Eye of the Zodiac Page 6

  "Easy to say," she said, "not easy to do. You could have been killed. A wasted night, all for nothing."

  "No," he corrected. "Not for nothing."

  The bag lay where he had dropped it. Opened, it revealed wallets, rings, heavy-banded chronometers-the loot he had collected from the dead. Quickly he sorted it. Evron, as most of his breed, had liked to carry a fat roll. His aides had emulated him.

  "This is for you." He handed a wad of cash to the woman. "I'll take the jewelery-you don't want to risk having it traced."

  "No." She shook her head as she stared at the money. "No, Earl, I haven't earned it. I don't deserve it."

  "Wrong on both counts," he said curtly. "You have and you will. Can you fly a raft?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I've got one on the roof. Now listen, this is what I want you to do."

  She frowned as he explained. "Now?"

  "Now." Before the alarm could be given, the authorities begin to investigate. And before the cyber, sitting like a gaunt red spider in his web, could learn new facts with which to build a prediction to gain him high rewards, and the Cyclan could get what they wanted most of all.

  The secret which had been stolen from one of their hidden laboratories. The correct sequence in which the fifteen molecular units needed to be joined, in order to create the affinity twin.

  Kalin had passed it on to him, the girl with the flame-red hair Earl would never forget. Brasque had stolen it, destroying the records, dying in turn to keep it safe. Fifteen biological molecular units, the last reversed to determine dominant or submissive characteristics.

  An artificial symbiote which, when injected into the bloodstream, nestled at the base of the cortex and took control of the entire nervous and sensory systems. The brain containing the dominant half would take over the body of the host. Literally take over. Each move, every touch, all sound and sight and taste, all would be transmitted. In effect, it gave an old man the power to become young again in a new, virile body. A body he would keep until it was destroyed, or his own died.

  It would give the Cyclan the galaxy to use as a plaything.

  The mind of a cyber would reside in each and every ruler and person of consequence. They would be helpless marionettes moving to the dictates of their masters. Slaves of the designs of those who wore the scarlet robes.

  They knew of the secret and would discover it in time. But too much time, the possible combinations ran into millions, was needed to test them all. Even at the rate of one every second, it would take four thousand years.

  Dumarest could cut that time down to a handful of hours. Once they had him they could probe his brain, learn what they needed to know, advance their domination like a red stain spread on the stars.

  "Earl?"

  He blinked, conscious that he had fallen into a reverie, hovered on the brink of sleep. Standing, he looked at the woman. She wore a casual gown, a flower in her hair, too much paint on her face. The scent of her perfume was overpowering.

  "Is this what you wanted, Earl?"

  "Yes." He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Make no mistake, girl. My life is in your hands now. You know what to do?"

  "I know."

  "Good." He turned, picked up the bottle of brandy, spilled the contents over her hair, her shoulders, her gown. "Then let's go."

  Chapter Six

  It was late and Dach Lang was tired. For five hours he had stood guard at the gate. Now it was his turn to make a patrol around the inner perimeter of the fence. A long journey and a useless one. The summit was fitted with alarms. If anyone tried to climb the mesh, they would be shocked and caught. Yet the orders had been plain.

  "Dach!" The figure approaching was muffled, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, his collar turned high. Haw Falla felt the chill. "A bad night," he grumbled. "And still hours to wait before dawn. This kind of thing makes a man wish for his bed."

  "You're late."

  "I had things to do." Falla shrugged aside the accusation. "A man has his needs."

  Too many and too often as far as Falla was concerned, but that was his problem. Dach checked his watch, made a notation on his pad and tucked the book away. Three minutes late. With luck they could make it up, but in any case he was in the clear. Two-man patrols, the orders had said, and a two-man patrol it would be.

  "Let's get on our way."

  It was growing cold, the wind from the sea carrying a drift of rain, sparkles clinging to the mesh of the fence, glittering like minute gems beneath the glow of the floodlights. An artistic scene, but one which neither man appreciated. They kept their eyes down, searching for holes, for strangers.

