Time to accomplish what?
Her eyes gave the answer. Dumarest saw the shift of silver reflections as they moved to search the sky, lowered to study the warehouse, rose again to the sky. She was expecting something and, suddenly, he knew what it had to be.
'Raiders! You bitch! You're working with raiders!'
'That's crazy!' She backed from him, the anger distorting his face. 'I was just taking a walk. I got lost and-'
She turned and ran to where he had thrown the laser, snatching it up, turning to aim. He struck before she could fire, the mark of his fist a red patch on her jaw, blood staining the sand from her skull, the stone against which she had fallen.
Chapter Two
Dumarest heard the whining scream of tormented air as he neared the warehouse. Felt the blast, the jarring shock as the raider's vessel slammed to a landing on the field, the blue shimmer of its Erhaft field vanishing to reveal the bulk of a ship designed for loot and destruction.
An incredible landing which told of the skill of its captain, one matched by the ability of his gunners. Missiles ruined the turret on the warehouse, blasted open the wall, turned the other towers into rubble. Fire traced a path towards the town, ending at the hotel with a blossom of flame.
As the echoes died an amplified voice roared from the ship.
'WARNING! KEEP YOUR DISTANCE! ATTACK US AND WE DESTROY THE TOWN!'
A threat emphasized by the smoke rising from the hotel. Minor damage as yet but a demonstration of what would happen if the raiders were not obeyed. Whoever was in command knew his business and was wasting no time. The fence by the warehouse was down, cut and flattened on the dirt. The loading ports of the ship were open, ramps already in place, men hurrying to collect their loot. Workers lightly dressed guarded by others resembling machines.
Light gleamed from their amour; polished surfaces designed to reflect the fury of lasers, strong enough to withstand the impact of missiles. The helmets were blank, tanked air a protection against gas, the weapons they carried able to scythe flesh, metal and stone.
Dumarest edged closer to the warehouse, crouched low, trusting the glare of the perimeter lights and drifting smoke to shield him, from watchful eyes. One man, hardly a threat, but a guard on the alert would fire at a shadow. He froze behind the shielding bulk of a hut. Too late to give warning there was nothing he could do but ensure his own survival. To wait and watch as the warehouse was gutted of its treasures; bales containing rare and costly spices, boxes of electronic components, valuable oils, gems, herbs. Cartons he recognized.
The cargo which had cost him all he owned.
As sweating men piled it on the ramps he rose and slipped closer to the warehouse. Rubble from the ruined turret provided shelter and he crouched among it, feeling broken furnishings, equipment, the body of a guard. He moved again, freezing as an armored shape turned to scan the area. As it turned away he ran again, reaching the wall of the warehouse, the carvings which decorated it and provided plentiful holds. He swarmed upwards, reached the eaves and drew himself onto the roof. It was curved, thick, the transparencies now glowing with light. Illumination which revealed wide cracks caused by the attack. He reached one, stared through it, saw a mound of bales lying beneath. Bulk cargo of small value which cushioned his fall and he lay still, examining the scene below. The workers were busy further down the warehouse and he could see no guards.
Dropping to the floor he waited for the moment he knew had to come.
The success of a raid depended on surprise and speed. To hit, steal and run with the minimum of warning and without delay. The man commanding the raid would know that. Know, too, that despite his warning and the threat of damage local forces would move against him. Any ship was vulnerable to missile attack. It would have to leave before one could be organized. When it left there would be no time to count heads.
Dumarest inched forward among the piled goods, seeking shadows, freezing as men passed close. One grunted as a siren cut the air.
'That's it! First warning! Let's move!'
He flung his weight against a loaded platform, others joining him; a disciplined group but inevitably there were stragglers. A couple of men quested for anything small and valuable. Another tugged at a torn bale. As his hand dived into the opening the man guiding the platform yelled his anger.
'There's no time for that! Get busy on this load! Hurry!'
Dumarest watched as the loaded platform moved on its way towards the ship. As the siren again blasted its warning he stepped from hiding, hand dropping to his boot, rising armed with steel. As the raider tore his hand free from the bale and ran down the warehouse Dumarest threw the knife.
It hit as he intended, the pommel slamming against the back of the skull, the man falling as again the siren tore the air in final warning. There had been no shot, no scream, no witnesses. A prisoner had been safely taken.
One who would never talk.
Kez Mbopola was a Hausi, his dark face striated with the ritual caste-scars of his guild. An agent who could be trusted. One who never lied even if he didn't reveal all the truth. Early as it was he sat at his desk in an office redolent of a hundred spices, a thousand deals.
'A bad time.' He gestured at the bottle standing before him together with glasses. 'Help yourself if you want. You've earned it.'
'You know?'
'I've been told. At least you got one of them. A pity he had such a thin skull.' Mbopola watched as Dumarest sipped at the brandy. 'It's a shame they got away so light. Three teams of guards dead as well as civilians. Raiders should be hunted down. Exterminated like the vermin they are!'
Strong language from a man who prided himself on his detached neutrality and it would be echoed by others eager for punitive action. Empty demands for nothing would be done. Ships, men and armaments cost money and the one man who could have told them where to strike was dead. They would repair the damage, heal the injured, bury the dead and things would be as before.
Aside from the orphans, the widows, those left crippled, those left ruined.
As Dumarest lowered his glass the Hausi said, 'I can guess why you are here. Unfortunately the answer is no.'
'To what?'
'The return of your money. The transaction was completed. There can be no reversal of the contract.'
As Dumarest had expected. 'What about insurance?'
'Your partner would know about that.'
'The warehouse guarantee?'
'Will be honored. In matters of business it is essential to maintain a good reputation and Arpagus will not shirk responsibility. However, it will take time to settle the details and, in your case, the recompense will be minimal.'
'Why? The cargo -'
'Was declared by your partner to have little value.' Mbopola shrugged, lifting his hands to forestall any protest. 'A fiction, of course, but it is common practice and saves on the premium. Most traders cut corners where they can and your partner is no different to the rest. Didn't he tell you? Perhaps he didn't think it important. But I should ask him about the insurance.' The Hausi reached for the bottle to pour fresh drinks, then halted the action, his face registering concern. 'I should have asked. The hotel was hit. I hope he wasn't hurt.'
Lozano Polletin was dying.
Dumarest looked at him where he lay in the terminal ward of the infirmary. They had washed his face and sealed his wounds with a film of clear plastic dressing, but the blood edging his lips told of lacerated lungs and internal injuries. Weakly he raised a hand in greeting.
'Earl! I'm glad you came.' His voice was thin, blurred by the drugs which had killed his pain. 'They told me what happened. A raid – damn the luck.'
'Was the cargo insured?'
'No. Those cartons were too big to pilfer and money was tight.' Polletin coughed, swallowed, fresh carmine
