The Jester at Scar dot-5 Read online

  Dumarest touched his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingers. He remembered the razor-edged steel Brephor had flung at his eyes. Looking down he saw scratches in the gray plastic of his tunic. They were deep enough to reveal the gleam of protective mesh buried in the material. He dabbed again at his cheek.

  "Let it bleed," advised the factor. "Who knows what hell-spore may have settled on the wound?"

  "In winter?"

  "Winter, spring, summer-Scar lives up to its name." Meoud reached for his bottle. "Join me," he invited. "A man should never drink alone, not when he is haunted by specters of the past." He filled a second glass and pushed it towards his guest. "I was the second highest in my class," he mourned. "Everyone predicted a brilliant future for me in the guild. It seemed that I could do no wrong. So tell me, friend, what am I doing on this isolated world?"

  "Growing old." said Dumarest dryly. "You had too much luck, all of it bad."

  Meoud drank, refilled his glass and drank again. "No," he said bitterly, "not bad luck, a bad woman-a girl with hair of shimmering gold and skin of sun-kissed velvet, slim, lithe, a thing of sun and summer-she danced on my heart and brought nothing but sorrow."

  Dumarest sipped his wine. It had the harsh, arid taste of the local production and still contained the drifting motes of unfiltered spores.

  "She gave me a modicum of pleasure," continued the factor, "but I paid for it with a mountain of pain. A high price, my friend, but I was young and proud, and ambition rode me like a man rides an animal." The bottle made small crystalline noises as he helped himself to more wine. "Was it so wrong to be ambitious? Without it, what is life? We are not beasts to be born and breed and wait for death. Always we must reach a little higher, strive to obtain a little more, travel a little faster. The philosophy of living, ambition!"

  He drank and set down the empty glass. Reaching for the bottle he found it empty and irritably ordered another. He poured the glasses full as the barman walked away.

  "Her father was the Manager of Marque," he said.

  "True, she was but his seventeenth daughter, yet she was still of the ruling house. I thought my fortune assured when I contracted for her hand-the influence, the high associations! The guild is kind to those who have influence in high places, kinder still to those with connections with rulers. I tell you, my friend, for a time I walked on golden clouds." Meoud drank. "It was a dream," he said bitterly. "All I had accomplished was to engineer my own ruin."

  Dumarest thought he understood. "She left you?"

  "She made me bankrupt," corrected the factor. "On Marque a husband is responsible for the debts of his wife. The guild saved me from bondage, but I ended with nothing: no wife, no position, nothing but a limited charity. And so I wait on Scar."

  "Brooding," said Dumarest, "dreaming of what might have been, obsessed with past opportunities and past mistakes, looking back instead of forward. You surprise me-a man of business to be so sentimental! How many of your guild suffer from such weakness?"

  "How many travelers chase a legend?" Meoud was sharp. He had drunk too deeply and confessed too much, but the winter dragged and the future was bleak. "I have heard the stories, my friend. I know why you chose to live in Lowtown instead of taking a cubicle here at the station, of your searching and questioning. Earth," he said. "How can a world have such a name? It has no meaning. All planets are made of earth. Why not then call Scar dirt, or soil, or loam, or even ground? It would make as much sense."

  Dumarest looked down at his hand where it was clenched around the glass. "Earth is no legend," he said flatly. "The planet is real and, one day, I shall find it."

  "A legend." Meoud poured them both more wine. "Is that what brought you to Scar?"

  "I was on Crane," said Dumarest. "Before that on Zagazin, on Toom, on Hope,"-he looked at his ring- "on Solis and before that…" He shrugged. "Does it matter? The ship which carried me here was the first to leave when I sought passage on Crane."

  Meoud frowned. "And you took it? Just like that?"

  "Why not? It was heading in the right direction, out, away from the center. The stars are thin as seen from Earth."

  "As they are from many lonely worlds," pointed out the factor.

  "True," admitted Dumarest. "But it was a world with a blue sky by day and a silver moon by night; the stars made patterns which wheeled across the sky. I shall recognize them when I see them again. In the meantime, if you should hear anyone speak of Earth, you will let me know?"

