E.C Tubb: Web of Sand

"The guards?" Kemmer whispered the suggestion. "Could it be a patrol?"

"No."

"But-"

"One pair of feet," said Santis impatiently. "That's all I've heard. No guard would be patrolling alone and whoever made that noise wasn't wearing boots. Quiet, now, and listen!"

As yet they had avoided the guards and workers, not wanting to be checked or having to answer questions. Gaining time so as to move well away from the foot of the shaft down which they had descended. Time in which to rest and sleep and move on and up through the lower regions of the area. Time in which to realize they were completely lost.

Dumarest looked at a patch of distant fungi. It had flickered as if something had passed before it. The occlusion could have been an optical image, the result of tired eyes, but he didn't think so. Someone or something was out there watching their progress.

To Santis he whispered, "Stay here with Maurice. Pretend you are talking to me. I'm going to see what's up ahead."

He moved forward, boots silent on the stone, stepping like a shadow from one patch of gloom to the next, halting often to merge with the stillness. The murmurs behind him faded as he pressed on, a susuration which lost form and meaning and became merely the sign of living presences. As, before him, he sensed another.

Dumarest froze as, again, he saw the patch of fungi blacken to shine again. A guard? It was barely possible and if so the man could guide them but, if they were searched, the tranneks they carried would be confiscated as undeclared imports and they themselves would be fined or imprisoned. And, if a cyber were waiting, it would be to walk straight into his grasp.

Again he saw the flicker of darkness, closer this time as if, whoever it was had grown impatient and was heading to where the men stood talking. Dumarest waited then followed, dodging the giveaway patches of brightness by stooping beneath them, running on his toes, hands extended, touching, folding to clamp around the figure which suddenly loomed before him.

"Steady!" His knife was against the throat, the edge pressing in silent warning. "Don't move. We won't hurt you. Just stand still and let's get a look at you."

He felt skin beneath his hands, the warmth of naked flash, a soft, familiar rotundity. As he backed into the glow of massed fungi Santis released his breath with a whistle.

"Who would have guessed it? A girl!"

She was almost naked, the fabric falling from one shoulder and cinctured at the waist covering little more than breasts and loins. Her hair was long, dark, richly shining. Her feet were bare as were her legs and arms. One hand held a scrap of flaked stone and the other was lifted as if in defense or appeal. Her face had a round, child-like quality. She looked about twelve.

She said, "Don't touch me, mister!"

"I won't." Dumarest lowered his knife. "Who are you?" Then, as she made no answer. "Have you been following us?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You going to hurt me?" She lowered her own crude weapon as he shook his head. "I was curious. You're lost, aren't you? I can tell. You've wandered too far and crossed your tracks too often to be anything else. You've licked water from the stone and haven't eaten at all for days. You hungry? Want a nice bowl of stew? Something good to eat and a soft bed to go with it."

"And?"

"And what?" She looked at Dumarest with childish innocence. "I'm Ania. That's what the others call me. What do they call you?" She nodded as he told her. "Earl. I like that. Do you want to come with me, Earl?"

"My friends?"

"They can come too. It isn't far. But we must hurry. It isn't safe to hang around here. We'll be safer farther along and in the lower galleries. They'll never catch us there. Come on now, Earl. Hurry!"

She took his hand and dragged. Santis said, dubiously. "It could be a trap."

"A trap?" Kemmer echoed his doubts. "She's just a child."

"Big enough to carry a knife and big enough to use it," said the mercenary. "I've met her kind before; bait to lead the unwary into trouble. There could be others waiting ahead of us."

Dumarest said, to the girl, "Is there anyone ahead?"

"Do you want that food or not?" She sounded impatient. "If you do then let's get on with it. We can't afford to be found here." She added, "Either come on or let me go."

Dumarest had his fingers wrapped around her wrist. He kept them there as he followed the girl. She led them through a narrow passage and into an arching gallery filled with minor trickles, murmurs, tappings. An acoustic freak which caught distant sounds and magnified them. Listening, Dumarest recognized the pulse of machines, the sighing gust of ventilators, a peculiar scraping and scratching.

"It's from the reactor," said the girl when he asked. "They're busy adjusting the ratios. Listen again!" She halted then, as she stepped forward again, asked, "Did you hear it?"

"What?"

"This." She imitated the sound, giving a series of deep grunts followed by a hiss then more grunts. "The sewage farm on level 23," she explained. "They're clearing the processed sludge and making ready for a new intake. Careful now!"

A fissure yawned at their feet. She jumped it, waited for them to follow, then headed into a place filled with thickening gloom. As the walls closed around them Dumarest released her arm and drew his knife.

She said, "You won't need that, Earl."

"I hope not."

"No one will hurt you here."

"No," he said, dryly, "but that isn't to say they won't try. Get off now."

"Leave you? But-"

"Go!" His voice carried a snarl. "Move!"

For a moment she stood there, eyes wide, shining in the dimness then, gulping, she turned and ran.

"Earl-"

"After her!" Dumarest followed his own advice, running quietly down the passage which had swallowed her. If she was leading them into a trap her lone arrival would create consternation and give them the element of surprise. It wasn't needed.

Beyond the mouth of the passage, in a chamber bright with clustered fungi, stood a lone man his hand resting on the girl's shoulder. He wore dark clothing touched with somber hues, the interplay breaking line and form; a crude but effective form of camouflage. He was armed with a spear tipped with vicious barbs and a thin knife of bright steel.

He said, Welcome, strangers, and have no fear. My name is Lowbar.

Beneath his hand the girl faced them, smiling.

There was something furtive about the man, a sly movement of the eyes, a wariness to be expected in someone who lived with fear. And there was a tension in the way he hefted the spear, the manner in which he placed his booted feet as he led the way to a cave. The warm glow of a fire dulled the cold radiance of fungi and a clutter of bedding, bowls, small items made it more of a home than a mere hollow gouged in a wall of stone.

And there was food.

It was what Dumarest had expected; a stew containing scraps of unidentifiable meat, vegetables, a sludge-like thickening. Rats, he guessed, and some of the fungi together with the residue of yeast vats and algae tanks and anything else which could be scavenged. He cleaned the bowl and nodded his thanks when offered another. Food was food and he was too hungry to be squeamish.

"You came at a good time," said Lowbar. They sat alone, the girl had vanished on business of her own and Kemmer and Santis lay asleep on heaped bedding. "A worker was careless at one of the utilities and failed to close a valve securely. The sludge attracted rodents. Need I say more?"

Dumarest threw aside a cleaned bone. "Is the girl your daughter?"

"Ania? No. Only by adoption. Her mother Ran when she was little more than a baby. I found her wandering, almost dead from starvation and other things. She died but the child survived and has been with us ever since."