subjected to shock. Again the odors stung his nostrils, banishing the last shreds of sleep, but it was pleasant to lie and feel the pulse and surge of life. A comfort to stretch and feel the smooth embrace of sheets against his naked skin, the yield of a pneumatic mattress. The voice grew sharp with impatience.
'Can you hear me? Answer if you can. Answer!'
'I can hear you.' Dumarest opened his eyes and looked at the face above his own. A young, smooth face, the features thinly precise, the eyes detached, the mouth a little too full but time would eradicate the hint of caring humanity. 'How long have I been here, Doctor?'
The eyes blinked. 'You are unusual. I would have bet you would have asked where you were.'
'I know where I am. On Harge and this is a hospital. How long?'
'A day; an hour for diagnosis and examination, two hours slow time, the rest drug-induced sleep. How do you feel?'
'Hungry.' To be expected-the two hours under slow time had accelerated his metabolism so that he had lived days in subjective time. Dumarest looked at his arms, noted the small, near-healed puncture in the hollow of one elbow. The mark left by intravenous feeding. 'Glucose?'
'That and saline and a few other things. You had some cracked ribs, extensive bruising, slight concussion, torn muscles and strained ligaments. There is also minor kidney damage. The ribs had been treated with hormone glue to promote rapid healing and the kidney damage has been corrected. Just take things easy for a while and you'll be fine.'
'How did I get here?'
'Carried by porters, I guess. The usual method. I only saw you after you'd arrived. Sit up now. Throw your legs over the edge of the bed. Dizzy? Bend your head down between your knees and it will pass. All right now?'
Dumarest nodded as he lifted his head. The nausea still remained in his stomach but the sudden giddiness and vertigo had gone. He looked at the instrument before his eyes.
'Hold steady now,' said the doctor. 'Just a final check. Look to the right… to the left… up… down… fine! Here!'
From a side table he lifted a container and removed the lid. Taking it Dumarest sipped and recognized the basic food of all spacemen; a compound thick with protein, sickly with glucose, tart with citrus and laced with vitamins. In space a cup was food enough for a day.
'Thanks.' He handed back the empty container. 'My clothes?'
'In that cabinet.'
'My knife?'
'There too.' The doctor looked appraisingly at the naked torso, the thin cicatrices of old wounds. 'Just remember what I said and take things easy for a while.' He took a card from his pocket, made check marks, signed and passed it over. 'Take this to the desk in reception before you leave. They'll check you out. Don't forget to do it-the guards can be touchy.'
'And the cost?'
The doctor shrugged, 'I wouldn't know about that. The desk handles all matters of finance.'
Reception lay at the end of a passage and contained a desk backed by enigmatic panels touched and graced with multi-hued points of light. A computer terminal, Dumarest guessed, one showing the occupancy of the hospital at all times together with full financial details. His eyes studied the place as he walked slowly toward the counter, the women in attendance. Reception was smaller than he'd expected, a few benches, some tables, a vending machine selling drinks and snacks. Doors bearing various numbers lined the walls and one, wider, the exit, was flanked by a pair of watchful guards. More, he was sure, would be stationed at the far end of the exit- passage, but it was worth a try.
'Your pass?' A guard extended a hand as Dumarest approached the door. He looked at the card the doctor had checked and signed. 'This isn't a pass. Report to the desk and get proper clearance.'
He watched as Dumarest obeyed, one hand resting on his belt close to a holstered weapon, his eyes suspicious. If the hard-faced woman who took the card had noticed the incident she made no comment. Feeding the card into a slot she busied herself with a keyboard, tore a slip from the printout, attached it to a file and placed it before Dumarest.
'Sign on the bottom line, please.' She watched as he scrawled his name. 'Thank you. Here is your pass.'
'Is that all?' He took the yellow slip. He had expected a bill and a large one. 'How about the cost?'
'Payment has been taken care of, sir.'
'By whom?'
'I am not at liberty to say.' She added, blandly, 'A friend is waiting for you in the outer hall.'
It was larger than reception, lined with benches, each seat occupied with someone needing medical aid; a woman with a seared cheek, a man nursing a broken hand, a child with a face blotched with ugly sores. To one side sat a line of beggars, one with the gray of brain showing through plastic covering the hole in his skull. He held a chipped bowl in trembling, palsied hands. The label around his neck read; OF YOUR PITY HELP THIS MAN. The bowl was empty.
'Earl!' Kemmer stood beside the outer door, smiling, lifting a hand as he called. As Dumarest joined him he said, 'It's good to see you. How do you feel?'
'Fine.'
'Hungry? There's a place close to here which sells a decent stew. Cheap too as prices go. No?'
'No.'
Food could wait. Dumarest led the way outside. The passage was wide, arched, the floor littered with benches; free seating accommodation provided by the hospital. Between them stood coin-operated diagnostic machines together with others selling a variety of drugs. Most were busy. Finding an empty bench Dumarest sat and, as the trader plumped down beside him, said, 'What happened?'
Kemmer was direct. 'You'd won the crowd, Earl. When you went down they yelled for your life. You'd been in for almost ten minutes and had put up a good show. They didn't want to see you killed-not when you couldn't put up a fight.'
So he had been carried from the arena. 'Did you pay for my treatment?'
'How could I?' Kemmer spread his hands. 'You'd gone down, Earl. You'd lost.' He added, bleakly, 'We all lost. The money Carl got from Matpius, that we won betting, that we already had. All of it.' He fell silent, brooding over the loss then said, 'Didn't they tell you inside?'
'No.' A problem but one which could wait. 'Where's Carl?' He frowned at the answer. 'In jail? Why?'
'It was when you went down,' explained Kemmer. 'The crowd was for you but the sannak wanted your blood. Carl jumped into the arena. He had a laser and used it. A disguised weapon-you know what mercenaries are. They feel naked without a gun. It stung the beast and sent it back to its den. Carl wasn't able to escape. The guards grabbed him and charged him with possessing an unregistered weapon within the city limits. They fined him a thousand kren.'
The value Matpius had placed on a human life. Dumarest narrowed his eyes, thinking, seeing in imagination the old man jumping, staggering a little as he landed, rising to face the sannak with the laser his only defense. A small weapon it would have to be. Powerful enough to kill a man at close range but it could have done little more than singe the creature's scales.
He said, 'We must get him released. Have you money?'
'A few coins. Enough for a meal or two but nothing more.' He met Dumarest's eyes. If lying, he was convincing but, if lying, he would later be dead. A fact he recognized as he said again, urgently, 'Earl, I swear it! I wouldn't hold out on you!'
Dumarest said, 'Let's find out about Carl.'
He was in a jail housed down a gloomy passage the walls polished and smoothed by the impact of countless bodies. Inside a desk faced a semi-circle of cells, each with a door pierced by a small grill, each with a number. Faces appeared at some of the grills as their footsteps echoed in the cavernous area. The smell was that of prisons everywhere; a combination of urine, excreta, sweat, stale air and disinfectant.
'Santis?' The officer in charge ran his finger down a list, 'Number eighteen. You come to pay his fine?'
'Not yet,' said Dumarest. 'What's the position?'
'Strangers?' The officer had the cold, searching eyes of a serpent. For a long moment he remained silent
