E.C. Tubb - The Winds of Gath

"His planet of origin?" She looked sidewise and up at the tall figure. "Didn't Melga tell you? He claimed to have originated on Earth."

"Earth?"

"Yes. Melga thought he was having a joke at her expense and he probably was. She was not amused but then she lacks humor. If he wants to keep the planet of his origin a secret why not allow him his mystery?" She smiled at the figures on the screen. "A strange person," she murmured. "And no fool." She snapped her fingers and the scene dissolved, the mirror returning to a plain, reflecting surface. "Is everything progressing as planned?"

"Yes, My Lady. I have arranged to hire bearers from the camp. The factor tells me that such work is their only means of employment. The dispersal of the guards is as agreed."

"And the ship?"

"The captain has his orders. He will not fail."

"If he does he will pay for it if I have to offer a principality for his head!" For a moment naked cruelty showed from beneath the cultured facade. It vanished as the Matriarch turned to other matters. "You think,then, that we are safe?"

"I cannot be sure, My Lady." He met the sudden anger of her eyes. "I am not infallible. When the subject was mentioned I gave certain advice. It was the best means possible to achieve the desired end. But I cannot be certain beyond all question of doubt. There is always the unknown factor."

"An excuse?"

"An explanation, My Lady." Her anger left him unmoved. "Would you have me lie? If so then I am not needed here. Any courtier could do as much."

She looked away, conscious of her helplessness as far as he was concerned. Anger, promises, threats, all were useless against a machine. She could dismiss him and that was the full extent of her power. If she did more the Cyclan would take their revenge.

But there always remained the tiny seed of suspicion, the shadow of doubt. Advice, like luck, could be of two kinds.

"Is there anything more, My Lady?" Dyne was anxious to be gone. Cynically she wondered why.

"No." She dismissed him with a gesture, waiting until he had left the room before daring to relax. Then she sighed, her shoulders rounding with fatigue. At times like this she felt her age. Felt too the waves of savage ambition threatening the things she loved. They were few enough.

Her palace on Kund. A small garden, some jewels, a lock of once-bright hair. The Lady Seena.

A small showing for a lifetime of rule.

She whispered at the mirror and again it showed Dumarest and her ward. They had not moved from the room. Their movements had been in space and time. The girl was a little flushed and seemed to have grown even more feminine as she sat close to the traveler. So close that he could not help but breathe the scent of her perfume. The Matriarch nodded her approval.

Dyne had his cold predictions based on known data and logical extrapolation, but she had better than that. She had the age-old intuition of her sex which could confound all logic. She had relied on it to carry her along a bloodstained path to the throne. She relied on it to safeguard her ward.

Her face softened as she looked at the girl, feeling the bittersweet tug of memory, the determination to protect her at any cost. The man could be of use in that despite the cyber's doubts. What did he know of the magical power of emotion?

The old woman smiled as she looked at the couple; then the smile froze on her face. She felt a sudden pounding of her heart, the terrible paralysis induced by overwhelming fear. The couple was no longer alone.

Death had joined the party.

IT CAME ON a blur of shimmering wings, a thin, finger-long body tipped with triangular jaws strong enough to sheer through metal, to penetrate the toughest hide. It ripped through the plastic of the room, poised for a moment in the corner, then swept toward where the couple sat.

Dumarest saw it barely in time. The Lady Seena was very close, her perfume an enticing scent in his nostrils, the warm, white velvet of her flesh radiating its feminine heat. She was attentive and had a trick of staring into his face as if seeing there something special to herself. Cynicism kept him detached. Such a woman would be sated with empty flattery and the easy conquest of desirous males. She was only amusing herself, unable to resist the challenge of his maleness, playing an age-old game with tired indifference.

So he told himself and managed to negate her charm.

"In your travels," she said softly, "you must have met many women. Tell me of them."

"Is that an order, my lady?"

"No. You will tell?"

"No. I—" He sensed rather than saw the darting shape and reacted by pure instinct. "Down!"

She screamed as he threw himself against her, knocking her from her chair, sending them both to the carpet. There was a thin whine, a faint plop as the thing hit the wall behind them, merging instantly into the background with a chameleon-like change of protective body-tint.

"Guards!" She thought that he had attacked her, that he was intent on rape. He rapped a command.

"Shut up! Listen!"

He rose, crouching, eyes scanning the wall. A patch of color flickered and he flung himself down, throwing his weight hard against the woman, rolling her over the carpet. Again came the thin, spiteful hum, the soft plop of landing. His ears caught the sound and directed his eyes. He reached behind him and groped for a chair. He found one and clamped his fingers around the backrest.

Something flickered on the wall.

He swept up the chair, holding it as a shield as he lunged toward the woman. Something tugged at his hair. He spun, feeling sweat bead his face, eyes searching the wall. He caught a glimpse of a jeweled eye before it vanished into the background. He watched the spot. The thing was fast—too fast for the eye to follow once it was in flight. The only chance was to intercept it before it struck.

"What is it?" Seena half rose from her knees, her initial fear forgotten. "I can't see—"

"Shut up!"

He caught the shift of color and jerked the chair up just in time. The thing hit the seat, drilled through, scored a deep groove across the backrest and caromed off the metal fabric of his shirt. Wings a tattered ruin, it thrashed on the carpet then scuttled forward on multiple legs.

Dumarest crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.

"A phygria," said Melga. The physician was very pale. She had come running at the heels of the guards. "You recognized it?"

"No." Dumarest looked at the chair still in his hand. The scar on the backrest almost touched his skin. He set the chair down and looked at the corner of the room. A hole gaped in the plastic. "I saw something move," he explained. "The rest was instinct."

"You must have very unusual reflexes," said the physician thoughtfully. "The attack speed of a phygria is over fifty miles an hour. That would give you,"—she paused, measuring the room with calculating eyes—"about a third of a second to see it, recognize its danger and take necessary action based on that recognition. You know of them?"

"Yes."

"That would account for your subconscious recognition. You simply didn't have the time for conscious thought." She stooped, picked up the crushed body in a pair of forceps, and examined it through a glass. "A female, gravid, searching for a host." Her lips tightened. "A human is not its natural host. That means—"

"It was primed," said Dumarest harshly. He looked down at his hands; they were trembling a little from reaction. He remembered the tug at his hair, the scar close to his hand. Death had twice come very close. "It was primed," he repeated. "We all know what that means."

He looked at the beauty of the girl and wondered who wanted her dead.

Gloria was tormented by the same thought. A phygria was an assassin's weapon. Primed with the scent of the victim it would unerringly seek out the target to use as its host. Like a bullet it would smash through the skin into the flesh beneath to vomit forth a gush of tiny eggs. Swept by the bloodstream they would scatter throughout the body to hatch and grow there. Too numerous for surgical removal, too tough for chemical destruction, they would bring an inevitable and horrifying end.