Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun Page 3

  "There is no way," she said, almost as if she had read his mind. "You help or you go back to your cell. You know what will happen then." Death, quickly administered to shut his mouth. "But why hesitate, Earl? The thing is foolproof."

  "Then why do you need me?"

  "To take care of the unknown." She was frank. "A man could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's a remote possibility but it exists. If so and killing has to be done then you will do it. It's your life at stake," she reminded. "Think of it."

  Dumarest looked past her, at the pedestrians and soldiers moving along the street; at the men he had noticed before who moved only to return to their original positions. Men dressed as civilians but who carried themselves with a military bearing.

  "Earl?" She was impatient. "You will help?"

  He said, quietly, "You realize that the penalty for looting is a particularly unpleasant form of death?"

  "So?"

  "One applied to both men and women without distinction?"

  "That bothers you?"

  "Not unless I am among those sentenced."

  "You won't be," she assured. "No one will. As I told you everything has been arranged and nothing can go wrong. Earl, this is the chance of a lifetime. You will help?"

  "Yes." The bottle stood between them and he poured, handing her a glass and lifting his own as if in a toast, looking past it into the green reflection of her eyes. "It seems, my lady, that I have little choice."

  * * * * *

  The room was as he had left it, the open window now framing a sleeping city. Even the noise of construction was eased except in those areas of greatest damage which, naturally, were those of greatest poverty. Dumarest thrust his head and shoulders through the opening, looked up then down, seeing nothing but sheer walls.

  From where she stood in the room behind him the woman said, "Searching for enemies, Earl? Are you always so cautious?"

  "It pays, my lady."

  "Dephine. Call me by my name. The use of titles stultifies me." Restlessly she paced the floor; touching a vase of lambent crystal, an ornate chime from which came musical tinklings, a carved and smiling idol which nodded beneath her hand. Her feet, graced with flimsy sandals, were silent on the thick carpet. "Tell me about yourself, Earl. How did you come to be a mercenary? How often have you killed? Whom did I remind you of?"

  "It would be better for you to get some sleep, my lady."

  "Dephine. I can't sleep. In a few hours it will be over. Where do you come from, Earl?"

  "Earth." Pausing for a moment he added, hopefully, "Have you ever heard of it?"

  A hope crushed as it had been so often before by the vehemence of her reply.

  "Yes, I've heard of it, and if you don't want to tell me then don't bother to lie. Earth! It's ridiculous! You might as well claim to originate on Bonanza or Avalon or El Dorado. All are worlds of legend." Annoyed, she struck at the chimes with her metallic nails. As the burst of tinkling died she snapped, "Earth! No such world exists!"

  "It exists," he said. "I know. I was born on it."

  "On a planet where the streams run with wine and the trees bear fruits to satisfy every need?" She made no attempt to mask her contempt. "Where no one ever grows old and there is no pain or hurt or sorrow and where everything is eternally wonderful? You were born there-and you left?"

  "Earth isn't like that, Dephine. It is old and scarred with ancient wars. And yes, I left." He told her how. Stowing away as a mere boy who had more luck than he deserved. A captain who, instead of evicting him, had allowed him to work his passage and had kept him with him until he died. When, alone, the boy had moved on, ship after ship, world after world, always deeper and deeper towards the heart of the galaxy. To regions where even the very name of Earth had become a legend.

  "You mean it," she said. "You really believe that you come from Earth. But, Earl, if you did you must know how to get back if that's what you want. Is it?"

  "Yes."

  "Then all you have to do is to find a ship going that way. You-" She broke off seeing his expression. "No?"

  "No."

  "But why not? Surely-"

  "No one knows the coordinates," he said. "No one I have ever met knows where Earth is to be found. It lies towards the edge of the galaxy, that I know, but exactly where is something else."

  "The almanacs?"

  "Don't list it," he said bitterly. "You called it a world of legend and. that's what most people think it is. The rest haven't even heard the name and smile when they do." He looked down at his hands, they were clenched, the knuckles white beneath the taut skin. "Smile or think they are being taken for fools."

