E.C Tubb: Web of Sand

Santis said, "Ten years ago I might have taken him on. I was always good at unarmed combat."

"For five hundred? It isn't enough." Kemmer stepped to one side to allow a tall man with a strained and painted face a direct passage. The man had eyes like blank windows, the pupils enormous, a rim of white showing around the contracted iris. Froth edged his writhing lips and his hands, like claws, snapped at the air before him. Drugged, in delusion such a man could be dangerous. Uneasily he said, "Earl, are we close?"

The man had come from a narrow passage lit by a somber orange glow. Doors gaped like hungry mouths each adorned by symbols and suggestive illustrations, several filled with swirling mist shot with streaks and shafts of vivid color. The vending place of drugs and bizarre experiences, of mechanically induced stimulation and hypnotic dreams. Soft moans came from some of the doors, screams and frenzied cursing from others. In the dull illumination the figures of touts loomed like distorted ghosts.

"Full sensatapes," whispered one. "Burn, be hanged, he flayed, be boiled in oil-all genuine experiences recorded from the victims of actual executions. Be crucified, be impaled…"

"Be the willing victim of a woman's lust," suggested another. "Writhe beneath the impact of demanding flesh your vigor constantly renewed. Be…"

"A tiger, a spider, a hunting wasp." The offers were a susuration. "Taste blood and feel the crunch of bone and chiton. Learn…"

"How to expand the senses. To feel the winds of space on your naked flesh. To imagine and see your imaginings take shape. To…"

"Be a God. With these new applications of science and medicine none need be denied the complete fullfillment of elementary desire. Adventure, enhance your psyche, know the joys of…"

"Rest." The voice was a purr. "Lie and smoke and dream and forget the strife of survival. Find happiness and joy in pleasant vapors. A hundred kren buys you a couch for an hour."

A place in a mist of smoke where somnolent shapes lay in temporary oblivion. Figures which twitched at times and stirred and cried out as they rose from the euphoria of dreams or plunged deeper into the horror of nightmare. The last of the doorways. Beyond lay what Dumarest had come to find.

Chapter Three

Like the city the Stril was layered; parts catering to innocuous amusements, others dealing with those of stronger meat, a section close to Hell itself. Beyond the passage the roof soared over widened passages, a cleared space in which fountains cast a melodious tinkling, artificial breezes stirring artificial fronds. Statues stood staring with blind eyes, figures of men and women fashioned from the glazed and colored sand, the fused material, depicting scenes of torment and lust, of gaiety and wild abandon. A man, head thrown back, mouth open, hands clutching his ripped abdomen, screamed in an endless, silent agony. Two women locked in a compulsive embrace stared unseeingly at another impaled on a cone of milky crystal who screamed wordlessly at a crucified man who stared bleakly at a couple writhing in frozen ecstasy.

Statues by the hundred set in groups and lined array in the area which circumnavigated the central bulk of the area.

Dumarest looked at it, seeing the high, colonnaded wall, the arched gates and porticoes, the paths leading to the entrances. Worn stone and polished benches all showing the passage of use and time.

"What now, Earl?" Santis scowled as he looked around, The mercenary was no stranger to the forms of diversion always to be found in any civilized area but had never found them to his taste. To fight according to the rules and customs of war was one thing, to demean the brain and courage of a man was another. And no mercenary could have avoided seeing the degradation of which humans were capable. "This place stinks!"

Of sweat and fear and blood and exudations of pain and lust. Of greed and riches and abject poverty. Of desperation. To Dumarest they were familiar smells.

He said, "Among other things the crone told me they played Find the Jester here. She didn't lie."

Kemmer was impatient. "Well?"

"It gives us a chance to build up a stake. Carl, you handle the bets. Maurice, you back his play. I'll act as a block." Dumarest stared around, noticing small groups clustered between the statues, seeing one newly forming. "There! Let's move in fast!"

A man stood behind a narrow board, three cards in his hands, his voice a drone. "Find the jester and pick up double what you put down. Three cards, you see? A deuce, another deuce and a jester. I throw them down-so. Make your bets!"

His moves had been clumsy, the position of the jester obvious to all. A man standing at the end of the board, obviously drunk, slammed down a handful of coins and turned, coughing. Calmly the dealer moved the selected card, the jester, and exchanged it for one of the deuces. No one made a comment-who was to protect a fool from his own folly?

Dumarest knew better. The drunk was no fool but a man working with the dealer, acting the drunk to set up the crowd. There would be others and he spotted them, a plump man who would later lead the betting and another who stood ready to take care of any trouble. Dumarest edged toward him as the mercenary took his chance.

"A hundred!"

"Your money-"

"On the card!" Santis lifted his hand to reveal the coin resting on the pasteboard. A certain bet which others could have made but had allowed suspicion and natural reluctance to hold them back. The only certain bet they could have made. "I win?"

"You win." The dealer was phlegmatic. Sometimes a smart bastard moved in but it could help prime the other punters for the kill. He frowned as Santis repeated the maneuver. "Another hundred?"

"Five." The mercenary met his eyes. "I win again, yes?"

"He wins!" Kemmer yelled from where he stood in the crowd. "His money was down. I saw it-we all saw it. Pay him."

"That's right." The plump man made the best of a bad job. "His cash was down, I saw it." He turned his head and Dumarest saw the signal he gave with a flick of the eyes. "Good for you, Pop. You're on a winning streak."

One he was going to make certain would end. Like the actors they were they swung into a well-rehearsed charade. The dealer, taken with a sudden attack of coughing, dropped the cards and turned, doubled, fighting for breath. Quickly the plump man lifted the jester, displayed it and deliberately creased a corner. When the dealer recovered, the cards were as he had left them. Picking them up, he shuffled them, resuming his spiel.

"Find the jester and pick up double what you put down. No money no winnings. Have your cash ready. Here we go!"

The switch had been neatly done. Knowing what to look for, Dumarest failed to see it. The cards fell, the one with the creased corner obviously the jester. Hands heavy with coins thrust forward to take advantage of the plump man's obvious cheating. None felt sorry for the dealer-hadn't he robbed the drunk?

Calmly he turned the card, revealed a deuce and swept up the money.

As Santis edged from the board a man bumped into him.

"Watch it, old timer! That was my foot you trod on!"

"An accident-"

"Like hell it was!" The man stayed close, his hands busy. He sucked in his breath as Dumarest caught at one of his wrists. "What-"

"Bad luck," said Dumarest softly. "And all yours. You were outsmarted. We're going now. Try to stop us and I'll break your arm. You want that?" His voice was low but hard. As hard as his face, the grip of his fingers. "It's the luck of the game."

"You bastards! Did Syclax-"

"You'll be hearing from him." Dumarest released the man's wrist. "Get back to your game."

"Syclax?" Kemmer frowned as they moved away. "Do you know him?"

"No."