  Meoud nodded, staring into his glass. I should tell him, he thought, convince him that he is chasing an illusion, a dream world fabricated when he was a child as a region in which to escape harsh reality. But who am I to rob a man of his dream, his dream and his reason for existence?

  He lifted his glass and drank, knowing that some things are best left unsaid.

  Dumarest left the factor to the consolation of his wine. The buildings of the station were dreary with winter inactivity, the residents those who had to stay from reasons of investment or duty. Others, whom the vagaries of space travel had brought early to the planet, rested in deep sleep until the summer. Still more huddled miserably in their damp quarters in Lowtown: the travelers whom chance had stranded on a non-productive world, the desperate who lacked the cost of a low passage to some other planet.

  Ewan looked up as Dumarest passed his table.

  "Earl," he said, "please watch. I need the practice."

  "You're skillful enough," said Dumarest. "You don't need my opinion."

  "I do," insisted the gambler. "I want to try something new. These shells," he explained. "As I move them about I slip this little ball beneath one. I can manipulate it as I wish." His pudgy hands moved the shells with deft skill. "Right. Now pick out the shell with the ball. Guess correctly and I will give you five. Guess wrongly and you pay me the same. Deal?"

  "The odds are in your favor," pointed out Dumarest. "Two to one."

  Ewan shrugged. "The house has to have some edge. Now pick."

  Dumarest smiled and rested the tip of a finger on one of the shells. It was the finger on which he wore his ring. With his free hand he tipped the remaining two shells over. Neither hid the little ball.

  "This one," he said, tapping the remaining hemisphere. "Pay me."

  Ewan scowled. "You cheated. That isn't the right way to play."

  "It's my way," said Dumarest, "and others will do the same. You've had a cheap lesson; take my advice and stick to cards and dice. It will be safer."

  Ewan handed over the money. "Not if you're with me, Earl," he said. "How about it? A fifth of the profit if you will act as bodyguard and shill."

  Dumarest shook his head.

  "A quarter then? I can't make it more. I've got to pay for the concession, hold capital for the next season and hold more for emergencies. A quarter, Earl, just for standing by in case of trouble and leading, the betting. You could do it in your sleep. Certain cash, Earl, a high passage at least; you can't lose."

  The gambler frowned as Dumarest showed no interest.

  "What's the alternative?" he demanded. "Acting as guide to some fat tourist, risking your life hunting rare spores, collecting fungi for the processing sheds?" Ewan blew out his cheeks and shook his head. "You should know better; there are easier ways to make money. You're fast, quick as any man I've seen. You've got a look about you which would make any trouble-maker think twice. A third. Earl. That's as high as I can go. A clear third of the profit. What do you say?"

  "Thank you," said Dumarest, "but no."

  "A gambling layout is a good place to pick up gossip," said Ewan shrewdly. "Most of the new arrivals want to test their luck and they talk while doing it." He picked up a deck of cards and riffled them, his pudgy fingers almost covering the slips of plastic. "Sure you won't change your mind?"

  "If I do I'll let you know," said Dumarest. He hesitated, looking down at the gambler. Had Ewan been trying to tell him something? He resisted the impulse to find out. Two men were dead and the less said abou
t either of them the better.

  He crossed to where a layout of colored holograms showed a variety of fungi in all stages of growth in perfect, three-dimensional representation. Each was labeled. The display was the property of a company operating the processing sheds and the fungi were the strains they wanted.

  "Simple, safe and secure," said an ironic voice at his side. "All you have to do, Earl, is to turn yourself into a mobile hopper. Go out and drag back a few tons of fungi and, with luck, you'll get enough profit to keep you in food for a week."

  "You don't have to do it," said Dumarest evenly. "No one is holding a knife to your throat."

  Heldar coughed, holding his hand before his mouth as he fought for air. "Damn spores," he muttered at last. "One in the lungs is one too many." He scowled at the display. "You don't know," he said bitterly. "When hunger has you by the guts you don't stop to think of what the small print says. You just want a square meal."

  "And you got it," said Dumarest. "So why are you complaining?"

