E. Tubb - Child of Earth

“Steady,” he soothed. “Just rest easy.”

“Rest?” Bazan Deralta heaved in his chair. Coughing he fought the phlegm which clogged his throat. “Earl!”

He positioned the bowl, waited as the captain hawked and spat, clearing his throat, breathing with a harsh, ragged sound. He lifted a protesting hand as Dumarest wiped his lips as he slumped back into his chair.

“No, Earl! That’s enough!”

Ignoring him he dipped the cloth into scented water and laved the captain’s forehead, throat and cheeks. The flesh burned as if with inner fire.

“How is he?” Entering the control room the navigator stared at the slumped figure. “Bad as ever. The poor devil. He hasn’t a hope of making it.”

“We could take him to the infirmary.”

“Sure,” agreed Raistar. He was a tall, aging man with a harassed expression and a curt, blunt manner. “They could take him and check his insides and take samples so as to grow new tissue. When ready they could slice him open and replace his diseased organs and dump him into an amniotic tank. Slowtime would speed the healing. They could fix him up as good as new. It could all be done in a few weeks.” Bitterly he added, “All it takes is money.”

“He has money. He has the ship.”

“And when that’s gone, what then?” The navigator shook his head. “And you’re wrong, Earl. The captain doesn’t own the ship. We all have a share. So we sell it and pay for the treatment. If it works the captain will be alive-but there will be no ship. At his age he hasn’t a chance of getting another command. Not even a berth. He’d be stranded.”

“But alive.”

“Or he doesn’t make it.” Raistar ignored the comment. “And we still have no ship.”

“He’s the captain! You just can’t let him die!”

“We can’t ruin ourselves to give him a chance.” Anger tinged the navigator’s voice. “You think we don’t give a damn? You think we don’t care? But the facts are what they are. Either way we’d be stranded. Can you even begin to imagine what that would be like? No berth, no cash, no future. No escape from this hell-hole of a world. It’s a gamble we can’t win. One we aren’t going to take.”

“But-”

“He’s right, Earl.” Zander had joined them in the control room. “We’ll do the best we can but we can’t take the captain to the infirmary. The authorities will be notified in case of contamination. The ship will be impounded and there will be heavy fees mounting day by day.”

“We can work to pay them.”

“It isn’t as simple as that” said the engineer. “We can’t afford to linger. As soon as Jesso has got us a cargo we’re off.”

“Without a captain?”

“Raistar can handle the ship. He can take care of the formalities. No one will know about the captain. Once in space we’ll do the best we can.”

A best that needn’t be good enough. None of the drugs they had carried had helped and Dumarest felt a chill of foreboding as he again bathed the burning flesh of the emaciated face. One he had come to know and like too well. A face of a man he had come to think of as a father, someone who had helped, who seemed to understand, to be concerned. One who was going to die.

“We all have to go, Earl.” The engineer, watching, had sensed his thoughts, guessed his emotions. His voice was unusually gentle. “Today, tomorrow, someday-it all has to end. Bazan has done more than most. Seen more than most. Now, maybe, it’s time for him to move on.”

“But there must be something we can do.”

“There is and we will. Dorph is arranging it.” Zander turned to lead the way from the control room, the big chair, the wasted figure it contained. “You’re to go with him to collect some medications. Hurry, Earl. He’s waiting for you outside.”

Figona was a harsh world, one of clouded sunlight, tainted air and winds carrying the acrid stench of chemicals. From where he stood at the head of the ramp Dumarest could see ugly glows on the horizon from the smelters turning ore into ingots. Wisps of vapor streamed over the field, catching at his lungs, stinging his eyes. The reason why the port had slammed close behind him. Such an atmosphere had no place within the vessel. Especially when the captain was lying ill and coughing blood.

“Coming?”

Dorph, at the foot of the ramp, was impatient.

Dumarest ignored him, years of association had lessened his importance. Now the steward was just another person in a tiny world. As the engineer was another, the handler a third. Both now busy on their own tasks.

“Earl! Damn it, boy, do you have to stand like some star-struck idiot? You’ve seen ships and landing fields before. They’re all the same. Let’s get on with it.”

Reluctantly he obeyed. It was true he had seen ships and fields before but, always, they held a special magic. The attraction of the unknown. The hint of exotic adventure and unexpected possibilities. The ships scattered around him had roamed the void and touched the planets of stars far distant.

The crews that manned them had trodden on worlds he had yet to see. Many of which he would never have the time to see.

Three years of travel had barely allowed him to touch the fringe of the universe.

“Hurry!” Dorph looked from side to side as Dumarest descended the ramp. A nervous gesture with no apparent cause.

“We haven’t much time,” he said as he led the way to the gate. “The captain needs a special drug. Only a few sell it. The man we need won’t entertain visitors after dark.”

Too many words and, like the furtive looks, foreign to his nature. Dorph never volunteered explanations. He liked to remain enigmatic and, in his mind, mysterious. Now he wore a peaked cap fitted with an eye-screen that masked his face. He had insisted that Dumarest wore one like it. An odd request but there was no point in arguing about it.

“Keep moving!” Dorph grunted as a guard blocked their passage. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just take it easy.”

The guard was a big man, armed and irritable. “Just give it a minute. Someone special wants some room.”

Dumarest looked to where the guard was facing. The crowd of men was parting, yielding to clear a passage down which came a tall, thin figure. One seeming to glide over the tamped dirt, resplendent in a robe of vivid scarlet, the breast adorned with a gleaming sigil. Beneath the raised cowl he caught a glimpse of a taut, skull-like visage, the glow of sunken eyes.

“Who-”

“Quiet, boy!” snapped Dorph. “Don’t be curious!” The guard wasn’t so reticent.

“You’ve never seen one before?” His eyes roved over Dumarest. “Well, maybe not, you’re young and there aren’t many in this area. You’re looking at a cyber. An associate of the Cyclan. Closer to the Centre they can be found on every thriving world.” He spat on the dirt. “Scum, the lot of them! They should be burned!”

“Why?”

“Forget it, Earl!”

Like Dumarest the guard ignored the steward.

“You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. I was born on Helgar, a warm and easy world a long way from here. My family shared and farmed a valley for five generations. We all lived well. Then the new Magnate wanted to increase his revenue. He hired the Cyclan to advise him how best to do it. Their advice turned the valley into a reservoir. We lost our home, land, everything. For compensation we were given a tract of desert. My father cut his throat. My mother starved, my sisters and other brothers-” He broke off, quivering with rage. “All thanks to the Cyclan. Damn the red swine!”

Dumarest looked at the tall figure with fresh interest. He had passed deeper into the field but now it was obvious he was not alone. Two others accompanied him; acolytes wearing simple robes. The ship to which they headed stood in isolation at the far edge of the field.