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?"