The Jester at Scar dot-5 Page 5

  Beneath him the sea boiled with the shower of falling stones and dirt.

  The knife held. His boots found something on which to press. The fingers of his free hand dug and found comforting solidity. The dust dissipated and, after a long moment, he lifted his head and looked around.

  He hung on the edge of a sheer drop, his feet inches from where moist soil showed the meshed tendrils of subterranean growth. To one side showed more wet earth, graying as it dried beneath the wind and sun. Above lay apparent firmness.

  He eased towards it, moving an inch at a time, pressing his body hard against the dirt so as to diminish the strain. His boots stabbed at the mesh of tendrils, held, and allowed his free hand to find a fresh purchase. He crawled spiderlike up the slope to comparative safety. Finally, knife in hand, he reached the secure refuge of a shallow depression in a circling cup of embedded stone.

  His face down, he fought to control the quivering of his muscles, the reaction from sudden and unexpected exertion. Slowly the roar of pulsing blood faded in his ears and the rasp of his breathing eased, as did the pounding of his heart. He rolled and looked at the knife in his hand, then thrust it at his boot. He missed and tried again, this time stooping to make sure the blade was in its sheath.

  He stiffened as he saw the cluster of hemispheres at his side.

  They were two inches across, marbled with a peculiar pattern of red and black stippled with yellow. He had seen that pattern before. Every man at the station had seen it, but it was essential to be sure.

  Dumarest took a small folder from his pocket. It was filled with colored depictions of various types of fungi both in their early stages of growth and at maturity. He riffled the pages and found what he wanted. Holding the page beside the hemispheres at his side he checked each of fifteen confirming details.

  Slowly he put the book away.

  It was the dream of every prospector on Scar. It was the jackpot, the big find, the one thing which could make them what they wanted to be. There were the rare and fabulously valuable motes which could live within the human metabolism, acting as a symbiote and giving longevity, heightened awareness, enhanced sensory appreciation and increased endurance.

  There was golden spore all around him, in a place which he had almost died to find.

  * * *

  Clemdish lifted his head his eyes widening as he looked at Dumarest. "Earl, what the hell happened to you?"

  He rose as Dumarest slumped to the ground. His gray tunic, pants and boots were scarred; blood oozed from beneath his fingernails; his face was haggard with fatigue.

  "I told you not to go," said Clemdish. "I warned you it was a waste of time. What the hell happened? Did you fall?"

  Dumarest nodded.

  "You need food," said the little man, "water, something to give you a lift." He produced a canteen; from a phial he shook a couple of tablets and passed them to Dumarest. "Swallow these; get them down." He watched as Dumarest obeyed. "I was getting ready to come after you. Man, you look a wreck!"

  "I feel one." Dumarest drew a deep breath, filling his lungs and expelling the vitiated air. The drugs he had swallowed were beginning to work; already he felt less fatigued. "I fell," he said. "I went down too far and couldn't get back. The surface was like jelly. It refused to support my weight."

  "It wouldn't." Clemdish dug again into his pack and produced a slab of concentrates. "Chew on this." He watched as Dumarest ate. "I tried to tell you," he reminded. "I told you climbing those hills was a waste of time. You could have got yourself killed, and for what?"

  Dumarest said nothing.

  "You've lost your markers too," pointed out the little man. "Not that it matters. We've got plenty more, too damn many." He scowled up at the sun. "A waste of time," he muttered. "Too much time."

  "All right," said Dumarest. "You've told me. Now forget it."

  "We can't," said Clemdish. "We daren't. We've got to get back before it gets too hot."

  He rose from where he sat and kicked at a clump of mottled fungi. Already the growths were much larger than they had been when Dumarest began his climb. The entire land surface of the planet was literally bursting with life as the growing heat of the sun triggered the dormant spores into development. The pace would increase even more as the summer progressed, the fungi swelling visibly in the compressed and exaggerated life cycle of the planet.

  To the visiting tourists it made a unique spectacle. To the prospectors and those depending on the harvest for their living it meant a dangerous and nerve-racking race against time.

