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  Nectar of Heaven

  ( Dumarest of Terra - 20 )

  E.C Tubb

  E.C Tubb

  Nectar of Heaven

  Chapter One

  All night the wind had droned over the workings dying at dawn when a pale yellow sun had illuminated a world transfigured by cold. Ice coated the mounds and gullies, frosted the humped buildings, gave a transient beauty to the harsh lines of functional machines. A thin, white blanket covered the torn and ravaged soil, snow filling hollows and softening peaks, a dry powder which held treachery.

  "Dangerous." Hart Vardoon kicked at the accumulation, a white dust flying from his boot. "Be careless and you could slip, break a leg, maybe." He glanced at the humped machines. "Worse, even."

  Dumarest glanced at the mechanisms; tall, their fronts set with curved teeth, the whole moving on wide treads. The operators sat back and to one side guiding the tearing action of the grabs which tore into the dirt and sent it in massed lumps to one side. If a worker should slip and fall the chances were high he would be unnoticed, his body joining the dirt in a red-stained mass.

  "A freak." Wiess had joined them. He stood shivering, his face pinched beneath the surrounding fabric of his hood. "It's too early for snow. Once the sun gets high it'll thaw the stuff to water. Dry it out too," he added quickly. Sodden ground was impossible to work. "A couple of hours should do it."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Take my word for it, Earl." Wiess shivered again and beat patched gloves against his chest. "This is my third season and I've seen freak storms before. We've got weeks yet, a month at least."

  Vardoon shook his head as the man walked off toward his position. Behind him one of the machines woke to strident life, others following, metal grating as treads joined grabs in preparatory movement. Within minutes the workings would be in full operation.

  "What do you think, Earl? Has Wiess got it right?"

  "You saw his clothing."

  "Too thin and too worn. A blast would go right through it and he hasn't the fat to fight cold. A gambler too."

  "One who loses."

  "As I've noticed." Vardoon scowled, scar tissue bunching on his face, turning it into a mask of savage ferocity. "Three seasons," he said. "Stuck on Polis for that long and he still lacks decent clothing. What do you think, Earl?"

  Dumarest studied the sky, the pale orb of the sun fogged by high-drifting cloud. The wind had fallen but the air held a fresh, astringent odor together with the bite of chill. Far to the north rested a dullness; massed cloud laced with paler hues. Against them a flight of birds arrowed toward the south.

  "Well?" Vardoon was impatient. "Have we a month or what?"

  Dumarest said, "I'm a stranger here, Hart, like yourself, but if I had money owing I'd collect it now."

  "I'm not fool enough to lend. So-" He broke off as an overseer yelled his anger. "We'd better get to work before he blows his top. See you later."

  He moved off and Dumarest set to work. The workings were open-cast mining, the machines ripping into the surface of an ancient seabed, the lumps of dirt cascading from the grabs containing nodules of manganese. With long-hafted hammers Dumarest and the other scudgers broke up the lumps and searched for the mineral. Pay was based on what they found.

  It was hard, unremitting labor, today harder than usual. The chilled ground yielded too slowly to the impact of the hammers, the dirt taking too long to crumble. But, if nothing else, the activity generated body heat.

  Dumarest straightened, throwing back the cowl of the thermal garment he wore over his own clothing, feeling the sweat dry on his face beneath the touch of a gentle wind. To the north the clouds were darker than before, the sun a little more hazed. Turning, he saw a raft lift from the administration area, the transparent canopy sealed, shimmering with reflected light as it caught the sun, the shapes within humped and indistinct.

  Vardoon joined him as the craft vanished toward the south.

  "The top brass," he said. "On the run. They must know something we don't."

  "Maybe not."

  "They've left, haven't they? The engineers, the assayers, the rest." Vardoon slammed his hammer against a lump of dirt and grunted as the head did nothing but indent the surface. "Three hits to do the work of one. Five times as long to check for nodules. How many have earned the price of a meal as yet? Now that raft-what's the answer, Earl?"

  It came during the noon break. Hunched in his furs, the supervisor was curt.