  Heldar scowled. "It's all right for you," he said. "You've got money. You can-"

  He broke off, looking upwards. Dumarest followed his example. Every man in the place stopped what he was doing and stared at the roof.

  The silence was almost tangible.

  For weeks they had been deafened by the unremitting thunder of winter rain.

  Chapter Two

  The captain was effusive with his apologies. "My lord," he said, bowing, "my lady, I regret to inform you that we are no longer on schedule."

  Jocelyn raised his eyebrows. "Regret?"

  His wife was more to the point. "Why?" she demanded. "How can it be that we are as you say? Are you no longer capable of plotting a simple course from star to star?"

  The captain bowed even more deeply. As master of the sole vessel owned by the ruler of Jest, his position was an enviable one; and if at times he wished that his command had been a little more modern, he kept such thoughts to himself.

  "We became embroiled in the fringe of an interstellar storm, my lady," he explained. "The magnetic flux disturbed our instruments and retarded our passage a matter of some three days. I can, of course, accelerate our speed if you so desire."

  As you could have done in the first place, thought Jocelyn. So why report the matter at all? Fear, he decided To safeguard himself against the report of a spy, to insure himself against the ambition of a junior officer. He felt his lips twist into a familiar wryness. Did he really appear so formidable?

  "My lord?" The captain was sweating. "My lady?"

  "You shall be flogged," snapped Adrienne, "stripped of your command! I shall-"

  "Do nothing without due consideration," interrupted Jocelyn curtly. "The man is hardly to blame for the elements, and on Jest, we do not use the barbaric means of punishment common on other worlds."

  "Barbaric!" He had touched her. Spots of color glowed on her thin cheeks, the anger reflecting itself in her narrowed eyes. "Are you referring to Eldfane?"

  "Did I mention your home world?" Jocelyn smiled into her eyes. "You are too sensitive, my dear, too quick to take offense. But the fault is not yours. Those who trained you when young are to blame; they discouraged your childish laughter. That was wrong. In this universe, my darling wife, laughter is the only answer a man can make to his destiny, the only challenge he can throw into the faces of his gods."

  "Superstition!" Contempt replaced her anger. "My father warned me of your peculiar ways. That is why-" She broke off, conscious of the listening captain. "Why do you linger?"

  "My lady." His bow was mechanical, an automatic response rooted in defense. "My lord," he said straightening, "I await your instructions."

  "Have they changed?" Jocelyn frowned. "Are we not proceeding to Jest?"

  "We were, my lord, but the storm has placed us in a peculiar relationship. We are equidistant from both Jest and Scar and our relative speed is common to both. That means we can reach either in the same amount of time." The captain took a deep breath. "I am not a superstitious man, my lord, but the workings of destiny can sometimes reveal itself in strange forms."

  "Such as a storm, a malfunction of the instruments and a peculiar coincidence?" Jocelyn nodded thoughtfully. "You could be right, Captain. You think we should proceed to Scar?"

  The captain bowed, disclaiming responsibility. "The decision is yours, my lord."

  And the derision should the journey be pointless, thought Jocelyn ironically. But could any journey ever be that? Jest waited with the same eternal problems and could wait a little longer without coming to harm. It would almost be a kindness to delay their arrival. Adrienne was accustomed to a softer world and less independence. She would have troubles enough once they had landed and she had been installed as his queen.

  He glanced at her, noting the thin arrogance of her profile, the imperious tilt of her head. Strange how those with the least reason adopted the greater dignity, stranger still how the bare facts could be transmuted by pompous phraseology. He, the ruler of Jest, had married the daughter of Elgone, the Elder of Eldfane. If the people thought of it as a love-match, they were more stupid than he guessed. As a dowry she had brought him one hundred thousand tons of basic staples, the revenues from her estate on Eldfane, a million units of trading credit to be used on her home world, the services of an engineering corps for three years; and the promise of an obsolete space vessel when one should be available.