  Dumarest ate the last of the concentrate, washing it down with a drink of tepid water. He lay back, his face shadowed against the sun, feeling the twitch and tension of overstrained muscles. The journey from the place where he had found the golden spore had been a nightmare. The ground had yielded too easily and he'd been forced to make a wide detour, fighting for every inch of upward progress. By the time he had reached safety, he had been practically exhausted.

  Then had come the downward journey, easier but still not without risk. Fatigue had made him clumsy, and twice he had taken nasty falls. But now he was safe, able to rest, to relax and feel the ground firm and stable beneath his back.

  "Earl!"

  Dumarest jerked, suddenly conscious that he had drifted into sleep.

  "Earl!" It was Clemdish. "Earl! Come and look at this!"

  He was standing well over to one side, a mass of fungi reaching halfway to his knee; those were twisted, tormented growths, striped with puce and emerald. He called again as Dumarest climbed to his feet.

  "What is it?"

  "Something good, I think. Come and check it out, will you?" Clemdish waited until Dumarest had joined him and then pointed. "That's a basidiomycete if ever I saw one. Worth collecting, too. Agreed?"

  Dumarest dropped to his knees and examined what Clemdish had found. Ringed by the puce and emerald growths was a group of spiraloids of cream dotted with flecks of brown and topaz, the whole cluster seeming to be the towers of some fairyland castle. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the folder. It was already open to show the pictures of golden spore. He flipped the pages until he found the information he wanted.

  "You're right," he told the little man. "This one is worth money. We'd better mark it and clear the area."

  He swept his boot across the surrounding growths as Clemdish returned to the packs for one of the thin rods. He thrust it close beside the cluster of spirals. Around the rod was wrapped a ten-foot length of thread and the top was split so as to hold a card marked with their names. All the ground within the compass of the thread was theirs to harvest.

  Clemdish joined Dumarest in clearing away the unwanted fungi to give the selected growth more room to develop.

  "That should do it," he said. "Our first claim. Unless someone steals our marker," he added, "or switches cards, or gets here before we do."

  "You're a pessimist," said Dumarest.

  "It's been known," insisted Clemdish. "You should know that. Some of the boys last season swore that someone had shifted their markers. If they find him, hell never do it again." He looked at the sun and ran his tongue over his lips. "Let's get moving," he suggested. "You all right now, Earl?"

  "I can manage."

  "Well head directly back," said Clemdish. "Cut a straight line from here to the station. If we see anything good we'll mark it, but we won't stray from the route. We can come out later," he added, "when you've had a chance to get some rest. Run a circle close to the station and check out a couple of spots I know. You agree. Earl?"

  Dumarest nodded.

  "Then let's go. I'll take the lead."

  "Just a minute," said Dumarest. "There's something you should know." He looked at the other man. "We've found the jackpot," he said quietly. "There's a clump of golden spore on the other side of the hills."

  Clemdish sat down, his legs suddenly weak.

  Chapter Four

  Heldar felt the gnawing pain in his chest, the scratching irritation an
d the liquid demanding release. He coughed; the initial expelling of air triggered a bout of hacking which left him weak. Grimly, he looked at the red flecks staining his hand.

  The small, round vendor with the ruff of yellow at wrists and ankles looked at him with sympathy. "You need help," he said. "Why don't you see a physician?"

  Heldar grunted. The station had no resident medical technician, only a snap-freeze cabinet where the severely infured could be held in stasis and the deep-sleep facilities, which could be adapted to promote healing. All else had to wait until a traveling physician arrived to ply his trade. Such doctors had a strict order of priority: money came first. Heldar had to raise a loan.

  Craden shook his head when Heldar mentioned it. He was new to Scar, but was far from inexperienced. Casually he inspected one of the yellow ruffs circling his wrist, "You work for the company, don't you? Wouldn't they make you an advance?"

  "Zopolis wouldn't lend his own mother the price of a meal," said Heldar viciously. He had already tried and been refused. The pain in his chest mounted and he coughed again. When he recovered he looked frightened. "It's killing me," he gasped. "What the hell can I do?"

