E. Tubb - The Terridae

She said, "One day, maybe, you'll realize just how insulting that question was. Yes, damn you, I'm a doctor and because of that I carry some gear, but only emergency stuff. He needs massive corrective surgery, regrowths, an amniotic tank, months of subjective in slowtime. And before that-oh, to hell with it! What do you want me to do?"

"Make him talk." He met her eyes. "He was in analogue and could still be for all I know. If he is, I want you to snap him out of it and make him conscious and aware. And do it fast-if he's dying as you say then we haven't long."

"Analogue-are you certain?" For answer he handed her the vials.

"The fool. A double-shot which could blow his mind." She reached for her bag. "I'll do what I can but you realize the risk?" His eyes told her of the stupidity of the question. "You don't care," she accused. "You don't give a damn if he goes insane or turns into a vegetable. All you want is for him to talk."

"That's right." He looked beyond her at the figure recumbent on the soiled bed. "Now let's stop wasting time."

The door was shut again, held by a chair propped beneath the knob. A barrier against the inquisitive who had thronged the passage and could still be outside. As the woman worked Dumarest looked again at what he'd found. The gun was a copy of that used by the man he had killed, a weapon designed to fire a mass of shot and lethal at short range. He broke it and checked the load, frowning at what he saw.

With his knife he slit the cartridge and tipped the load into his hand.

Not shot as he'd expected but a powder as fine as talc. Fired, it would have thrown a cloud over the area immediately before the gunner and that was about all. The fine dust would have held little kinetic energy and that little would have been quickly lost. It could sting the eyes, perhaps, but little else. Unless it was more than what it seemed.

Dumarest stooped, lifting the powder to his nostrils, taking a cautious sniff. Immediately he lowered his hand and leaned back, fighting the numbing paralysis which had locked his eyes, his jaw, the muscles of his neck. For a moment he felt helpless while the light seemed to revolve with slow deliberation, the glow haloed with glittering rainbows.

Why hadn't Jarl used that instead of the club?

The boy, perhaps? Anton had stood close and the man could have had fears as to the result of the powder fired at one so young. And the other? Both had tried to use clubs- had they thought the loads were more lethal than they really were?

Luck had been with him; had they used the guns he would have been left helpless to freeze in the brush. Had Jarl not used the analogue he could have fired as Dumarest burst into the room. Then, if not before, he would have been willing to kill and there had been no boy to safeguard. No threat to future prosperity.

"Earl!" Carina straightened from the supine figure. "It's going to be close."

"Do your best."

"What I'm doing is killing him."

"He's as good as dead already." Dumarest put aside the gun and picked up the papers. "And unless he talks others might follow him."

Himself, who would be a natural target if Kelly wanted to make himself safe. Anton for fear he might betray his whereabouts. Fenton, even, for having given the address.

The papers held nothing of value; a letter from a woman, a circular, an old notification of dismissal but the reason was closure of the workings and he could not be blamed. The reason why he had taken to haunting the brush, perhaps, but the basic liking for the way of life would have always been present. The desire to hurt, to bully, to rob and terrorize. How many victims had he and his kind left to die.

"Earl!"

The eyes were still bloodshot and the jaw now bore the purple of bruises but the bone was unbroken and the man could talk.

"Bastard! You stinking bastard!" Jarl moved against the torn sheets which held him to the bed. "We should have killed you."

"Where's Kelly?"

"Go to hell!"

Dumarest pushed the woman aside and leaned over the dying man. Light glittered from the knife he lifted, the point slowly descending until it touched the throat.

"Where's Kelly?" The knife pressed harder. "Tell me where to find Kelly!" Harder still, the needle point finding the selected nerve. Carina gasped as Jarl reared in pain.

"God! No! God!"

Dumarest eased the pressure. "Just talk," he said. "Do that and I'll leave you alone. I won't trouble you again and that's a promise. And why protect him? You're hurt and could have died while he's living easy. Why do you think he didn't hand over your share? How do you think I found you?" The knife glittered again as he moved it across the other's field of vision. "All I want to know is how to find him. From you or someone else it's all the same to me." His tone deepened, became feral, "But, for you, man-you'll suffer hell!"

"No!" Sweat ran from the bruised features and the eyes rolled in their sockets. A man in torment from the promptings of his own imagination; the tip of the knife hovered well above his skin. "Dear God, no!"

"Earl!" Carina recoiled at the look he gave her then said, quickly, "Don't be silly, Jarl. Why not talk? Just a few words and it'll be over."

"Stop him!"

"I can't!" The truth and she knew it. "Talk, you fool! Do you think I want you to suffer? Tell him what he wants to know!"

For a moment the bloodshot eyes followed the gleaming menace of the knife, then: "The Durand. He stays at the Durand. Runs a table in part return for bed and board."

"Why work the brush?"

"I don't know. Kicks, I guess. He's smooth." Jarl swallowed, choked, fought for breath. "My guts! God, it hurts!"

"Who was the other man?" Dumarest leaned closer. "Who was he?"

"Berge."

"Anyone else? A lookout?"

"No. I-" Jarl coughed, blood showing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes widened as he sensed the approach of death. "Help me! You promised to help me!"

"How will I know Kelly? What does he look like?" Dumarest snarled his impatience as the man remained silent. "Talk, damn you! Talk!"

Carina said flatly, "He can't. He's dead."

On Shard the Durand was an oasis of culture and refinement maintained by those who could afford the luxury of style; if the glory had long departed, pretense remained.

"My lord! My lady!" An attendant bowed as he extended greetings. "We are honored at your presence. What will be your pleasure? The tables? The restaurant? A spell in scented caverns? Or perhaps you would be interested in a period of contemplation spent in a room designed to cater to varied tastes?"

He paused, waiting, assessing the arrivals with practiced eyes. Dumarest had washed and resealed his wounds but their traces gave him an air of brooding menace. Carina had donned a scarlet gown which somehow accentuated the boyish litheness of her figure. As she turned toward the attendant Dumarest said, "We'll just have drinks for now. Something long and cool."

They were served in a sheltered alcove by a girl with skin bearing the sheen of oil and eyes which dye and glitter had turned into pools of ancient wisdom. With the drinks came a partitioned tray made of flecked glass, each segment containing a differently colored powder.

"For your pleasure," explained the girl. "The red yields the taste of fire, the brown gives tranquility, the amber exuberance, the green pungency, the yellow creates enticing scents."

"And the blue?"

"For love, my lady."

"An aphrodisiac." Carina shook her head as the girl moved away. "Why do I feel insulted?"

"You shouldn't." Dumarest sipped at his drink. "She gave you fair warning."

"In case you took advantage of me." Carina smiled. "Now I begin to understand. Use it and we might hire a room. I suppose she gets a commission."

A certainty as was the fact that most operating in the hotel would have hired floor space. Dumarest looked at the decorations lining the alcove, all dusty with time and neglect, all needing attention the management couldn't afford to provide.