  "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't know. But what is so important about one planet? Space is full of worlds, why yearn for one?"

  "I was born on it."

  "And so, to you, it is home." She looked at him, her eyes gentle. "Home," she whispered. "Where else can anyone ever be happy? The fools who travel are only running from what they hope to find and, by the time they realize it, it is too late. I hope you find your world, Earl. Your world and your happiness and, perhaps, your woman. There is a woman?"

  "No."

  "Not one with red hair?" She touched her own. "You like this color, Earl?"

  "Should I?"

  "Mercenaries like the color of blood. But, I forget, you are a mercenary only by accident. Odd to think how chance has thrown us together. Chance or fate, Earl? Were we destined to meet before each of us even first saw the light of day? Some would have us think so. To them everything is foreordained and nothing we can do or attempt can alter our destiny one iota."

  "A comforting philosophy," he said.

  "Comforting?" She looked at him, frowning, then smiled. "Of course, to believe that is to absolve oneself from all blame. A failure cannot be blamed for his failure-it is his fate to be so. A cruel man or a weak one are not responsible for their actions. A wanton woman simply follows her destiny. A harlot obeys the dictates of something she cannot avoid. All of us are pawns moved on a cosmic board by some unknown player. You believe that?"

  "No."

  "Nor I. Life is a struggle and the rewards go to those with the strength to take them." She moved to where the decanter stood on a low table and poured wine into goblets. "Let us drink to that, Earl. Let us drink to success and to happiness."

  He barely touched the glass to his lips, watching as she drank. Impatiently she set down her empty glass and stepped towards the window. A cool breeze blew through the opening, catching her hair and sending it to stream over her shoulders. Her profile, etched by the light, was finely chiseled as if carved from stone.

  Dumarest studied it; a face which bore the marks of breeding as his own body bore the scars of a hard-learned profession. One now masked with cosmetics, the hair a flaunted challenge, the nails at variance with the hard, clean pattern of bone, the lithe shape of the body. A woman who for some reason had acted the harlot and could have played the part in full. A weakness or a deliberate intent?

  She said, without turning, "Why do you look at me like that?"

  "I was thinking. You spoke of rewards. Just how large will my share be?"

  "You are getting your life-isn't that reward enough?"

  "Is it?"

  "No." She turned to face him, hands lifted as if in appeal or in the opening gesture of a caress. "No! Life alone is never enough. Always there is more, for unless there is, we are no better than beasts in a field. Our senses were given us to use; our ambitions to be fulfilled. How well you understand, Earl."

  "My share?"

  "You will have no cause to complain, that I promise." Then, as he made no comment, she added, "I am the Lady Dephine de Monterale Keturah. My family has a reputation. Never have we broken our given word. With us it is an article of faith. I-" She broke off and shrugged. "How can I convince you? If you knew of us, Earl, you would have no doubts. And, if you want proof, then it can be given." She stepped towards him, her hands lifting to fall to his shoulders, her
body coming close to press against his own. "Proof that I care for you, Earl. That I would never let you down."

  Dumarest said, "It's getting late, Dephine."

  "So?"

  "We have other things to do."

  Chapter Three

  Mist came with the dawn, a coiling, milk-white fog which blurred detail and muffled sound so that shouts turned into mumbles and shapes loomed to vanish almost at once. A state of affairs which would not last-the heat of the rising sun would quickly clear the air-but while it lasted the mist could be used.

  "It's begun." Dephine glanced at a watch and slipped it into a pocket of the uniform she wore. One of black and maroon, the colors of Atlmar's Legion. Dumarest wore another. "Now remember, Earl, you do nothing unless there is need. If someone gets suspicious or acts out of line then you go in and take care of him." Her voice hardened a little. "I mean that. Don't be gentle. Kill rather than wound. There's too much at stake to be squeamish."

  "And you?"

  "I'll be at the ship. Luck!" Then she was gone and he was alone.

  Quietly he walked along the side of the warehouse leading towards the field.