  The promise meant nothing. The staples were already on their way, sealed in freight cans flung into space by tractors, aimed so as to orbit Jest until they could be collected by this very ship. The revenues would dwindle, the credit likewise as inflation and profiteering greed slashed their value. The engineering corps would turn out to be a handful of advisers strong on suggestion but woefully lacking in application.

  All he would have left would be a shrewish woman to sit on his double throne.

  All?

  He felt his lips twist in their familiar expression, the wry grin he had developed when a boy and which was his defense against hurt, pain and hopeless despair. To smile, to treat everything as a joke-how else to remain sane?

  "My dear," he said to Adrienne. "We are faced with the need to make a decision, to go on to Jest or to head for Scar, it is a problem which can be solved in many ways. We could spin a coin; we could arrange a number of random selective-choices, such as the first officer to walk through that door would decide for us by his first word; or we could apply logic and knowledge to guide our choice."

  The edges of her thin nostrils turned white as she controlled her anger. "Is this a time for foolish jesting?"

  He smiled blandly. "Can a jest ever be foolish?"

  "On Eldfane," she said tightly, "we have a means of discouraging those who hold similar beliefs. Life is serious and no cause for mirth."

  "And you make it so by the use of whips, acid and fire," said Jocelyn. "But, on Eldfane, laughter has an ugly sound." He shook his head, abruptly weary of the pointless exchange. As long as the woman kept her part of the marriage contract he would be content: food, credit, the help of trained and educated men, and. above all, a son.

  He glanced at the captain as the man cleared his throat. "What is it?"

  "If I may make a suggestion, my lord?"

  Jocelyn nodded.

  "The problem could be resolved by one trained in such matters. The cyber would doubtless be happy to advise."

  Jocelyn frowned. He had forgotten Yeon, the final part of Adrienne's dowry, added almost as an afterthought by Elgone, which he had reluctantly accepted. He had been reluctant because he had an instinctive mistrust of a man who could not laugh.

  "Thank you, Captain," said Adrienne before Jocelyn could speak. "At last we have had a sensible suggestion. Be so good as to ask the cyber to attend us."

  "No," said Jocelyn.

  She turned and looked at him, fine eyebrows arched over contemptuous eyes. "Husband?"

  "Never mind." He surrendered. "Do as Her Majesty commands." She was,
after all, his wife.

  Yeon came within minutes, a living flame in the rich scarlet of his robe, the seal of the Cyclan burning on his breast. He stood, facing Jocelyn, hands tucked within the wide sleeves of his gown.

  "You sent for me, my lord?"

  "I did." Jocelyn turned to where Adrienne sat in a chair covered in ancient leather. "Do you wish to state the problem?" He sighed as she shook her head. "Very well, I will do so."

  The cyber stood silent when he had finished.

  "Are you in doubt as to the answer?" Jocelyn felt a sudden satisfaction in the thought that he had beaten the man, presented him with a problem to which he could find no solution. The satisfaction died as Yeon met his eyes.

  "My lord, I am in some doubt as to what you require of me."

  "I thought it simple. Do we go to Jest or to Scar?"

  "The decision is yours, my lord. All I can do is to advise you on the logical development of certain actions you may care to take. In this case I lack sufficient data to be able to extrapolate the natural sequence of events." His voice was a smooth modulation carefully trained so as to contain no irritating factors, a neutral voice belonging to a neutral man.

  A neuter, rather, thought Jocelyn savagely. A machine of flesh and blood devoid of all emotion and the capability of feeling. A man who could experience no other pleasure than that of mental achievement. But clever. Give him a handful of facts and, from them, he would build more, enough for him to make uncannily accurate predictions as to the course of future events.

  Adrienne stirred in her chair. "Is there anything you can tell us about Scar?"

  Yeon turned to face her. His shaven head gleamed in the lights as if of polished bone, the soft yellow of his skin accentuating the skull-like appearance of his face against the warmth of his cowl.

  "Scar, my lady, is a small world with a peculiar ecology. The year is ninety days long and, as the planet has no rotation at all, the seasons are compressed between one dawn and another. There are thirty days for winter, during which it rains continuously and the same for summer, during which it gets very hot; the remainder is split between spring and autumn. The population is transient and consists mostly of tourists."