men firing into the air-it doesn't matter.'
'Lofoten-the bastard!'
'I don't think he knew until the end.'
'He wanted to come with us, Earl. To escape.'
Perhaps, but he could have had another reason. And no sane man would willingly have placed himself in the position they were now in. It took a few moments for the woman to realise it.
'Earl! If the steward contracted the disease?'
'He died of it.'
'But where? Here in the ship? Even if he didn't actually die in the vessel he could have brought it into the Varden with him. He slept here. And Remille. He didn't want to stay. He wouldn't even answer the radio-summons. He must have guessed that the authorities on Hoghan intended to seize the ship and place it in quarantine. And we thought they were, worried about a little loot. A mess.' She looked at her hands, they were trembling, little shimmers darting from her nails. 'And you, Earl. You were in the warehouse where that officer fell sick. You could have touched what he did. Even now-'
'Yes,' said Dumarest. 'It's possible.'
'My God, Earl! What should we do?'
'Get the captain. Let him see what we've found then dump the crates into space.'
'And?'
'Wait,' he said grimly. 'And, if you've a mind to, pray.'
Chapter Five
Allia Mertrony did the praying, kneeling before a disc of polished brass, the bright orb wreathed in plumes of fuming incense. Her voice was a high, keening ululating chant, echoing from the bulkheads, scratching at the nerves.
'Listen to her!' Charl Tao scowled as he faced Dumarest in the corridor. 'Can't you put a stop to it, Earl? Praying's one thing but this howling is getting me down.'
'It's her way.'
'Maybe, but it isn't mine.' Chart rubbed the backs of his hands, a common gesture now, as was the quick glance he gave them. 'A pity she had to know.'
Dumarest said, flatly, 'She had the right.'
'And she would have found out anyway.' Charl shook his head as the sound rose to grate at the ears. 'Who would have thought an old crone like that had such powerful lungs? It comes with practice, I suppose, Earl?'
'Nothing.'
'As yet.' Charl rubbed his hands again, halting the gesture with an obvious effort. 'To hell with it. If it gets me, it gets me. Come to my cabin later, I've a special bottle we might as well share while we can enjoy it.'
'Later,' said Dumarest.
He walked through the ship, stood in the hold, totally empty now aside from the caskets used to transport beasts and which, more often than not, held men. Those traveling Low, doped, frozen and ninety per cent dead, risking the fifteen per cent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. He had ridden that way too often, watching the lid close firmly over his face, sinking into oblivion and thinking as blackness closed around him, 'this time… ?'
A gamble he had won so far, but no luck could last forever.
Aside from the lack of crates nothing seemed to have changed. The same, blue-white light streamed down from the bulbs and threw the stained paint and shabby furnishings into sharp relief.
As familiar a scene as were the cabins, the salon, the corridors and appointments of the ship. As was the faint vibration of the Erhaft field which sent the vessel hurtling through space. He had traveled on a hundred such ships and worked on many of them. They were a form of home, a pattern into which he could fit. But the Varden was different now. Something had been added. Something small, invisible, unknown.
The threat of the final illness.
Each had met it in their own way.
To Allia Mertrony it was a time for prayer. God was good and would help, but first God had to be aroused and informed of her need. Lars would see to that. Ten years dead now he would be waiting. Drifting in a state akin to sleep, until she should join him, so that together they could continue their journey into the infinite. A mating for life and eternity, so her sect was convinced, and two-thirds of her life had been spent making certain she had found the right man. The cap she wore to hide the temptation of her hair was a public announcement that she was sworn to another.
The bulkheads quivered to the force of her wordless ululations.
The disc before which she knelt was not an idol but a focus for her thoughts. The incense was a sacrifice blessed by tradition. Her prayers were to inform Lars of her condition, to prepare him for her coming if that was to be. To wake him to intercede on her behalf. Not to be saved, for death was inevitable, and to live beyond the allotted span a sin, but to die bravely. So let there be no pain. Let her face and figure escape further ravishment, not for the sake of pride but for the dignity a man expected in his mate.
Soon now, soon-if God willed, they would be together.
In the engine room the handler and the engineer sat at their board playing endless games of chess, snarling at any who came to close. Firm in a limited area of isolation, they ate food from cans and drank from bottles sealed with heavy gobs of wax. Nurtured stores bought with past gains; small luxuries which normally would have been doled out a little at a time, now used with wanton extravagance for a double reason. Sealed they would be uncontaminated, used they would not be wasted.
Dephine remained in her cabin, taking endless mist-showers, anointing her body with salves Charl provided, adorning herself with the gems they had found.
She turned as Dumarest entered the cabin, tall, sparkling with jewels and precious metal. Her hair, dressed, provided a cradle for the tiara. The earrings fell from her ears to almost touch her shoulders. At throat and wrists reflected light shone with the lurid glow of trapped fires, green and red, amber and azure, the clear blue of sapphires, the splintered glow of diamonds.
Slamming the door he said, 'You fool!'
'Why? Because I like what we found?' She turned before him, her dress stained, the jewels making her appear tawdry and, somehow, cheap.
'What if someone else had come into the cabin?'
'They wouldn't. I had it locked.'
'You didn't.'
'Then I forgot. But who would dare to walk in like you did? No one owns me, Earl. Not even you.'
He said, cruelly, 'The Lady Dephine de Monterale Keturah. A woman who comes from a family which values pride above all. Isn't that what you told me?'
'So?'
'They should see you now. Not even the cheapest harlot would dress herself like that.'
'You bastard!'
He caught her hands as they rose towards his face, halting the nails as they stabbed towards his eyes, his fingers hard around her wrists, tight against the bone. She strained, spat into his face, jerked up a knee in a vicious blow to the groin. He twisted, taking it on the thigh, then pushed her back and away to slam hard against the far wall.
'Do that again and you'll regret it,' he said coldly.
'You'd do what-slice off my fingers?' Her sneer turned to trepidation as she looked at his face, saw the cold eyes, the mouth grown suddenly cruel. 'You'd do it,' she said. 'You'd really do it.'
He said nothing, wiping the spittle off his cheek.
'Earl!' Afraid now, she was contrite. 'I-you shouldn't have said what you did. You had no right.'
'Look at yourself, woman!' Catching her shoulder he turned her to face the full-length mirror. 'Dressed in gems looted from the dead. Have you no sense?'
'They didn't come from the dead! Earl, you know that! They were in a separate cache. I-' She broke off, a hand lifting to touch the tiara. 'You don't think that girl wore this before she died? Some cultures destroy personal