  Now, for the first time, he had a chance to escape. He could hide himself deep in the city, make camp in the country, even wait until the military occupation was over. But Hoghan was a small world and in order to leave it he would have to return to the field. A convenience for anyone who could be waiting for him. A trap it was best to avoid.

  He froze as a man coughed and boots crunched past in the mist. A patrolling guard or a field-worker heading for home. The noise faded and he resumed progress, one hand trailing against the wall as a guide.

  The plan to rob Hoghan had been worked out by a military mind and had all the advantages of simplicity. A plan based on the fact that soldiers obeyed orders and did so without question. Instructions had been issued to load a selected cargo from a warehouse to a waiting vessel. The problem lay only in those engineering the theft being able to hide their complication-the reason for the woman, of course. She had been the 'front'.

  The brain? Major Kan Lofoten. Perhaps working with someone equally ambitious. But Dumarest suspected the man to be working alone. He was too shrewd to take unnecessary chances and the plan, once decided on, would need little to put into operation.

  Why include himself? As an insurance, the woman had said. A precaution. It was possible she believed that, but Dumarest wasn't so sure.

  He paused as the wall fell away from beneath his fingers, turned to face right and moved a score of paces; halting as the bulk of a warehouse loomed up before him. One which should have been open by now with men busy moving crates and bales. Instead the doors remained sealed and Dumarest frowned. Something, apparently, had gone wrong.

  He waited another few minutes then marched forward with a brisk step. The guard was tall, young, and startled by his sudden approach. The rifle he carried slipped from his hands and fell with a clatter.

  "Who goes there? Halt and-"

  "Recover your piece, soldier!"

  "Yes, sir!" It swept to the salute as the man obeyed. "Colonel?"

  "How long have you been with the Legion?"

  "A month, sir. Just out of basic training and this is my first engagement."

  "Keep better guard or it will be your last. Who is in charge here?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "Who would? Lieutenant Swedel? Is he inside?" Dumarest stepped past the guard. "Keep alert, soldier. No entry for anyone without my permission. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  The warehouse was filled with crates, boxes, bundles, objects wreathed in sacking and rope, others cocooned in plastic. The repository of those who, knowing of the coming war, had taken steps to secure their valuables.

  Swedel was a thin, stooped man with a ravaged face and a nervous tic beneath one eye. He stared at Dumarest and, slowly, gave a salute.

  "Colonel?"

  "Colonel Varst. From H.Q., dispatched for Special Duties." Dumarest took papers from his pocket and fluttered them. "To be frank with you, Lieutenant, I'm in charge of Security. Undercover, you understand, but I know I can rely on your discretion. Who is in charge here?"

  "Captain Risey." Swedel frowned. "Undercover Security? I don't understand."

  "I think you do, Lieutenant. Where is the captain to be found?"

  "He was summoned by the police an hour ago. He's probably at the garrison by now."

  "The local police?" Dumarest thinned his lips as the man nodded. "Do you know why? Well, never mind, I can find out later. So that leaves you in charge. What instructions have you had for the shipping of cargo?"

  "None."

  "How long have you been on duty?" Dumarest saw the sudden narrowing of the eyes, the dawning suspicion. "Well, answer me, man! How long?"

  "Two hours. Lieutenant Frieze collapsed from some internal complaint."

  "I see." Dumarest masked his face and eyes. The unexpected had happened and the plan had failed. Swedel already suspicious, couldn't be deluded and Frieze, obviously the officer primed, was out of action. Risey? What would the police want with him?

  Swedel said, "I can't understand your interest, Colonel. What has Security to do with this warehouse? And why should you think I've had instructions to ship cargo?"

  "Did I say you've had?"

  "No, but you inferred it. Something is wrong here." His hand dropped to his belt and the pistol holstered there. "Your identification, Colonel. I think I'd better take a closer look."

  "Of course." Dumarest lifted his hand to his pocket as he looked over the other's shoulder. A group of soldiers stood before the wide doors, chatting, at ease. To one side rested a small office, the door open, a single light burning inside. "Let us go into your office."

