E. Tubb: Eye of the Zodiac

"Man Dumarest?" The voice was thin, a bare whisper, the tones slurred, the words more a recognition signal than a question. The Hyead had good night-vision.

"Here." Dumarest took a candy bar from his pocket. "Emazet?"

"Abanact. The other could not come."

"He is well?"

"The other is dead. Hunters in the mountains-he will be mourned."

Trigger-happy fools who had blasted at a barely seen shape and who would now be boasting of their kill. Dumarest threw the candy bar at the dim figure which rose from the ground to catch it, to chew eagerly at the luxury. The rare but essential sugars the Hyead metabolism craved.

"News?"

"A whisper. Men will come to take what is not theirs."

"When?"

"Midway through the night. At a point where lights are few and the stores are high. Three hundred paces from where the other met you the last time you spoke."

The lower dump. Dumarest took out more candy bars, the reward for the information. He lifted the remainder up in his hand.

"Anything else? News from the city? Were men dressed in scarlet seen leaving the field?"

"By us, no."

"By any?"

"Not that we have heard."

The Hyead moved like ghosts through the town, worked at the field and in the taverns, listened to gossip casually spoken by men who considered them less than beasts. If a cyber had landed they would have known of it. Dumarest passed over the rest of the candy.

"If you hear of such men pass word to me at the canteen. The reward will be high."

"It is understood."

And then there was nothing but the darkness, the shadows, a thin wind which ruffled the tips of dry vegetation. A ghostly sound like the keen of mourning women.

Down by the lower dump the shadows were thick, the glow from the floodlights doing little to augment the ghostly starlight. The patches of darkness could already hide danger-on Tradum as on any world predators came in many guises, the most dangerous of which were men.

Dumarest slowed, his left hand reaching for the flashlight clipped to his belt, his right tensing on the club he had been issued. It was a yard of loaded wood, the end lashed to provide a grip, the tip rounded. Hard, strong, it could smash bones and pulp flesh.

Twice he had checked the area and now, if the information had been good, the thieves would be busy. Halting, his eyes searched the spaces between the stacked crates, their upper edges barely visible against the sky. Pilfering was rife, hungry men snatching at castings and components, desperate for the money they would bring, the food it would provide. Buyers were always to be found, taking no risks but making high profits.

"Brad!" The voice was an urgent whisper. "Which crate?"

"Any of them."

"This covering's tough. We should have brought a saw."

"Quit talking and get on with it."

Two men at least, and there could be more. One set high to act as a lookout, perhaps, an elementary precaution. Maybe another crouched and watchful to spot a figure moving against the glow from the workings. Dumarest had swung in a wide circle to approach the spot from the darkness. He looked again at the upper edges of the stacked crates but saw nothing. But if he used the flashlight and someone was up there, he would be an easy target.

"Shen?"

"Nothing. All's clear."

Dumarest moved as he heard the rasp of metal on wood, a sudden splintering, the snap of a parting binding. The third voice had come from close to one side and he stepped towards it. A dark patch rested on the ground, a man who jerked as Dumarest dropped at his side, one hand clamping over his mouth, the fingers of the other digging into the throat, finding the carotid arteries, pressing and cutting off the blood supply to the brain. A pressure which brought swift unconsciousness.

"Shen?" The first man who had spoken grunted as he heaved something from the opened crate. "Give me a hand with this."

Dumarest rose and moved softly towards him. The other man, the one called Brad, must be facing the site. Three men working together to make a strike and a swift withdrawal. Dawn would find them well on their way to the city, too far for pursuit, their loot hidden at the first sign of a raft or hunters.

"Shen?" Dumarest saw the blur of a face. "What-"

The man was fast He backed, one hand lifting with a hooked bar, his mouth opening to yell. Dumarest dived towards him, the club extended, the tip aimed at the throat, hitting, sending the man to double up, retching. A sudden flurry and Brad was facing him, a gun in his hand.

"Drop it!" he snapped. "The club, drop it!" He sucked in his breath as the wood hit the dirt. "Make a sound and you're dead. Elvach! Get down here. Fast!"

Four men, a big team, and at least one armed with a gun. A primitive weapon which would make a lot of noise, but would kill while doing it. The man would hesitate to use it, not wanting to give the alarm. Therefore, the other man would be coming in from behind with a more silent means of dealing death. A club or knife or strangler's cord.

Dumarest knew they didn't intend to leave him alive.

"Elvach! Hurry, damn you!"

From above came a scrape and a slither as the lookout dropped from his perch.

"What's happening? Where's Shen? What's the matter with Sley?" Elvach was small, lithe, anxious. His face was screwed up and his eyes barely visible in the puffiness of his cheeks.

"Never mind them," snapped Brad. "Take care of this guard. Move!"

"Kill him?"

"You want to be lasered down at dawn?" Brad lifted his pistol. "Having this gun will kill us all, if we're caught. Now get on with it."

"Wait a minute," said Dumarest. "We could make a deal. I've got money."

He dropped his hand to his boot, touched the hilt of the knife, lifted it, threw it underhand toward the face behind the gun. The point hit, plunged into an eye, the brain beneath. As Brad fell Dumarest turned, the stiffened edge of his hand slamming against the side of Elvach's neck, sending him helplessly to the dirt.

"Fast!" Sley, gasping for breath, stared his amazement. "He had a gun on you, finger on the trigger, and you killed him before he could pull it. You killed him."

"Do you want to follow him?"

"No, mister, I don't."

"Then stay here. Move and I'll cut you down." Dumarest jerked his knife free, wiped it clean on the dead man's clothing and tucked it back into his boot. He picked up the gun and went in search of Shen. Elvach looked up as Dumarest dumped the man at his side.

"Dead?"

"Unconscious. Are there any more of you?"

"No."

"I want the truth," said Dumarest harshly. "Who set this up?"

"Brad." Elvach sat upright, rubbing the side of his neck. "It was going to be easy, he said. Move in, a quick snatch and away. One to work and three to watch, we couldn't go wrong." He sounded bitter, "like hell we couldn't."

"Who would buy?"

"I don't know. Brad had it fixed. Him and that damned gun." His voice changed, became a whine. "Look, mister, how about letting us go? You've gotten Brad. I've a woman lying sick, and a couple of kids close to starving. I made a mistake, sure, but I didn't know about the gun."

"You'd have killed me," said Dumarest flatly.

"No. Knocked you out, maybe, but not killed. What would be the point?"

To gain time, to avoid later recognition, to ensure their escape. They would have killed him.

Sley said, dully, "What now, mister? I suppose you're going to turn us in."

"That's right."

"Turn us in and collect the bonus, then see us lasered down at dawn. The gun'll take care of that. A smart trick which let us down. Brad should have fired and to hell with losing the loot. He was greedy. I guess we all were."

Greedy and stupid. Caught without the gun they would have been knocked around a little, interrogated, fined and set to work. A heavy fine which would hold them fast until the project had been completed, working for small wages, little better than slaves. But they would have stayed alive.