  The vendor inspected his other ruff. "Beg," he suggested. "What else?"

  Heldar left the room and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. It seemed to cover most of the sky with the glowing fury of its disk, but that was an optical illusion. It was big, but not that big. If it had been Scar would long ago have shattered into a ring of debris.

  He coughed again. The chest pain was getting worse as it grew hotter and there was still more heat to come. Heldar reached back to where his hat hung from his neck on a thong and drew it over his eyes. Beg, Craden had advised. But from whom? The monks had nothing but the barest essentials. The factor couldn't give what he didn't have, and neither he or anyone else would make what would have to be an outright gift of money.

  He stared over the field, seeing the ships waiting to carry their passengers home and others discharging people in order to get away. They were commercial, and, if they carried a physician at all, he would be exactly the same as the one in Hightown. There was only one chance, the small, private vessel with the peculiar insignia. It carried royalty and would be certain to have a physician. Maybe, if I'm humble and pile it on? He coughed again and spat a mouthful of blood; there would be no need for pretense.

  * * *

  "Sit down," said the doctor. "Relax. Throw your head back until it touches the rest. Farther. That's right. Now just relax."

  Gratefully Heldar did as ordered. He felt euphoric, still unable to believe his luck. Coincidence, he told himself. I just managed to see the right man at the right time, the boss man himself. I hit the right button and he did the rest.

  He heard metallic tinklings behind him and resisted the desire to turn. The doctor's voice was flat and indifferent.

  "Do you wish to stay, my lord?"

  "Will you be long?"

  "For the examination? No, my lord."

  "Then I will stay," said Jocelyn. He looked down at the patient's face. "You have nothing to worry about," he soothed. "Just do as Erlan tells you to do."

  Erlan, thought Heldar, the physician. And the one who just spoke is the boss man, the ruler of Jest. But where were the courtiers? The guards? He felt the desire to cough; then something entered his mouth and sent a spray down his throat, killing the desire. He tensed.

  "Relax," said the doctor sharply. "Constriction of the muscles does not ease my task."

  Something followed what had contained the spray. Seemingly huge, it slid down his throat, probing past the back of the throat, the tonsils and penetrating into the windpipe. There was a soft hissing, and abruptly he lost the sense of feeling from his mouth to his lungs. Wider tubes followed; he could tell by the mechanical dilation of his mouth.

  "I have expanded the path to the lungs, my lord," said Erlan, as if commenting to a colleague. "Now we pass down the light, so, and swivel, so." He drew in his breath. "A classic case," he murmured. "Extreme erosion of the junction together with scarification of the trachea and widespread seepage." His voice faded as he manipulated more instruments. Metal scraped on crystal. Heldar felt something tickle deep in his chest, then the tube was withdrawn from his throat and another spray returned feeling to the numb areas. Automatically, he coughed.

  "Some wine?" Jocelyn extended a glass filled with amber glintings. "Sip," he advised, "your throat is probably a little tender."

  "Thank you, my lord." Heldar sat upright and turned his head. Erlan sat at a microscope studying a slide. As he watched he changed it for another and increased the magnification.

  "Well?" said Jocelyn.

  "There is no doubt, my lord." Erlan straightened from his instrument and casually threw both slides into an incinerator. A flash of blue flame converted them both to ash. "The man is suffering from a fungous infection, obviously parasitic and of some duration. It could have been caused by a single spore which has increased by geometrical progression. Both lungs are affected, the left almost hopelessly so, and the inevitable result, unless there is surgery, is death."

  Heldar gulped his wine, oblivious of the sting to his throat.

  Jocelyn was gentle. "Therapy?"

  "The infection is aerobic. It would be possible to seal and collapse one lung and coat the area infected of the other with inhibiting compounds. The capability of respiration would be greatly reduced; the patient would have to rest with the minimum of effort for at least a year."

  "The alternative?"

