In two more strides the Zacathan reached the door in that wall which blocked their path. It looked as set-in as the boarded-up windows above, as if it were sealed firmly. Yet the off-worlder did not appear to be baffled by this. He drew the taloned fingers of his useable right hand down the splintery surface, scratching into wood spongy with rot.
At waist level those fingers stopped to circle about as if outlining some lock which did not appear. Then Zurzal drew his own weapon, examined the setting critically before he made a small adjustment, and put the barrel to the door. There was a flash and a crackle of sparks ran from that point of contact. A moment later the Zacathan resheathed the weapon, put palm flat against the door to push. Reluctantly the barrier gave, showing a thick gloom within.
'This is a back way,' Zurzal's voice dropped near to a hissing whisper. 'What we seek lies there.' He jerked his head toward the wall of the building from which this portion angled.
Jofre's hand was quick. His fingers closed about the Zacathan's sinewy arm.
'I first,' he made that an order. 'Which way?'
'Right. There should be a stair near. The man we seek has lodging, such as it is, near the top floor. He is, I think, very near the end. The report made to me is that he has not been seen for three days now.'
Within the house there was a thick effluvium of old filth, the result of beings of more than one species being crowded in long-uncleansed quarters. The two invaders found the stairs easily enough, for there was an orb light, near exhausted by the feebleness of its glow, suspended over the well of the steps.
Now there were sounds, grunts, the rumble of speech, and once the throb of a hand drum, a smashing of what might be glass, and again a scream which held both rage and pain. Zurzal continued to climb; Jofre, eyes darting from wall to wall of the stairway, ears and nose alert, edged after him. They reached the third level of the stair and Zurzal stopped, fronting another door.
This time there was a waiting latch and he caught at it, throwing the door open. The room on the other side had once been of fair size, but a partition which did not reach clear to the ceiling had turned it into a pair of alcoves. The stench was now overpowering. In the nearer of those alcoves was a sleep mat and on that lay a body wrapped in a discolored length of bed covering.
Zurzal felt in the pouch which was clipped to his belt. He brought out a package which, without opening it, he squeezed vigorously in his one hand. Now another scent joined the rest, a cloying one which seemed thick enough to be visible in the room.
The bundle on the mat stirred, shifted, sat up. A bloated-faced head wobbled on a neck seemingly too thin to hold it, then a bony hand came out of hiding and made a wide circle through the air. The eyes in that puffed face, which at first had looked unfocused, now centered on the Zacathan. A slobbering tongue crept out from between swollen lips and then a voice which was thick and hardly to be understood spoke a single word:
'Give!'
Zurzal ripped open one end of the drug bag and that wavering hand strove to flatten and hold steady as the Zacathan shook onto the palm a wad of seeds and leaves. Dropping some of the stuff in his haste, the man on the pallet crammed it into his mouth and those jaws so hidden by fatty tissue now moved as he chewed.
The effect came within a few moments. The sagging body on the sleep mat sat straighter. There was a certain dim intelligence back in the eyes to be sighted in the constrained light through a half-masked window.
'You—' The word was mumbled around that cud which the spacer still chewed.
'As I promised,' Zurzal returned calmly. 'Enough of this to take you to the end—' He gave the bag a little shake and once more the smell of the drug was wafted about.
The bulbous head nodded. 'Fair—fair bargain.' Then the mouth moved as the speaker spat the pulp of his chewing onto the rotting floor. 'I have—' Now two hands emerged from his wrappings and he was tugging at that covering, pulling away from his body.
He was bare of any clothing Jofre could see. In spite of the bloated face and head, his body was a rack of bones covered with greyish, grimed skin. But he wore around his neck a chain which sparked in the light—iridium! How could such a derelict possess that? Supported from that chain was a round medallion of the same precious metal. Long broken nails scrabbled at that until it opened and a tiny dark roll fell out. The ex-spacer weighed it in one hand, and for a moment, in spite of the ruin of that face, Jofre thought he saw a flash of another man who had once been.
'Fair—fair bargain,' the spacer stuttered a little. 'But— you may find it not so good. Not so good.' He shook his big head from side to side. 'Give!' he demanded.
Zurzal dropped the packet of graz in the seated man's lap and took the roll, slipping it into his belt pocket.
The spacer's one hand clamped on that opened bag as if he feared it might be taken from him. But with the fingers of the other he swung the pendant from which he had freed the roll back and forth.
'Beyond—call—duty—' He looked up at the Zacathan and then he laughed horribly, his huge face a mask such as one of the Shagga imagined demons might wear. 'Get out! You have what you want, lizard man.' The more he spoke, the firmer his voice, the clearer his words became. 'You have everything but luck, remember that.' Greedily he pawed at the bag, brought forth another wad of the drug and crammed it into his mouth, dropping his head back on the bed place. It was plain that he had nothing more to say.
'What do you have?' Jofre asked as they edged out of that horrible box of a room.
'The coordinates of the place on Lochan which I must visit. He was a hero once—did you see that medal ? Through everything he held onto that.'
Zurzal's voice was somber as they retraced their way down the staircase. 'He is very near the end,' the Zacathan continued. 'The supply I took him will surely see him out and he will die in what poor comfort that has left him. He was a hero—once—' The repetition of that phrase rang in Jofre's head as they stepped once more into the alley and headed back into what was a cleaner and brighter kind of life.
Ras Zarn stood again in that small private chamber of his, and again he held a farflyer. There was a weariness about him these days. Sometimes fortune turns against a man—then to fight his way through obstacles becomes twice the battle. He was no longer as young as his appearance made him seem to these townsmen lowlanders. And he had been long away from the north and close touch with that which demanded his inborn allegiance. Just as those who gave secret orders were far removed and uncaring about his problems.
