Melome

of the blade, the sudden withdrawal.

She said, 'Did you find out who he is?'

'Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. He was at the circus earlier and Ruval had to throw him out. Some trouble over a girl. One of Tusenbach's. It could have been settled but he drew a knife and left Ruval no choice.'

'Melome?' She saw his frown. 'He spoke of a sister he'd come to see. Melome. Was that the girl?'

'He lied.'

'About the girl?'

'She isn't his sister. He asked after her before and then she was the daughter of a friend. Forget her.' He stepped closer, hands reaching, his intention plain. As she stepped back he said, impatiently, 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'Then why avoid me? Or do you want to play a game?' His eyes glowed with a new fire, his face taking on a feral expression, a gloating anticipation. 'You want to be mastered, forced, made to yield to the whip? Dominated? Treated like you treat your cats? Given a taste of pain.'

Things he enjoyed but her needs were not governed by a sadistic nature. One he possessed, now rising to be mirrored on his face as he stared at her, stimulated by her femininity, her reluctance.

She said, quickly, 'What about the girl? Melome. Is she with the circus?'

'I told you to forget her.'

'Something special?'

'That isn't your business. Just worry about your cats and leave the rest to me. Ask questions and Shakira won't like it. Now let's stop wasting time.' He frowned as she shook her head. 'No? Why not?'

'Be sensible, man. I'm tired. I've been gassed and am still groggy. And I've had a hell of an experience. All I want now is to be left alone to sleep.'

A lie and he sensed it as he sensed her heightened sensuality: emotions inflamed and sharpened by recent events. As he moved purposefully toward her she stepped to one side, reaching her spare costume, the flat pistol normally worn in a holster beneath the shorts. A gun she hadn't bothered to carry when dealing with a single animal. One she lifted to point at Zucco's face.

'I said no, Jac.'

He halted, staring at the twin muzzles of the over and under; wide orifices which could spout a leaden hail.

'You'd use that? Against me?' Her eyes gave him the answer. 'Bitch! I thought we were friends.'

'We are,' she agreed. 'That and more. But you don't own me. I don't dance to your tune. We'll get on better if you remember that.' Lowering the gun she added, casually, 'What happened to Dumarest?'

'He's safe enough.'

'Dead?'

'Would you care if he was?' His eyes searched her face, his own hardening as they moved to the gap in her robe, the wound lying between her breasts. 'He cut you, remember. Marked you.'

Branded her-there was a difference.

She said, 'I'm curious. He acted strange. He's safe, you say?'

'Safe.' Zucco's smile held malice. 'He's down in the sump.'

CHAPTER FOUR

Dumarest woke to the stench of it, the dirt, the noise. The circus was a closed world of inflated tents, domes, galleries, compartments. One holding animals, workers, a continual flow of visitors. A close-packed consuming society-the sump took care of the waste.

A place of dimness in which sewage and garbage was dumped to be fed to machines which churned it and fed the slurry to pipes leading outside. There was leakage, accumulations, pools of slime. Maintenance workers wore enclosing suits and breathed tanked air.

Dumarest, naked, was chained to a wall.

His head ached from the effects of the gas and thirst burned throat and mouth. In the gloom things looked blurred, out of focus, and he closed his eyes, palming them, feeling the tug and clank of restraining links. Manacles circled each wrist, the chains from them running through a circlet on the metal belt locked around his waist. Another chain at the rear led to a ring on the wall.

He could stand, take a step forward, lie on the crusted floor and that was all.

A prisoner sentenced without trial to a period of isolated confinement. One which could be the prelude to execution. It was possible, the circus was a law unto itself. A hostile world in which he was a stranger. For now he could do nothing but wait.

Squatting, he examined the links. They were too strong to break, welded, made of high-grade steel. The manacles were too close fitting to slip and prevented him reaching the chain holding him to the wall. A futile exercise; it too would be strong.

Something ran over his foot and he saw a blur of chiton as a multilegged insect scuttled toward a patch of crusted slime. Food and water for the thing but only vileness for himself. Yet the creature was food and could be eaten if starvation threatened. But, before that, he would be dead of thirst.

The wall behind him was of metal and he touched it, feeling the dew of condensation. Moisture he collected on the flat of his hand, licking it, wiping the metal to gain more. It held a flat, unpleasant taste but it moistened his lips and eased his thirst a little. Relaxing he leaned his back against the wall.

Waiting, dozing, conserving his strength. Jerking to full awareness as metal clanged and a light shone into his eyes.

'So you're awake.' Zucco, his finery protected by a plastic film, lifted the wand he carried. One tipped with metal. Dumarest jerked at the sting of it against his flesh. 'Hurts, doesn't it.' The voice held a feral purr as it came through the diaphragm of the helmet. 'A thing we use on beasts to teach them to obey.' It stabbed again. 'Like this. And this. And this.'

A series of nerve-jarring shocks as the current tore at his body. Through a red haze of pain Dumarest twisted, fought the restraint of the chains, the instinct which urged him to snatch at the wand. Even if he gained it he would have won nothing. Not until the man himself was within reach dare he act.

'Why did you come here?' The wand hit again before Dumarest could answer, touching his knee, his stomach, dropping to his loins. 'Answer, you scum. Answer!'

Crude interrogation; questions followed by pain and then more questions with no time given for answers. A technique designed to break the spirit and induce unthinking responses.

Cowering, Dumarest said, 'Melome! I came for the girl!'

The cowering was an act, the answer genuine. One he had given before.

'Why?' Again the wand. 'Why? Why? Why?'

'A job.' Dumarest gagged, pointing at his mouth. 'Water! Give me water!'

'After you talk.' The wand seared nerves and filled the universe with pain. 'The truth, now! Damn it, I want the truth!'

'You've had it. I wanted a job. I figured Melome could give me an introduction to the boss. Someone who could hire me.'

'So you came here, sneaked into the circus, crept about like a thief, attacked Reiza and would have killed her- just to get hired?' Zucco sneered his contempt. 'Do you take me for a fool?'

'No-a sadistic bastard!'

Zucco tensed with anger, face taut, as he raised the wand, holding it like a rapier, the metal tip circling inches from Dumarest's eyes.

'Now we're getting somewhere,' he whispered. 'I knew you couldn't be broken so easily. But you will be broken. Made to beg. To crawl.' The wand jabbed forward, touched, touched again. Bruising impacts which lacked the previous searing energy; Zucco had deactivated the instrument. 'Odd,' he said. 'Reiza said you were fast. Fast enough to have dodged but-' This time Dumarest jerked as Zucco fed power to the wand, sent the tip to jab a shoulder. 'Talk!'

'Water!'

'Talk, damn you! Talk! Talk! Talk!'