Incident on Ath

'There's-'

'Don't bother. I know them all as well as you do.' The chimes caught the pad of her sandals and turned them into melodious tinklings. 'And don't suggest I take up painting. Or building. Or manufacturing perfumes. Or-' She broke off, looking at her clenched hands, the knuckles a pale azure beneath the tinted skin like a child she said, 'Cornelius, what shall I do?'

'Have patience.'

'Wait! Is that all you can suggest? And while waiting?' She answered her own question. 'Where is your tekoa?'

Silently he gestured to where an ornate box rested on a small table set against a wall. The lid opened to reveal swollen pods brilliant yellow against the scarlet interior. Taking one she bit into it and felt its released pungency fill her mouth with tingling sweetness.

'Your first, Ursula?'

'Does it matter?' She selected another pod and slipped it into her mouth, biting, chewing it and the other to a pulp. 'You will make love to me?'

'No.'

'You're a fool.' Chewing she moved toward the window and stood before the high, arched opening which framed the vista beyond. A third pod followed the others to fill her mouth and to muffle her voice. 'A fool,' she said again. 'Why refuse when it means so little?'

But already the refusal was a thing of the past and the rejection of no importance. Nothing, now, was of importance. Not her irritation, her boredom, her lack of diversion, the cramped routine of monotonous days. All were lost in the soft mantle of the euphoria which enveloped her with memories of sweet pungency.

She felt nothing as Cornelius guided her to a chair, saw nothing as he turned it to save her eyes from the glare of the setting sun, heard nothing as he left the room and gave her over to darkness and dreams.

From the shadows the voice was a plaintive wail, 'Mister, please help me. For the love of God give me food. I starve!'

Dumarest walked on, keeping to the roadside edge of the sidewalk, giving the shrouded mouth of the alley no more than a single glance. Someone lurked inside and he saw a lifted hand, a pale, strained face, eyes which held desperation. A girl barely more than a child, dressed in rags, cheeks sunken, hair a mess, naked feet crusted with sores. An object of pity but on Juba things were not always what they seemed. The girl need not be alone. A pimp could be crouching behind her in the shadows poised to rise, to strike, willing to kill in order to rob. The girl herself could be a predator offering herself as bait or she need not be a girl at all but a youth acting the part.

'Mister, please! Food for my baby! My body for a crust!'

The voice grew ugly and snarled an obscene curse as Dumarest moved on. He ignored it as he had the plea; to yield to anger and seek revenge would be to run into a trap if the beggar were other than what she seemed.

'Mister!' A harlot this time, tall, thin, her face masked with paint, perfume enveloping her like a cloud. The figure hugged by glistening plastic was lush and firm but her mouth matched the hardness of her eyes. 'You lost? Lonely, maybe?'

'Lost.'

'Looking for something?' Her voice was suggestive. 'A game? A girl?'

'The field.'

'You won't find it in the Maze.' Her voice held mockery. 'Drugs, yes, debauchery and degenerates if that's what you want, drink and all manner of dubious delights. But the field, no.' She blinked at the coin he slipped into her hand. 'What's this for?'

'An entertainer should be paid.'

'An entertainer? But I'm a-' She broke off, laughing. 'So I'm an entertainer.'

'And one with a way with words.' He smiled as she searched his face with her eyes. 'And I could use a guide.' He added a second coin to the first. 'Which way to the field?'

'Straight ahead, third right, bear left, aim for the pylon and turn sharp left when you reach the fountain.' She hefted the coins in her palm. 'For as much again you could have me for what's left of the night.'

'Thank you, no.'

'I'm safe, mister. No hidden pimp or spiked drinks at my place. No?' Her sigh of regret was genuine. 'A pity. Well, good luck-and watch yourself.'

A warning which applied to all worlds but which had special meaning on Juba. A planet circling a sullen red giant hugging the fringe of the Rift. One exploited by entrepreneurs for the minerals they ripped from the soil. The dumping ground of criminals, the culture a seething mess of opposed interests. The rich lived in safe, strong houses set high on the hills surrounding the field. The merchants and traders used hotels and areas patrolled by armed and watchful guards. The poor rotted in hovels, working, starving, dying to be flung into the mud. The Maze was a vicious playground in which there was no law other than that of the jungle. A festering sore in which only the strong could hope to survive. 'No!'

Dumarest heard the cry as he neared the fountain and he halted, listening, eyes searching the area. Light came from scattered lanterns; floods of lambent color cast by bulbs set behind tinted panes the swaths of brightness edged with somber shadows. The fountain itself depicted three interwound figures locked in a suggestive embrace, the water rising from their juxtaposition spraying into an umbrella which fell with muted tinklings. 'No! Please, no!'

The voice again, strained, echoing its fear and terror. A high voice accompanied by the sudden pad of running feet. A quick, hard tattoo which came from beyond the fountain. 'Feld!'

A deeper voice which snapped a name and more footsteps, wider spaced and yet as hurried, which carried a man around the bulk of the fountain toward where Dumarest stood. Light rested between them, a patch of emerald which showed a peaked face with sunken eyes and a mouth which gaped above a ruff of beard. The hands, lifted, held a net and the belt hugging the waist supported a club.

A man hurrying to cut off another's escape. A woman, from the sound of the voice and the rapidity of the footsteps. Another, at least, would be following her and there could be more. Hunters after easy prey. Vultures avid to peck flesh and bone, to strip, to use, perhaps to kill and certain to maim.

'Feld!'

The running man checked as Dumarest called his name, halting to turn, frowning, the net lifting high as Dumarest lunged forward, his right hand weighed with the knife he had lifted from his boot. Nine inches of honed and pointed steel which flashed green in the light as it lifted to slash at the net the man threw at him, to drop, to lift again as the bearded mouth opened to yell. Before the alarm could be given the point had driven up beneath the jaw, pinning it to the palate, driving higher to crash through the sinus cavities and come to rest in the brain.

'Feld!' The deep voice, urgent now. 'Hurry, damn you! Get her!'

Dumarest turned, tearing free the knife as the rapid tattoo of footsteps came to a sudden halt. Backed as she was by an umber glow he could see nothing but a shape haloed with a fuzz of hair, a hand lifted as if in mute appeal, a body which cringed as he moved toward it.

'No! Dear God, no!'

'Feld?' The deep voice snarled its impatience. 'What the hell are you waiting for?'

He came from behind the woman, tall, massive, a round head set like a ball on a thickly columnar neck. The skull was coated with bristle and the ears flared in a fashion which would have been comical had he not radiated an aura of primeval savagery. He was not alone. Beside him, gliding on padded feet, was a creature almost as tall as a man, furred, high-pointed ears cocked over a sloping skull. The mouth, gaping, held pointed incisors. A mutant, the product of wild radiations which had twisted normal genes and resulted in something from nightmare. A freak but a dangerous one; Dumarest caught the gleam of retractable claws as the thing lifted its hands.

To the woman, not looking at her, Dumarest said, 'There is a dead man behind me. He has a net and a club. Get to him and use them against the mutant Move?'

If she obeyed, the furred thing would follow her, eager to prevent her escape. If she had spirit and was not totally numbed by fear she could engage its attention for long enough to give Trim time to settle the giant But, in any case, the big man had to come first.

He leaned forward as Dumarest approached, scowling, one hand lifting to his waist.