E.C Tubb: Web of Sand

"Then sell my debt!"

"To whom? Some young fool like Chole Khalil who would prove his idiocy by canceling it and setting you free? Is that what you'd like?" His face darkened with mounting anger. "No, you bitch! I'll see you rot first! You chose to act the harlot and you'll pay. Dumarest! That scum from the arena! Penniless filth!"

"But a man!" In ruin she found courage. "More of a man than you could ever be. You pampered degenerate! Would you have the guts to fight? To gamble your life? You depraved swine! What-" Her voice rose to a scream as he stepped toward her, one hand lifted to strike. "Hit me, you coward! Hit a woman and prove you are a man! But would you go out and hunt for me? For anyone?"

"Hunt?" The raised hand trembled then lowered as, incredibly, he smiled. "Of course. The gifts you gave Dumarest- not rewards for the pleasure he gave you as I'd thought but a stake. Money to buy equipment." The smile turned into a laugh of genuine amusement. "An amateur! Out in the desert at a time tike this! Ellain, my dear, soon you will need to sing a dirge."

For a moment she stared at him then, running to the window, rasped back the cover. The reason for his amusement was obvious. Outside the sky was darkened, the desert hidden by a raging mass of windblown sand.

Chapter Eleven

There had been warning. Dumarest had noticed the changing light, the oddly metallic tinge which painted the horizon with shades of green and umber, limpid blues and smouldering reds. An effect created by rising dust which acted as filters, swirling to change shape and density, mineral contents reflecting and refracting the sunlight. One which held an awesome beauty even as it warned of impending danger.

Panting, Kemmer said, "What the hell's that?"

"Trouble." Santis had also recognized the signs. "A storm's brewing. We might be lucky."

And would be if the storm didn't break. A possibility but Dumarest doubted if it would happen. The best they could hope for was that it wouldn't break too soon. Halting, he turned and looked back at the loom of the peaks now far distant. The marks of their progress lay close behind in a series of small depressions which filled even as he watched. The sand, blasted by arid winds, was too dry and too fine to hold a shape for long. Even the piled dunes left after a storm tended to slip and find a common level, the desert ending in a series of mounded ridges.

"A storm," muttered Kemmer. "That's all we need. No food, no water and near three days walking behind us. God, I'm beat."

He sounded it and acted like it as he plodded with slow deliberation over the sand. Santis was the same as was Dumarest. He had wasted no time starting the journey once they had left the hills knowing that if they had rested, overstrained muscles and sinews would have stiffened. Now they were operating on strength borrowed from drugs, pain numbed from others. But they hadn't dared to strip to use the salves and the rough suits had worn sores in delicate places.

"Well make it," said Dumarest. "Just keep going."

Keep moving, lifting one foot after the other, plodding on over an endless eternity of empty sand. To ignore the itch and burn of chafed and bleeding skin. The agony of thirst and heat. The taste of salt as a dry tongue licked parched lips. To keep going and not to worry about the possibility of a sannak snaking under the sand after them. Not even to consider the chance of getting lost.

"When we reach the city I'm going to buy the biggest and coldest bath I can get," said Kemmer. "And while I'm soaking I'm going to guzzle iced drinks until I'm ready to burst. After that I'm going to sleep for a month. Then, maybe, I'll be ready to eat." A hundred yards later he said, "What are you going to do, Carl?"

"Much the same."

Another hundred yards. "Earl?"

"I can't think of anything better." Dumarest tilted his head to examine the sky. The dancing shades of changing hue had deepened on the horizon and now, high above, thin streamers of wispiness trailed in faded color. Mauve? Green? It made no difference. No matter from which direction the storm came it would be as bad.

"See something?" Kemmer had turned and seen the tilt of Dumarest's head. "More rafts?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" His voice was wistful. "A raft would save us."

As would the others they had seen since starting the journey. Vehicles apparently searching and from which Dumarest had hidden for reasons he hadn't chosen to explain.

"Earl?" Santis slowed to allow Dumarest to catch up and talk beside him. "How do we handle it?"

"The storm?"

"Yes. Rope up so as to stay in contact? Dig in and wait?"

"Both if we have to. The best thing would be to reach the city before it breaks."

"And then what?" Santis touched the bag at his waist. It held his share of what they had found. "If it's blowing we'll have no chance to strip and hide some of these. We won't even be able to swallow any. Once we crack open a helmet in a storm we'll be missing a face."

"I know." Dumarest again studied the sky. "I've an idea about that."

"I thought you might," said the mercenary, dryly. "I figured there had to be a reason why you wanted to walk. Wanted it enough to make us lie down covered with sand to avoid being spotted by those rafts. Is there anything I should know?"

"Such as?"

"Marta didn't have any jewels in pawn and what we got from selling her stuff wouldn't have paid for the equipment. The money for that came from those things you managed to find. They could have been stolen."

"Would that worry you?"

"Hell, no, Earl! I'm thinking about what could be waiting for us in the city. If they were stolen and if the guards are after you-well, that jail could stand some improvement. There might be a way out. Zarl is dead and could take the blame. The license was in his name. If we all tell the same story and stick to it, use bribery, even, we'll all be in the clear."

Dumarest said, "The things weren't stolen, but thanks for the offer. I just don't want to be skinned at the gate. We've worked too hard for these things just to hand them over. Remember what Zarl said? The first five and half the rest go to the Cinque. That's too big a cut."

He looked at the sky again as, satisfied, the mercenary plodded ahead. The wisps of color were stronger now and little plumes of sand danced about them, lifting to spin to fall and rise again. A sudden gust sent streamers traveling over the desert like smoke from a fire, the same gust blasting a fitful shower of dust against the three men. A gentle breeze compared to what was coming, but strong enough for the dust to scour the tough material of the suits. Dumarest examined his gloves, ran them over the scraped arms, and checked the overlays of his helmet. Three thin, detachable layers covering the main transparency, each of which could be pulled free if too badly scoured to allow vision.

"Run!" Dumarest forged ahead, setting the pace. "Come on, damn you! Run!"

The city lay ahead, he could see glitters from where sunlight reflected off windows, the domed summits of the towers, the swell of the main complex. A hive buried deep, walls the color of sand, only the shape betraying the life within. A shape which blurred even as he forced tired and aching legs into a run.

"Hurry! The storm's about to break!"

He slowed, waiting for the others, running beside them as he attached short lengths of rope to their belts, attaching the loose end to his own. Even over the rising wind he could hear the pant of laboring lungs, the ugly rasp of breath through gaping mouths. Both were too close to exhaustion for safety but, unless they kept up the pace, they were dead.

"Keep running! Move, you idle bastards! Move!"

His voice was a lash to stimulate flagging energies. Santis responded to it, a reaction born of youth when he had trained on a parade ground. Kemmer responded too, from anger or simple fear. Both using the last dregs of their strength, making the last, final effort Dumarest had known was in them. One needed now to carry them over the sand toward the city.