  "We're closing down. Hand in your tools before dark. Tomorrow you get paid. Transportation to town will be provided at noon."

  A man chose to object. "Hell, why the hurry? It's early yet."

  "That's right." The supervisor nodded. "If things were normal there'd be five or six weeks before winter closed us down. But things aren't normal. A storm's brewing and we want out while the going's good."

  "Can we take a chance?" Wiess? Dumarest looked and saw another just like him, one just as desperate. "Work on for a couple of weeks at least? Hell, man, we've had storms before."

  "Sure, but it's too close to winter. We're closing down."

  Dumarest reached for his stew as the protests continued. It was thick, rich with synthetic meats, laced with spices, hot and warming to throat and stomach. Top-brass food but he could afford it. As he tore a morsel from a crust Vardoon slipped into the seat at his side.

  "So now we know." He set down his own bowl and reached for his spoon. "It's time to move on." He frowned at the continued noise. "Listen to them howl. Crazy-did they think the job would last forever?"

  Dumarest shrugged. The noise was born of desperation, of those who had hoped to accumulate a stake so as to move on from the trap that was Polis. A futile hope-the pay was too little to provide other than sustenance. Now they had lost even that. But, tonight, the sharks would be hungry for a final killing.

  "Beldo's planning a game," said Vardoon. "Cash or paper against pay. Want in?"

  "No. How's he going to make sure he collects?"

  "A list from the office and a few goons to take care of trouble." Vardoon tore at his bread. "They can be handled. You've run a table before, Earl, right? Maybe we could make a killing."

  As Beldo hoped to do, as Imman, as Tai'Hun and a couple of others. Predators who would skin the stupid and the desperate with marked cards, loaded dice, fixed games. A part of camp life no matter what the world. Leeches tolerated by the authorities for the kickback they provided.

  "Did you hear that?" Wiess came to join them. He was trembling. "Down and out-just like that! How am I going to get by? It takes money to gain the shelter of town, more to eat and if I fall sick-what the hell can I do?"

  "Pray," said Vardoon. Dumarest was more helpful.

  "Offer yourself on contract," he advised. "You'll get food and shelter in return for work."

  "Sure." Wiess was bitter. "Twenty hours a day and sleep in a corner. Winding up with a debt I won't be able to pay. So next season I get sold to the owners as a drudge." His hand lifted to pull at his tunic, the imagined collar around his throat. "I'd end up a damned sight worse than I am now."

  "You'd be alive," said Dumarest. His bowl was empty and he pushed it aside. Hours of daylight remained and should not be wasted.

  That night the wind was gentle but the ice remained and the clouds to the north were higher, darker, closer than before. Masses of vapor in tormented balance, turbulence which created vortexes, temperatures balanced on a delicate edge. High-flying craft could have seeded the mass with chemicals and artificially created eletro-compounds to trigger the mass into release and quietude but the operation took money and materials the mine owners were unwilling to spend. The profits were too small as it was, the season closing, why waste effort for so littl
e reward?

  A sudden gust sent hail rattling against the windows and Dumarest turned, tense, relaxing as he isolated the cause of the sound. Vardoon grunted from where he stood next in line.

  "You've fought, Earl. On Jaldrach?"

  "No."

  "Other places, then. I can spot a mercenary-a good one responds to the sound of gunfire like a well-trained dog." His eyes roved over the neutral gray plastic of Dumarest's tunic and pants, the high boots, the hilt of the knife riding above the right. A match for his own dull olive, the boots different, the material lacking the polished places on which protective armor had rested. Neater, more recently refurbished, but to his eye an unmistakable uniform.

  That of a traveler, a rover, an adventurer among the stars.

  Ahead of them a man swore in shocked disbelief.

  "This all? Hell, I damned near broke my back for a week and for this?"

  "You owed for shelter, clothing, a shot of antibiotics when you skinned your knee. Next!"

  A big man, smiling, a sheaf of paper in his hand. Slips given by those he had skinned. The official checked them, paid, looked to the next in line.

  A short line-too many had nothing to collect.

