E.C. Tubb - The Winds of Gath

She was talking, thought Seena, as if to the next Matriarch.

The face was a mask of pain, the eyes enormous, the mouth a lipless hole of silent pain. Sweat ran down the deep-graven lines in the tormented face. She could almost smell the rank odor from the masculine body.

"He was conditioned," said Dyne quietly at her side. "In order to overcome the instilled death-directive we had to bypass the nervous system to the heart." His arm was a shadow against the screen, his finger tapping softly on the glass as he pointed to where thick tubes ran from the chest to a squat machine. "The conflict caused a revival of the birth trauma. He wants to die and cannot and so feels psychological pain."

"Must I watch this?"

"It is the Matriarch's order." He did not look at her. In the light from the screen his face was a kaleidoscope of color. "It is important that you understand that you were the target of this assassin."

"Why?"

"That, My Lady, is not for me, to say." He stepped back as the scene diminished, showing the interior of the interrogation laboratory of the palace. "I predicted that there was an eighty-two per cent probability of such an attempt being made. Watch was kept as I advised and the man was captured. His story was obviously false. Warned of what to expect, the guards prevented his self-murder. Precautions were taken before his interrogation. He admitted that you were his target."

"I don't believe it!" She was shaken by the sight, by the reminder of what went on behind the outwardly innocent facade of rule. "Is this some kind of trick?"

"For what purpose, My Lady?" He waited courteously for her reply and, when none came, reached out and touched a control. The scene blurred, expanded to show the tormented face, the lipless, gaping mouth. This time there was sound, a horrible rasp of breath, a whimpering threnody, a name. Her name.

"Enough!"

The face diminished, the sound died, the screen went blank. A curtain rustled and light poured into the room. Dyne turned from the window.

"It proved impossible to elicit the name of his employer and it is doubtful if he even knew it. There are ways to arrange these things. But I advised steps to be taken so that those probably responsible would know of their failure—and our knowledge of their implication."

"By impaling him!"

"Yes, My Lady."

She shuddered, remembering the tormented face turned toward the sky, the ugly stains on the polished glass, the empty gropings of the hands, the aimless movements of the feet. And the screams—she could not easily forget the screams.

But she no longer blamed the Matriarch.

The room oppressed her with its too recent memory of pain. It was a bare, bleak chamber used by the guards in attendance, empty now but for the cyber and herself. Impulsively she walked across the floor, through hangings of shimmering crystal, through an annex piled deep with rugs and to a narrow door opening on the world outside. She pressed the release and the panel folded to one side, letting in the tropic heat. She stood feeling the glare of the sun on her face, looking out to where the heavy waves of the ocean rolled sluggishly toward the shore. Some men in a crude boat fought the swell.

A rustle and Dyne was beside her. She pointed to the men, tiny in the distance.

"What are they doing?"

"Seeking food, My Lady."

She nodded, uninterested in the problems of others, her mind stained with thoughts of danger and death. Someone had tried to kill her—it was not a comforting thought.

"Why are we here?" She gestured toward the outside world. "Why the sudden journey from Kund, the transshipping, the charter?"

"You were considered to be in grave danger, My Lady. And the engines of our ship were not safe."

"Sabotage?"

"It is possible."

She felt a chill run down her spine. The great houses had wealth and power and their influence could reach far. In the struggle for the succession who could consider themselves safe? Impatiently she shook her head.

"Even so, why are we here? What does the Matriarch hope to find?"

"Perhaps an answer, My Lady." He paused, looking at her, recognizing her beauty as a mathematician would recognize the beauty of an abstract equation. In her, art and science had united with the original germ plasm to produce something exceptional. "You know of Gath?"

"I have heard of it. This is the planet on which you are supposed to be able to hear the music of the spheres." Her laugh was brittle, humorless. "Did we come here to listen to music? If so we have wasted our journey. There are more pleasing sounds on Kund."

"We are not in the right place, My Lady. And this is not the right time. We must wait for the storm."

"And?"

"Prior to the storm we will go north, to a place where the coast swings east toward the cold and dark of the night hemisphere. There stands a tremendous barrier, a mountain range fretted and carved by endless winds, worn by the passage of time. Hard stone remains while soft has been weathered away. Buried deep in the rock are masses of crystal which respond in a wide range of harmonics to pressure and vibration. In effect the range is the greatest sounding board ever imagined. When the winds blow during a storm the results are—interesting."

"You have been here before?"

"No, My Lady."

"Then—?" She broke off the question, knowing the answer. Given a pair of facts Dyne could find a third. Given a set of circumstances, the cyber could extrapolate the most probable course of events. It was enough for him to know what had been experienced by others. But still a question remained.

"Why?"

"Why are we here? What is there about Gath which drew the Matriarch all the way from Kund?" He made no pretense that he didn't grasp her meaning. "I told you, My Lady. It could be that she hopes to find an answer."

THE BOAT was crude, rough planks lashed with scraps of wire, plastic, plaited vines. It had no sail, no keel, only thwarts for the rowers, a rudder, a pointed prow. An outrigger had been added as an afterthought but even so the vessel was as seaworthy as a coracle.

"Row!"

The skipper, bare feet hard on the bottom, bare chest reflecting the sun, yelled the order. His voice was bigger than it should be… too big when compared with the stark cage of his ribs, the skeletal planes of his face.

"Row, damn you!" he yelled. "Row!"

Dumarest grunted as he threw his weight on his oar. Like the boat itself it was crudely fashioned by men who had scant knowledge and less skill. A boat, to them, was something which floated. They knew nothing of balance, correct ratios, the art which turned dead wood into a thing alive. They had simply built a platform from which to raid the sea.

He grunted again as he tugged at the stubborn pole with the flattened end. Water oozed from between the planks and wet his bare feet. The sun was hot on his naked back. He had won his place because he was big, because he seemed fit, because he could swim. Megan was guarding his clothes.

"There!" The skipper pointed and leaned his weight against the rudder. Something had broken the surface and he headed toward it. "Faster!" he yelled. "Faster!"

They did their best. None of them were strong; strength needs food. None of them were fat; travelers could never be. All were desperate—starvation was too real a threat. So they flung their weight at the oars, gasping in the heat, fevered in their hunting frenzy.

The skipper tensed as they drew close to the spot he had marked. He would get two shares of whatever they caught. Three would go to the owner of the boat safe on shore. The rest would get one share each.

"Steady!" He eased the rudder and dashed sweat from his eyes. He was over-anxious and knew it but it had been too long since he'd made a catch. Small fish, sure, with half of them going back for bait. Skinny, fleshless things of little nutritional value, costing more strength to get than they gave. But whatever had broken the surface had been big. "Carl!" he ordered. "Get set!"