E. Tubb - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

He broke off as if conscious of having said too much, a fact Dumarest noticed but ignored. Later, if at all, would be the time to press.

"The Shrine, boy," he said. "Take me to the Shrine."

The journey was not long but each step had been taken before many times in other places and, always, such journeys had led to disappointment. A quest which seemed to have no end. A mystery which had yet to be solved. A world lost as if it had never been and yet he knew that it existed and was to be found. Would be found given time and the essential clue. The one fact which would supply the coordinates and guide him back home.

Would fate, this time, be kind?

"Earl?" Navalok was worried at his silence, his expression. "Have I offended you?"

"No."

"If I have it was without intent. No insult was implied in anything I may have done or said. If for any reason you have cause to feel offense then I apologies, humbly and without reservation. Please, Earl. You must believe that."

"I believe it." Dumarest turned to look at the anxious face and smiled. "How could you insult me? We're friends, aren't we?"

"Friends?" Navalok blinked.

"Of course." Dumarest dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Didn't you want for us to be friends?"

"Yes," Navalok stammered. "Oh, yes, Earl. I-I'd like that very much."

A smile and a few words, cheap to give but what seed could bear a richer harvest? Those who took a perverse pleasure in deriding the unfortunate lost more than they knew and risked more than they imagined. No human being, no matter how insignificant, can safely be demeaned. Always there is present the danger of restraints snapping, of self-control giving way beneath the impact of one insult too many. Of pride and the need to be an individual bursting out in a tide of relentless fury.

A thing Dumarest had learned early in life but which Lekhard had not.

He straightened from where he leaned against a wall his voice, like his face, holding a sneer.

"Well, Earl, as I guessed, you find our little freak entertaining. There is, of course, no accounting for tastes, but surely there are others more suited to your whims?" His gesture made his meaning plain. His laughter, devoid of humor, made it obscene.

Dumarest felt the boy tense at his side, the sound of his sharp inhalation, and cursed the unfortunate meeting. To maintain the newly formed friendship he would have to act in a manner which the boy expected which, in this society, meant only one thing.

He said, curtly, "What do you want, Lekhard?"

"I? Nothing, not from you or from any man." Lekhard stressed the gender. "But Dephine was anxious and asked me to look for you. It would be best if you hurried back to your mistress."

Another insult to add to the rest. Dumarest studied the man, saw the way he stood, the way in which his hand rested near the butt of his gun, the expression in his eyes. One he had seen before across countless rings. The look of a man enamored with the desire to kill.

Quietly he said, "Navalok, instruct me. How do I challenge this man?"

"Earl! You carry no gun!"

"Answer my question."

"He has." Lekhard moved from where he stood and halted a few feet from the couple. "Until you have proved yourself you have no right to issue a challenge. The killing of Galbrene makes no difference. It was the act of an animal and I've no intention of following his example and meeting you or any man with bare hands. If you want to challenge me then earn the right to carry a gun. Until then remember your place."

"And that is?"

"In the dirt, scum! In the filth where you belong!"

Dumarest snarled, "I am armed. My knife against your gun. Give the word, boy."

"No, Earl! You-"

"Give it!"

He moved as the youth shouted, wasting no time on snatching the knife from his boot, darting forward and to one side as Lekhard clawed at his gun, closing the distance between them before the weapon lifted free of its holster. His left hand clamped on the wrist, twisting as his right sent fingers to close on the other's throat.

As the gun fell from the nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone of the floor Lekhard sagged, his face mottling, only the hand at his neck preventing him from crumpling to the stone.

Dumarest held him, counting seconds, then threw him to land sprawling against the wall.

"You-" Lekhard rose, coughing, rubbing at his throat. "I'll kill you! My gun-"

"I'll take care of it." Dumarest picked it up and held it casually in his hand. "You can collect it later from the Lady Dephine. I'll tell her you loaned it to me for examination." He added, bleakly, "Or you can tell her the truth as to how I obtained it. Her and everyone else of the Family. The choice is yours."

A choice which was none at all-Lekhard would not want to be shamed by the truth. As he left the chamber Dumarest turned to Navalok and threw him the weapon.

"Here. Take it. Does it make you feel more of a man?"

A mistake which he recognised as the boy caught the pistol. For him to own a gun was to be a man, but it had to come in a certain way, one hallowed by tradition.

"I can't take it, Earl. It isn't mine." Reluctantly he handed back the weapon. "But, Earl, the way you faced him! To best him with your bare hands."

A performance which had mainly been for the boy's benefit.

Dumarest said, curtly, "Let's get to the Shrine."

A century earlier and there would have been armed men standing in honor, a guard carefully chosen and each man jealous of the privilege. A generation ago and older men would have tended the sacred place, sitting and dreaming of past glories, of the strength and vitality of their youth. Now there was only a crippled boy to tend the lights and to sweep the dust and venerate the past.

He said, "Earl, this is where the trophies are thrown when the hunters return after having made their kills."

Dumarest looked down at the floor, the place at which he pointed. It lay before the opening of the Shrine, the stone slightly concave with repeated washings. In imagination he tried to visualize the severed heads and the crowd who had watched the ancient heroes. Now there would be no crowd, only an official of some kind to record the achievement. Alorcene, perhaps, or an assistant. And even he would probably have to be summoned.

"Word is sent from the Watcher," explained Navalok when he mentioned it. "Always there are men stationed in the highest tower. They see the immediate surroundings and, of course, word would also be sent from the raft-enclosure."

"And?"

"Men will come to witness the trophy. The notation is made in the records and, later at dinner, the gun is given in ceremony."

A standard weapon each identical aside from personal adornment to the one he had taken from Lekhard. Dumarest examined it, a primitive thing with a revolving chamber holding five cartridges. The calibre was large, the charge, he guessed, small. The bullet would have high impact-shock but low penetration-to be expected in a weapon intended for use in a crowd.

"Earl, would-" Navalok broke off as Dumarest met his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing." The boy gestured towards the opening. "You wanted to inspect the Shrine."

Not the Shrine but the items it held. Dumarest strode to the slab of polished stone and looked at them. Rubbish for the most part, bits and pieces, some seeming to belong to other, larger artifacts, all showing signs of the ravages of time. Of use and time, the leaves of the plastic file were scuffed a little as well as faded and the metal of the chronometer held a dull patina which covered a worn inscription.

Dumarest rubbed at it with his thumb and held it closer to the light. Narrowing his eyes he read…OTA.F TE..A. The few discernible letters were followed by a disc surrounded with tapering spines-the symbolic image of a sun.