  Not that it was easy. The ships stood close, crewmen busy, making a straggling line from their vessels to the gate. Accustomed to the freedom of space they resented the new restrictions, the checks and questions at the gate. There had been a little trouble, a couple of fights, some broken heads.

  Well, to hell with them. Dach had his own problems. He brooded on them as Falla led the way around the perimeter. Sulen was fully grown now and getting rebellious. Mari didn't help, what with her spendthrift ways. A woman should look after her daughter, take a closer interest in what she was getting in to. Instead, she spend hard-earned money on clothes and paint which made her look like a creature from a seraglio. A shame and a disgrace to any decent, hard-working man. And the chances were high that if he went home now, she would be out or not alone.

  "Dach!" Falla halted, staring up at the sky. "What the hell-look, a raft!"

  It swept down low, almost touching the summit of the fence, veering over the field as alarms sounded from the gate. From it came the sound of singing, high-pitched laughter, the trill of a woman's voice.

  "The stupid bitch!" Falla began to run, waving his arms. "Hey, you up there! You crazy or something?"

  Insane or drunk, the only reasonable explanation. No one flew over a field, the risk was too great. With ships leaving and landing at any time, the air-displacement would wreck any smaller craft. A fact Dumarest had known, a risk he had taken.

  He lay flat in the body of the raft, invisible from below, tensing as the vehicle jerked beneath Ayantel's inexperienced hands. She was acting well, a little too well. Only by a tremendous effort did she avoid being thrown over the edge.

  "Careful!"

  "I can manage," she whispered. Then, loudly, "Hey, down there! You wanna drink? You wanna join the party? Hows about us all getting together?"

  "Mad," said Dach. "Stinking drunk and crazy. Watch out!"

  He ducked as the raft swept over his head, dropped to vanish behind a ship, lifted again immediately to swing towards them, to smack against the ground.

  "Whew!" Ayantel fanned herself, then reached for a bottle. "That was rough. Here, friends, help yourself!"

  A spoiled bitch, the product of decadent luxury, half-naked, stinking of liquor, out on a crazy spree. Yet she had to be rich, or have wealthy friends. Rafts were expensive on Tradum, especially the small, personal-carrier kind.

  Dach slowed as Falla gripped his arm.

  "Take it easy, now. Handle her gently."

  "She should be canned!"

  "Sure, but what'll it get you?" Gifted with the survival cunning of an animal Falla moved closer to the raft, the woman it contained. "Now, madam," he said soothingly, "you shouldn't be here. I'll have to take care of you. If you'll just step out of that raft-"

  "Go to hell!"

  "It's for you own protection. I'll call your friends and have them take you home. You don't want to risk your pretty neck in a place like this."

  "Here!" Falla dodged as a bottle swept towards his head. As it landed with a shatter of breaking glass, the raft lifted. "So long, boys-buy yourselves a drink!"

  Money fluttered down, a shower of notes, landing as the raft lifted over the fence. Too high to be stopped, and to shoot it down was to invite later trouble.

  "Falla, she's-"

  "Get the money, man!" Falla was practical. "We can't stop
her now."

  No one could stop her. Within minutes she would land, change, vanish into the night. The harlot had appeared unrecognizable as the woman who sold meats at a stall.

  Dumarest rose from where he had jumped, keeping the bulk of a ship between himself and the guards. The loading port was open, a handler staring interestedly at the couple chasing the scattered wealth.

  "When you leaving?"

  "What?" He turned, looking at Dumarest. "Not until noon."

  "Anything due earlier?"

  "The Hamanara, she's loaded and set. And there's the Golquin over to your right. Say, did you see that dame in the raft?"

  "A looker."

  "You can say that again." The handler sighed, enviously. "Rich too. See how she scattered that loot? Hell, some men have all the luck. You looking for a passage?"

  "That or a berth."

  "Try the Golquin. Their steward had an argument at the gate and got his head broken. You could be lucky."