  Outside, the rafts were loading the men bound for the town. Two lifted as Dumarest watched, rising slowly, veering as their drivers gained altitude, heavy, sluggish craft, designed more for the moving of freight than speed. Neither was canopied and the men crammed into the open bodies huddled together for warmth. Above, the sun had just passed zenith.

  "Keep moving there!" the supervisor yelled to those handling the loading. "Get 'em full and get 'em on their way!" He turned, scowling, his face clearing as he saw Dumarest. "Earl! I've been watching out for you. Got a minute?"

  Dumarest hesitated, glancing at the loading area. Two rafts remained, both rapidly filling.

  "There'll be more," said the supervisor. "Everyone will get transport."

  "When?"

  "Later today. The first ones were hired to do a double trip. You'll lose nothing by waiting-at least you'll have cover."

  The ones expected had canopies, then. A comfort worth the delay.

  "Just a word," said the supervisor, "but let's get into the warm."

  His office was snug, adorned with maps, prints, geological schematics. A pile of manganese nodules rested on a table with the assay report beside them. A hammer stood in a corner together with a pair of boots caked with dried mud. A parka hung on a nail behind the door. From a cupboard the supervisor took a bottle and two glasses. Pouring, he offered one to Dumarest then lifted his own.

  "Health!"

  A toast to which Dumarest responded. The spirit was raw and heavy with the odor of smoke, but his system was grateful for the warmth it gave.

  "A bad one," mused his host. "The storm, I mean. We got a special report-but I guess you know that."

  "I suspected it when I saw the administrators leave."

  "Smart." The supervisor refilled both glasses. "I've been watching you, Earl. You and some others. How are you fixed for a stake?"

  "I can manage."

  "So I imagined--a pity in a way, but if you were like the rest we wouldn't be talking. I'll make it short. If you want I can offer you a winter job."

  Dumarest shook his head.

  "Now take your time," urged the supervisor. "Think about it. Shelter and food and warmth until the next season. Subsistence, but a smart man could add to it. One who can handle a deck, for example?" His eyes were direct. "You know what I'm talking about?"

  "You've money here," said Dumarest. "Machines, stores, housing, tools, equipment and all the rest of it. It's cheaper to hire guards than to move it."

  "That's right. Take on the job and you'll be on the cadre next season. Regular pay, no sweat with the hammer, one of the established. An easy number," he urged. "Extra pay for handling a digger. Just run guard during the winter, do your duty, help entertain the others and you'll not regret it." He frowned as again Dumarest shook his head. "No?"

  "No." Dumarest finished his drink. "But I thank you for the offer."

  "It's a good one," the supervisor insisted. "And yours if you want it."

  "For how much?"

  "As I said, you're smart." The man smiled and moved thumb against finger in an unmistakable gesture. "Ten percent for me-fair?"

  More than fair. The man was entitled to his reward for giving a snug berth and what it entailed. But Dumarest had other plans.

  "Thanks for the drinks," he said. "But the answer's still no. Why not try someone who needs the job more than I do? Wiess, for instance."

  "A loser." The supervisor shook his head. "You know better than that, Earl. He's broke and desperate. He'll cut corners on the job, try to steal, try to build a stake by cheating at cards. They'll catch him and we'll be a man short. I can't risk the trouble." He shrugged, corking the bottle. "Well, think it over. I like the way you went to work yesterday when most of the others were flapping their gums. Change your mind, let me know, eh?"

  It was late when the rafts finally returned. Dumarest moved forward with those waiting, while an overseer snapped his impatience.

  "Come on! Come on! Get aboard or get left. You miss this trip and you walk!"

  A man said, "Which raft do I take?"

  "Any you like-no reservations. Just get on and let's finish the closedown."

  The man ran to where a raft was almost full. It lifted as he swung himself into the body, his legs kicking as others hauled him to safety. Wiess, panting, ran past Dumarest and swore as Vardoon barred his passage.

  "What the hell? Let me on!"

  "Take another one." Vardoon called to Dumarest as the man scuttled away. "Here, Earl! Over here!"