  "Your papers, Colonel!"

  "In the office. You have a phone there? Good, you will be able to verify my documents-or do you trust scraps of paper more than an authorized identification?"

  Dumarest headed towards it without waiting for an answer, turning as he passed through the door, the papers falling from his hand as he pulled them from his pocket. Immediately he stooped to recover them, moving as he rose to stand between the officer and the door, his bulk masking the smaller man. As Swedel reached for the useless papers Dumarest sent the stiffened fingers of his right hand stabbing at the unprotected throat. A blow designed to stun, not kill, and as the man slumped Dumarest caught him, supporting him in his arms.

  "Sir?" One of the soldiers, attracted by the hint of movement, was looking towards the office. "Is anything wrong?"

  "Nothing." Dumarest turned towards him, one arm behind Swedel's back, his hand gripping the belt to hold the man upright. "Get those doors open! You have a loading platform? Good. Have it prepared. Move!"

  As they sprang to obey, Dumarest eased his limp burden into the only chair the office contained, turned it to face the phone, propping the head on the folded arms. To a casual glance he was a man engrossed in making a call.

  "Sir?" A soldier called to Dumarest as he left the office. "What shall we load?"

  * * * * *

  The platform was pulled by a mechanical horse, a small, whining vehicle which dragged it across the field through veils of mist. It held a dozen crates, boxes chosen from a pile standing beside the doors and which Dumarest could only hope held things of value. There had been no time to make sure.

  The soldiers who had loaded them walked at the rear of the platform. The driver, squinting ahead, cursed the mist as he strained to see his destination.

  "The Varden, sir?"

  "To the east of the field." The mist was both a help and a hindrance-and why hadn't Dephine placed the guide beacon? Dumarest pushed ahead, almost running, seeing it after he had covered a hundred yards, a winking, yellow glow. Dephine stood beneath it.

  "Earl?"

  "Is everything arranged?"

  "Yes. Where is the loot?"

  "Coming-what I could get of it." Dumarest turned as the thin whine of the
vehicle grew louder. "Something went wrong. Get inside and out of that uniform. Have the captain ready to leave when I give the word. Hurry!"

  "He won't be rushed, Earl. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He-"

  "Will do as I tell him!" Dumarest snarled his impatience. "Don't stand there arguing, woman. We're racing against time. Now get in the ship and have the handler standing by. The loading ramp should be moving and the ports open. I-" He broke off as a dull report echoed through the air. "Guns."

  "A diversion," she explained. "I arranged it. It should distract the guards."

  Men bribed to fire into the air at a certain time, but they were late, a thing she hadn't yet realised.

  "Earl?"

  "The plan failed," he said, quickly. "The officer who was supposed to have taken care of the loading fell ill and his replacement knew nothing about it. The police are involved somehow and they could be moving in. Now get busy. If this ship leaves without us we're as good as dead. If it doesn't leave at all, the same. You take care of the captain while I see the handler. Are you armed?" He grunted as she showed him a compact laser. "Don't use it unless you have to, but don't hesitate to burn a hole if you must."

  He ran into the ship as she vanished through the port. The handler, a sallow-faced man, straightened from where he leaned against a bulkhead. He scowled as Dumarest snapped orders.

  "Now wait a minute, mister. I'm not one of your soldier-boys to jump when you give the word. You've got a cargo to be loaded? Right, we'll load it, but all in good time."

  "My time," said Dumarest. "Get that ramp started and get to work. Never mind stacking the stuff, just get it aboard."

  "Now wait a minute!" The handler gulped as Dumarest reached out towards him, gripped him, sank his fingers into yielding flesh. "You-I can't breathe!"

  "You can breathe," said Dumarest. "But not for long if you keep arguing. Now get to it and let me see you move."

  The platform was approaching when he ducked through the port, coming to a halt as Dumarest reached the ground.

  The handler, scared, had started the belt and Dumarest snapped at the man to throw the crates on the moving surface. As the first vanished into the ship a soldier tensed, head turned, listening as the sound of gunfire came closer.