E. Tubb - Child of Earth

He broke off, senses reeling as the scene before him swirled and blended with mist. A time of deja vu ending as soon as recognized. But the question remained.

How had he known?

How?

He could not have known the details he had mentioned. He had been too young, too small, too weak to have traveled far. The moon, yes, that was plain for all to see, but the scars of old wars, the ruins, the vast expanse of wilderness? As Shandaha had pointed out there was no way he could have seen them and yet he was certain they existed. Certain that all was as he had claimed. Convinced he knew the truth.

Like ghosts thin voices whispered in his mind.

“Earth? A strange name for a planet. Why not call it Sand or Loam or Dirt?”

Laughter at the concept.

“It has to be a legend. A fanciful myth. A world that does not exist.”

More laughter at his insistence that it did.

“Then why isn’t it listed in the Almanac? If it was real it would be registered. The coordinates would be known. They aren’t so it doesn’t.”

Syllostic logic of the kind Shandaha had demonstrated. All planets were listed in the Almanac. If a world was not listed it didn’t exist. Earth was not listed so Earth did not exist. Proof according to the rules of the system used, but the initial premise was at fault. Change it a little to-‘all known planets are listed in the Almanac’-and the reasoning held no value. For if Earth was unknown it could not be listed, but it could still exist.

Comfort of a kind and surely the existence of Earth could soon be no longer a matter of speculation. For he had found the planet. The legendary world of limitless wealth. He had managed to return, to get back home. The coordinates were no longer a secret. The Kaldari must have them and could have sold them on. They, or others, would use them driven by curiosity and greed.

Given time more vessels must surely arrive.

To be greeted as he had been? Blasted from space to be sent to crash in ruin on the surface of a hostile world? To be eliminated or made a prisoner for the amusement of some decadent being?

Anger touched him and he fought the hampering mists of sleep, rearing to sit upright, clearing his mind, remembering, concentrating on familiar things. He was lost in a world of alien dimensions, lacking coordination, knowledge on which to plan and act. The pawn of a being of apparently superior power amusing himself with an elaborate game. Dumarest remembered the impression he had gained of a player radiating the smug confidence of one convinced of victory. Shandaha had won-but what? The doubt he had sown as to the veracity of youthful memory? A demonstration of skillfully applied logic to score a point? If so why? Shandaha would yield no answer, volunteer no explanation. He was too much in control. A situation that had to change if Dumarest was to gain some degree of independent action.

But how?

The memory of Gath had been a dream but it had provided an anchor of sorts. He knew he had to find another on which to base a degree of self-determination. To fight against the swirling mists with their hypnotic influences, their insidious mind-altering patterns. He needed the stability of familiar scenes, objects, events. To rise above the deceptions, distractions and delusions that clouded his mind. Pain would help and he dug his teeth into the flesh of his inner cheek concentrating on the hurt, adding to it as he dug his nails into his palms, focusing his mind, dredging his memories with a grim determination.

The world of enchantment thinned, vanished as around him mists and planes changed to become walls, drapes, a ceiling, a floor. He concentrated harder, the walls closing in, drapes flattening, changing, turning into stained plaster and faded paint. The floor became bleached timbers, boards bearing dents, scars and discolorations. The ceiling was low. The light illuminating the chamber streaming through a narrow window. A bed, a door, a table at his side, a chair holding his garments, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, crude facilities for washing.

A rough room in a cheap hotel. One of a type that he knew too well.

He leaned back on the pillow, letting events run their course, closing his eyes as a soft creak came from the door. One repeated from a stubborn hinge as the panel opened, whispering again as it closed. He heard the soft pad of naked feet and moved a little, breathing deeply, his right hand lifting to the edge of the pillow before he slumped into apparent unconsciousness. He heard the soft rustle of discarded fabric. Weight rested on the mattress beside him and he felt the close proximity of rounded flesh. The scent of perfume pervaded his nostrils and the touch of hair was a gentle caress on his shoulder.

A part of revived memory and a natural element of the scene he had created. An attendant harlot, common among such hostelries, coming to offer her services or to steal if the opportunity arose. He moved beneath the caress of her hand, turning his face towards her, obviously aware and on the brink of waking. As she pressed harder against him, the mounds of her breasts flattening against his torso with a soft invitation, his left hand rose to glide over her naked back, to linger as he caressed the warm, softly rounded flesh. Then to rise higher, to reach the nape of her neck, to lock his fingers in the mane of her hair. To pull back her head so as to expose the column of her throat.

At the same time his right hand moved from beneath the pillow, the knife it held flashing forward to halt with its point pressing against the flesh beneath her jaw, the arteries beneath the skin.

“Earl! No!”

He twisted her face away from him, maintaining his grip, blood oozing from beneath the tip of his blade.

“Don’t move, Nada!” Her perfume had betrayed her. “I don’t know how you managed to disappear when I held you before but I can guess how it could be done. Don’t breath on me! Don’t touch me!”

“I didn’t use gas or drugs. That is the truth. I give you my word!”

“Whatever you used be warned. If I feel myself going, or strange, or you seem to vanish I’ll do my best to drive this blade into your throat. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?” As she hesitated he pressed a little harder on the knife. “A word of advice, girl. If someone threatening you asks a question give them an answer. It needn’t be the truth-just give them an answer. Let us try again. Why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I was lonely, bored and I needed comfort.” She fell silent then added, with sudden anger, “Damn you, Earl! Must you humiliate me?”

“I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“Am I so repulsive?”

“You are beautiful and you know it.” He was curt. “I’m not in the mood for games. Did Shandaha send you?”

“No.”

“Would you have obeyed him if he had?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Because you would have no choice?”

“No, Earl. Because it would have been a pleasure.” She tried to turn her face towards him, then relaxed as he maintained his grip on her hair. “You are hurting me. Do you like to hurt people?”

He looked at the knife, at the blood masking its point, the sheen of her flesh in the light streaming through the window. Beautiful flesh superbly fashioned glowing in the light of dawn, of an early day, a new beginning. He had no choice but to kill or trust her and to kill would gain him nothing.

She sighed as he lifted the blade from her throat and eased his fingers from the mane of her hair. A sigh of relief, of satisfaction or of success-it was impossible to tell. She rose with a smooth grace to glide to the washbasin. Water gushed from the faucet and she laved the blood from her neck then moistened her face and lips. Droplets ornamented her skin with nacreous pearls.