  "Complete transplants, my lord, either from an organ bank or from new organs grown from the patient's cells. The former would be quicker, the latter more to be preferred, but in both cases a major operation coupled with extensive therapy is unavoidable."

  "But he would live?"

  Erlan sounded a little impatient. "Certainly, my lord, the operation would be a matter of routine."

  "Thank you," said Jocelyn. "You may leave us." He turned and poured Heldar more wine. "You heard?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "And understood?" Jocelyn was insistent. "I mean really understood?"

  "Unless I receive an operation I shall inevitably die," said Heldar, and then added, "my lord."

  Jocelyn sighed. "Exactly. I wanted to be sure you fully comprehended the situation. I can, of course, arrange for you to have the necessary treatment but there are conditions."

  "Anything," blurted Heldar, "anything at all, my lord."

  "You would come with me to Jest under restrictive indenture?"

  Heldar nodded. What had he to lose? "When?" he asked. "The treatment, my lord, when would it be given?"

  "That," said Jocelyn softly, "depends entirely on yourself; not as to when, of course, but whether or not it will be given at all." He reached behind him to where the wine stood on a table. A coin rested beside the bottle. He picked it up and tossed it to Heldar. "Look at it," he invited. "It will decide your fate."

  "My lord?"

  "On one side you will see the head of a man. I have scratched a line across his cheek, a scar. The other side bears the arms of Jest. Spin the coin. Should it fall with that side uppermost you will receive your needed treatment, but if the other side should be uppermost, the scar, then you belong to this world and I will not help you."

  Heldar looked at the coin, then raised his eyes. "My life to depend on the spin of a coin? My lord, surely you jest?"

  "No," said Jocelyn, "I do not jest." His voice hardened. "Spin!"

  The coin rose, glinting, a blur as it climbed to hesitate and fall ringing to the deck. Jocelyn glanced at it, his face expressionless. Unbidden, Heldar rose, crossed to where it lay and looked down at the shining disk. He felt the sudden constriction of his stomach.

  "Luck is against you," said Jocelyn quietly. "It seems that you are fated to die."

  * * *

  The interior of the shed was cool with a brisk crispness which stung like a shower of ice, refreshing as it hurt, waking senses dulled wit
h seemingly endless heat. Kel Zopolis paused, enjoying the coolness, and then, remembering the cost, walked quickly down the shed.

  "Wandara!"

  "Here, Boss." The overseer came from behind a machine, wiping his hands on a scrap of waste, his white teeth flashing against the ebon of his skin. "The cooling plant is switched off," he said before the agent could raise the matter. "I was just testing the machines to make sure they'll work when we want them."

  "And?"

  "Fully operational," said the overseer, "hoppers, slicers, balers, everything." He walked beside Zopolis down the length of the shed and opened a door, waiting for the agent to pass through before following him and closing the panel.

  Beyond lay a second shed filled with equipment. A line of rafts, each with a thousand cubic feet of loading capacity, rested against one wall. Suits, boots, masks and sprays hung neatly on hooks. A heap of wide-bladed machetes rested on a bench beside a grinding wheel. They were thirty inches from pommel to point, the blades slightly curved and four inches across at the widest part. Zopolis lifted one and swung it, enjoying the heft and balance of the well-designed tool.

  Wandara spoke as he tested the edge.

  "I'm sharpening them up, Boss, giving them a real, fine edge. They'll cut through any fungus on the planet."

  And more than a swollen stem, thought the agent, as he replaced the machete. He remembered a time two seasons back, or perhaps three, when two crews had fallen out, each accusing the other of cheating. Then the machetes had been used as swords. Even now he could remember the mess, the blood and the cries of the wounded.

  "The rafts," he said. "I want them all ready to operate within five hours."

  "They're ready now, Boss." Wandara sounded hurt. "You didn't think I'd play around with machetes if the rafts needed checking?"

  "No," said Zopolis. Pride, he thought. I've hurt his pride. Aloud he said, "I'm sorry. It was foolish of me to ask."

  The overseer grunted, mollified. "Starting to harvest, Boss?"