E. Tubb: Technos

At night the streets of Clovis were twisting threads of shadowed mystery faced by high walls and shuttered windows, looping and curving as they followed the dictates of some ancient plan. The city itself was a place of brooding silence broken only by the sough of the wind from the plains beyond, the discordant chiming of prayer bells suspended from the peaked and gabled roofs. Pale lanterns hung like ghostly stars, their ineffectual light augmented by the haze from the landing field and the great floodlights of the workings to the north where men and machines tore into the planetary crust for the wealth buried deep; all was reflected from the lowering clouds in a dim and artificial moonlight.

Dumarest paused as he reached an intersection, eyes watchful as he studied the streets curving to either side. They appeared deserted but that meant little; men could be lurking in the black mouths of doorways, the shadowed alleys, ready to leap out and kill any who passed. He would not be the first to be found robbed and murdered in the light of the rising sun.

Cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road, he headed down one of the streets, his boots making soft padding noises as he trod the cobbled way. It was late; an entrepreneur had brought in a troupe of dancing girls, little things of graceful movement, doll-like in ornate costumes, their hands fluttering in symbolic gestures as they pirouetted to the beat of gong and drum, and entranced by their charming innocence he had lingered to see the final performance. Now he was beginning to regret his self-indulgence. Clovis was an old city steeped in ancient tradition, resentful of the new activity which threatened its brooding introspection.

And, in the winding maze of streets, it was all too easy to get lost.

Dumarest reached the end of the street, turned left and was twenty yards from the corner when he heard the pound of running feet coming from behind. Immediately he sprang to one side, turning, pressing his back against a wall, his right hand dipping to lift the nine-inch blade from where it nestled in his boot. A vagrant beam caught the polished steel, shining from the razor edge and the needle point, the betraying gleam vanishing as, recognizing the man who loped towards him, he sheathed the knife.

"Lemain!"

"What-" The man staggered to a halt his face ghastly in the dim light. He was stooped, one hand clamped to his side, the fingers thick with oozing blood. His eyes widened as Dumarest stepped toward him. "Earl! Thank God it's you! I thought-" He broke off, head turned to where other racing footsteps broke the silence. "The guards! They're after me, Earl. They'll get me, too. You'd best keep out of the way."

"Forget it," said Dumarest. He caught hold of the other's free arm and swung it over his shoulders. Half carrying, half dragging the injured man he ran down the street. The dark mouth of an alley gaped to one side, and he turned down it as the approaching footsteps grew louder. The alley was a trap, a blank wall closing the far end. Dumarest turned and ran back as lights shone at the mouth of the alley. The fingers of his free hand scraped the wall, felt the wood of a door, and he thrust himself against it. The panel was locked. He thrust again and felt something yield with a dull snapping of wood. The door swung inward and he almost fell into darkness. Supporting the weight of the injured man, he closed the panel and leaned against it as boots echoed from the cobbles beyond.

Light blossomed from somewhere, "Who is that? What do you want?"

"Be quiet!" Dumarest turned and saw a woman sitting upright on a bed, a candle guttering in her hand.

"It's all right," he said quickly. "We mean you no harm. Just be silent."

She rose and came toward him. Her feet were bare, the nails gilded, her height almost that of his own. Her hair was curled, gilded, as were her fingernails, in the sign of her profession. From beneath a thin robe of yellow silk her breasts moved in succulent attraction. At each step a long, curved thigh gleamed in inviting nudity. Her lips were very red and very full; moist and full of promise.

"You're late," she whispered, "But I'm always ready for business. What's the matter with your friend? Is he drunk?"

"Silence!" Dumarest reached out and dropped his hand on the candle, killing the dancing flame. From beyond the door came the sound of harsh voices.

"Well, he isn't here. Damned if I can see how a man can run like that with the burn we gave him."

"He's tough," said a second voice. "And scared. A scared man can do a lot of surprising things. He must have run faster than we thought. He isn't here, anyway. I guess we'd better call it a night."

The rasp of their boots grew faint as they moved away.

"Earl!" Lemain stirred in the grip of the supporting arm. "Earl, I-"

His voice died as Dumarest clamped his hand over his mouth. Silk rustled as the woman moved in the darkness, the scent of her perfume heavy in the air.

"They've gone now," she said. "May I relight the candle?"

"No," said Dumarest. "And make no sound."

For ten minutes he waited, standing immobile against the door, the weight of the injured man dragging at his arm. The silence felt thick and heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of garments, the ragged breathing of Lemain. And then, from outside, boots rang against the cobbles.

"It's a bust," said a harsh voice disgustedly. "If he'd holed up in here he would have come out by now. I guess he must have given us the slip somehow."

"It doesn't matter." The second guard was philosophical. "He didn't get away with anything so there's nothing to cry about. And with that burn we gave him he can't get far. We'll check with the field and see if he made it as far as there. If not, we'll say that he's dead. We lose the bonus but save ourselves a lot of work. Agreed?"

"Sure," said his companion. "Who's going to worry about a crumb like that anyway."

The sound of their boots grew faint as, genuinely this time, they moved away; the scrape of leather on stone merged with and drowned in the chimes of prayer bells from high above.

* * *

Lemain was dying. Dumarest could see it as he stared at the man in the light of the relit candle. The dancing flame threw shadows over the prominent bones of his cheeks and temples, accentuating the shadowed sockets of his eyes, the thin bloodlessness of his lips. Beads of sweat dewed his forehead, and the muscles of his jaw were knotted in pain.

"Earl," he whispered. "I tried something stupid. I got paid off at the workings. You quit, but I got fired. I was desperate for a stake and went to Fu Kung's. I hoped to win but I lost. I guess I went a little crazy then. He keeps his money in a safe in a rear office behind the tables and I tried to take some. Not all of it, just enough to buy a High passage back home. His guards caught me before I could get anything. They shot me but I got away. The rest you know." He coughed and inhaled, the sharp hiss of indrawn breath betraying his agony. "God, Earl! It hurts! It hurts!"

The woman said, "What's the matter with him? Is he sick?"

"He's hurt." Dumarest looked at the room. It was typical of its kind. A large, double bed filled one corner, the mattress piled high with soft fabrics. A table, chairs, a wardrobe, a large cabinet holding both food and implements for cooking, a curtained stall containing a shower, a washbasin, toilet facilities, the usual furnishings.

"Get a sheet," he ordered. "Clear the table and spread it over. Get another for use as a bandage. Hurry!"

"You'll pay?" Her voice was soft with trained intonations; an instrument of pleasure for the ear, but there was steel beneath the softness. "He's been hurt, and those men outside were guards. If he's on the run I could get into trouble."