face smooth and his voice gentle. He wore a uniform of dull green adorned with silver patches on shoulders and cuffs. "A jest, but you must forgive me. Before you ask this world is Shallah and you are in the Hammanrad Institute. My name is Doctor Chi Moulmein. Yours?" He nodded as Dumarest gave it. "At least you have no doubt as to your identity. And you came from Hoghan, correct?"

"Yes. How-"

"All in good time." Smiling the doctor lifted a hand. "Let me say at once that you have made a remarkable recovery. Even the fittest of men usually take a few minutes to gain complete orientation after such a long period of unconsciousness, but you became almost immediately aware." He gestured towards a panel which stood attached to the coils and pipes of a mass of complicated apparatus. "Again, my congratulations."

"For what? Living?"

"For having the will to survive. Without it your recovery would have been impossible. Chelha is not the most gentle of plagues. However you have nothing to fear now. One attack makes you immune, if you survive it and you can be released from quarantine when you wish."

Dumarest looked at the man, the assembled apparatus.

"How long?"

"Six months subjective, fifteen days actual. Slow-time, of course, but the treatment had to be interrupted to permit recovery, checking and essential tests. We used the Rhadgen-Hartle technique of maintaining unconsciousness by the use of micro-currents applied directly to the sleep centers of the brain. Perhaps you are aware of it?"

"Under a different name, yes."

"Of course, but the RH method does have some advantages over the usual application and we are rather proud of it. A system of induced electronic shocks which maintain the flexibility and power of the musculature," he explained. "The patient wakes with no trace of the expected weakness and can resume an active life without delay. You will have noticed that you are not hungry. A further benefit; the stomach has been nurtured on a diet of selected roughage and concentrated staples. This, in addition to normal intravenous feeding, ensures a minimum of fat-loss and tissue-wastage. I bore you?"

"No."

"It is my specialty, you understand and, to be frank, I was pleased at the opportunity of using it for so long a period at a stretch. It will probably be advisable for you to spend a few days doing certain exercises, mainly for the restoration of full coordination and automatic responses. This, of course, will be your decision. Now, as to how you came here. You are curious, am I correct?"

Dumarest nodded.

"A signal was received from your vessel and a ship was sent to intercept and rescue. Messages had been received from Hoghan warning of the outbreak of plague and so all precautions were at hand ready to be taken. You were sealed, brought down to planet, installed in the Institute and taken care of. A lucky escape, sir, if I may say so. Not one in a hundred can hope to recover from Chelha and not more than one in ten thousand is naturally immune."

Luck, and it was still riding with him. Dumarest looked at the room, the expensive appointments, the mass of complicated equipment. Money, time, and care had been spent on him-who was footing the bill? And what had happened to Dephine?

Both questions were answered at the same time.

"Your lady is taking care of everything, sir. She is a most remarkable woman and, in fact, she saved your life. A natural immune which is rare enough, but one with intelligence and knowledge also. She realised that, unaided, you would not survive the crisis and remembered a fragment of learning gained when she studied elementary medicine. You would know about that, naturally, but she would have needed a grim determination to have carried out her decision. A bold woman, sir, and a brave one. May I congratulate you a third time on your choice of a partner."

Dumarest said, patiently, "You will excuse me if I seem dull, but I wasn't conscious at the time, as you must know. Just what did she do?"

"To save you?" The doctor shrugged. "She could not, of course, have known that she was a natural immune but as time passed and she didn't contact the plague she must have had an inclination that she was in some way favored. The problem was how to pass her resistance-factor to you. Without the correct equipment she could not make a true vaccine and it was essential that the appropriate antibiotics should be transmitted active and alive. I am not using professional terminology, you understand."