  * * * * *

  It was a vessel which had seen better days. The plates were stained, scarred, patches breaking the smooth lines of the original design. The ramp was worn, the lights dim beyond the open port, the air filled with a musty taint due to ancient filters and bad circulation. The captain matched his ship.

  He stood glowering in the passage leading into the heart of the vessel, a squat man with suspicious eyes, heavy brows which joined to form a russet bar, a short beard which hid a trap of a mouth.

  "A berth?"

  "If you have one, Captain, yes." Dumarest added, casually, "I heard that your steward ran into some trouble."

  "He was drunk and a fool. You've handled the job before?"

  "Yes."

  "If you're lying you'll regret it." Captain Shwarb rocked back on his heels, thinking. "The gate," he said. "Did you have trouble coming through?"

  "None-what's it all about anyway?"

  "Damned if I know or care. Can you operate a table?" Shwarb grunted at Dumarest's nod. "Good. Well, this is the deal. No pay, hard work and a half of what you win is mine. Take it or leave it."

  A hard bargain, but Dumarest was in no position to argue. "I'll take it, Captain. When do we leave?"

  "In thirty minutes. You bunk with Arishall. We're bound for Mailarette." He added, grimly, "A warning. You look straight, but you could be kinked. If I catch you using analogues you go outside. Understand?"

  Arishall was the engineer, one of fading skill and advancing years. A quiet man with mottled skin and pale blue eyes. He rose from his bunk as Dumarest entered the cabin and introduced himself.

  "The new steward, eh?" Arishall waved to a cabinet. "That's yours. Urian's about your size so his gear should fit. Want some advice?"

  "Such as?"

  "Stay off kicks. The captain-"

  "I know. He told me."

  "Don't think he doesn't mean it. He lost his wife to a guy who thought he was a gorilla. Since then he can't stand anyone who uses analogs. I can't say that I blame him. A man's a man, why the hell he should want to adopt the characteristics of a beast I can't imagine. You drink?"

  "At times."

  "With me it's medicine." Arishall produced a bottle and drank from its neck. "This is between us, right?"

  Dumarest nodded, opening the cabinet and taking out the uniform it contained. It was clean, the colors bright, and stripping he donned it. A box held a hypogun and a container of drugs, quicktime and the neutralizer. Checking the instrument, Dumarest loaded it with ampules from the container.

  "How many crew?"

  "Me, Shwarb, Dinok the navigator."

  "No handler?"

  "I double up and you help me if I need it." The engineer drank from the bottle again. "The Golquin's a free trader-or didn't you know?"

  The condition of the vessel had told him that, the minimum crew made it obvious. Operating on a low budget, making a profit where and how it could, the crew paid by shares after all expenses had been covered. Some free traders were better than others-the Golquin was one of the worst.

  "Yes," said Dumarest. "I knew."

  "And you don't care?"

  "Working a passage is better than paying."

  "And you've worked on free traders before, right?" Arishall pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded. "Good. It helps. Do a good job and maybe Shwarb will offer you a regular berth. He's hard, but fair." He took a final drink. "Well, I'd better get with it. See you, Earl."

  The alarm sounded twenty minutes later. Dumarest made the seal-check and reported to the control room. Two minutes later he felt the vibration of the drive, the lift of the vessel as the Erhaft field was established, carrying the ship up and out towards the stars. A manmade missile moving at a velocity against which that of light was a crawl.

  Taking the hypogun, he went into the salon. Five passengers were riding High; a grizzled mining engineer, a suave entrepreneur, a trader and two women, neither of them young, both of them retiring from the stress of an ancient profession before they bit the bottom. One smiled as he approached.

  "This is a bonus. A steward who looks like a man. Can you give a girl relaxation if she can't sleep, mister?"

  "Cut it out, Hilma," said her companion tiredly. "If you hope to pick up a husband on Mailarette you'd better learn to watch your tongue."

  "Old habits, Chi." The woman shrugged. "But I guess you're right. Well, friend, where do you want to put it?"

  "In the neck."