  The raft he had chosen was small, canopied, the body fitted with longitudinal benches. The driver sat at his controls in the front, turning as Dumarest climbed aboard. He said, to Vardoon, "That's enough, friend. We've a full load."

  The raft could have held more but Dumarest didn't argue. A light load meant greater speed and safety. He sat on one of the benches as the canopy swung into place. Beyond it the other rafts lifted, fanning out as they headed toward the town. One remained, the last aside from themselves. The overseer was talking to the driver and, as Dumarest watched, he shrugged and turned away. A final straggler made his way to it, climbed aboard, sat waiting.

  "Up," said Vardoon to the driver. "Let's move!"

  He joined Dumarest as the vehicle lifted, the antigrav units in the hull emitting a thin whine-an unusual sound and Dumarest frowned as he heard it. Normally the lift was silent, only the forward propulsion creating a drone from the air. But the wind may have aggravated a structural defect, badly designed units or a faulty repair giving rise to an organ-like resonance.

  "Polis," said Vardoon. "I'll be glad to see the back of it. Short seasons, extremes of heat and cold, people living like moles aside from a brief period a couple of times a year." He made a sound as if about to spit. "You can keep it. New to you, Earl?"

  "No."

  "I guess not. A traveler lands on many strange planets. Me, I like civilized worlds. Societies which can afford to pay for certain pleasures. People who like their comfort and are willing to do something to get it."

  Like waging war with hired soldiers. Using profits to buy another's blood. Dumarest stirred, looking down at the ground now far below. An unbroken expanse of whiteness which rippled as if at the touch of a caressing hand. The kiss of wind which stirred it as if it had been a sea. To the north the sky was dark with menace.

  "Damned storm." A man sitting opposite scowled at the terrain. "A few more weeks and I'd have saved enough to buy a Low passage. Now I'm stuck for the winter. Come the next season I'll be ready to work for essentials. Damn the luck!"

  "Some make their own," said another. "I hear Beldo cleaned up."

  "So did Tai'Hun." A man sitting at the rear of the driver added his share to the conversation. "Some make it the easy way." His eyes rested on Vardoon, moved toward Dumares
t. "Some don't need to make it at all."

  "Meaning?" Vardoon's face twisted in a snarl. "If you've something on your mind spit it out."

  "Nothing, but-"

  "We worked, we saved, we didn't gamble. You figure that's wrong?"

  Dumarest said, "Forget it, Hart."

  "Why? Do we have to take his sneers? I guess he thinks we're company spies or gamblers' shills." Vardoon lifted a hand, closed it into a fist. "I know just what to do about that."

  "Forget it," said Dumarest again. He had no wish to draw attention, and a fight in the confines of the raft would be both stupid and dangerous. He frowned as the vehicle lurched, the whine becoming louder. "Something wrong?"

  "No." The driver looked back, face strained. "Just the wind. It caught us and we veered."

  A lie; there had been no gust and they had not veered. The motion had been more of a dip, a checked fall. Dumarest rose and closed the gap between himself and the driver. Facing him, the row of basic controls was bathed in a yellowish glow.

  "Higher." Dumarest looked at the wavering needle of the altimeter. "Put some distance between us and the ground."

  "I-"

  "What's wrong with this thing?" Dumarest gripped the man's shoulder as he made no answer. "Why the small load?"

  "I told you."

  "Not me. Hart?" Dumarest looked at the man as he came close. "What lies did this man feed you? The raft," he snapped as Vardoon hesitated, "what did he say about it?"

  "A light load makes for a quicker journey. I agree with him."

  Dumarest said, "Listen to the engine. The antigrav units. You ever hear them sound like that before? And look at the ground; we're traveling too low and too slow." His hand closed on the driver's shoulder, the fingers meeting bone. "The truth," he said coldly. "I want the truth."

  "Please!" The man winced at the pain. "The synch's out. That's all, I swear it!"

  "Then lift!"

  Dumarest eased his grip and waited as the man tried to obey. The instruments told of his failure. The raft rose, dipped, turned to tilt a little before settling even. Below, the whiteness seemed to stream like smoke as it was blasted by a gusting wind which battered at the raft as it reared like a dying creature.