  Dumarest lifted the hypogun as the woman tilted her head, firing the charge of drug into her bloodstream. The reaction was immediate. She seemed to freeze, to become a statue as her metabolism slowed. Each act, the blink of an eye, a breath, the lift of a finger took forty times longer than normal.

  Within seconds the other passengers had been treated. As Dumarest turned from the last, he saw a man standing and watching from the door of the salon.

  "So you're Dumarest," he said. "I'm Dinok, the navigator."

  His uniform was impeccable, the material carrying the sheen of newness, braid and insignia gleaming with polish. A small man, fastidious in his appearance, Dinok wore his hair short, his face hairless aside from a thin mustache. His hands were smooth, the nails polished, neatly filed.

  "Neat," he approved, glancing at the passengers. "You hit them where it counted. I like to see a man who knows his work."

  "Did Shwarb send you to check?"

  "Would you care if he did?" Dinok shrugged, not waiting for an answer. "Now you clean the cabins, prepare the basic, fill the hoppers and then get to work at the table." He glanced at where cards and dice stood on an expanse of green baize. "If it's your style to cheat, don't get caught."

  Dumarest lifted the hypogun. "When do you want it?"

  "The captain and me take care of ourselves. Give Arishall a shot after you've done the chores-but I guess you know the system." Dinok pursed his lips as he stared at the women, the men. "Scum," he said. "But the best we can hope for. If you get tips you'll be lucky."

  Dumarest caught the note of disdain in the man's voice and could guess the reason. Dinok had been used to better things. An officer, perhaps, on a luxury vessel where a part of his duty would have been to entertain. A good job for a man with the inclination to do it- one he would have hated to lose.

  He said, casually, "When did they book?"

  "We got them from the agent, some could have been waiting for weeks. But you? What made you join the Golquin?"

  "I needed the job."

  "Don't we all?" Dinok scowled, a man caught in a trap of his own making. Drink or drugs, or an alliance with the wrong woman at the wrong time. Something had sent him on the downward path which, as yet, hadn't ended. That would come when he grew careless about his appearance, casual as to his duties. Then, he would be kicked out to rot on some lonely world. "Well, Earl, I'll leave you to it. Watch out for the entrepreneur-I don't trust his type."

  * * * * *

  Ren Dhal was smooth, skilled, deft with the dice and clever with the cards. A man who had established
a small business on Tradum, selling out when the opposition grew too strong. Moving on now to seek fresh opportunities.

  "They're everywhere," he said as he sat at the table. "But it takes a smart brain to recognize them. On Heiglet, for example, I noticed that three taverns were competing. I arranged a merger, raised the prices and took a nice profit. All it required was some fast talking."

  Dumarest dealt the cards, playing without real interest, merely doing a part of his job. As always on any journey, life had settled into a routine. Play and talk passed the time. Work a little more when, the quicktime in his blood neutralized, he attended to what had to be done.

  The cabins searched, baggage checked, looking for any signs that the passengers were not exactly what they claimed to be. He had found nothing suspicious.

  "Time to eat," he announced, and went to draw the rations of basic. Elementary food, a liquid thick with protein, sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins and essential elements. A cup would provide enough energy for a day.

  The trader grunted as he accepted his ration. A dour man who spent long hours studying lists of figures, computing his margins of profit. He rarely spoke and seemed to hold a grievance against the grizzled engineer who had formed an attachment with one of the women, careless as to her past.

  "Food." Chi pulled a face. "Is that what you call it? Hilma, we could be making a mistake. On Tradum, at least we had something decent to eat."

  "And will again." Hilma glanced at the engineer. He was old, but he had money and was as good as she could hope to get. Smiling she said, "To the future, Gramon, may it be pleasant."

  "I'll drink to that." He sipped, beaming. "It'll be good to settle down. I've had enough of traveling and I've breathed in all the rock dust my lungs will take. Say, Chi, I've a friend who might be interested in you. A farmer-you got objections to living on a farm?"

  The nearest thing to hell she could imagine, but a man could be changed and, if he owned land, he was worth looking at.

  "His own farm?"