He stumbled and saved himself from falling by catching at the bulkhead, breathing deeply for a moment before straightening and continuing the journey. Fatigue robbed his limbs of strength and caused his joints to ache. Too many days without sleep, too many screams to be quelled with the diminishing store of drugs. Charl Tao had helped but now he lay supine on his bunk, glazed eyes staring at the ceiling of his cabin, drugged with his own compounds, ebon flowers blooming on his face and chest and hands.
Haw Mayna was insane.
He sat cross-legged on the deck of the salon, a lamp burning before him, a sliver of steel in his hand. A thin- bladed knife which he heated to redness in the flame and then held firm against the blotches which marked his naked body. Each touch accompanied by the smoke and stench of burning meat.
The shriek of agony which, in his madness, had become the scream of his defiance.
'Earl!' Dephine stood beside the door, turning as Dumarest entered the compartment. 'He's crazy. Raving mad. Do something.'
'What?'
'Knock him out. Drug him. Anything.'
'He's a man,' said Dumarest. 'And he knows what he's doing.'
'Burning himself?'
'Ridding himself of corruption.' Dumarest watched as the tip of the knife grew red, smoke rising from the burned tissue adhering to the steel. 'Who knows, it may work. Nothing else seems to.'
Mayna's scream drowned her answer.
'Leave him.'
'How can we, Earl? He should be restrained. Who can tell what he might do?'
Dumarest stared at the woman, recognizing her real concern. The navigator, in delirium, could run wild, loosing his distorted fancies on the delicate construction of the vessel, destroying the sensors, the delicate guidance mechanisms on which they all depended. Which, if ruined, would leave them all to drift endlessly in a metal coffin.
'He has to be restrained, Earl. If you haven't the drugs then take care of him in some other way. Kill him if you have to, but make sure he remains quiet.'
'Kill him?'
'Why not?'
'Are you forgetting he's a sick man?'
'No, Earl, I'm not forgetting.' Her teeth gleamed white beneath her upraised lip. 'And I'm not forgetting a man on Hoghan. Your comrade-but you didn't hesitate then so why hesitate now?'
'And if you were like him?' Dumarest met her eyes. 'If you were sick and ill and needing help would you want me to be your executioner?'
'If there were no other way, Earl-yes.' She frowned as Mayna screamed again. 'At least lock him in so he can do no harm.'
Dumarest stooped as he closed the panel, lowering his head; raising it as the momentary nausea passed. He saw the look of concern on Dephine's face and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
'Earl?'
'I'll be all right.' And then, as she made to touch him, 'Don't do that!'
'Why not? What the hell difference does it make now? You're sick, Earl. You look all in. At least come and rest for a while.'
'Later. Go and see how Charl is getting on. I've work to do.'
'Earl?'
'Do it!' he snapped. 'Just do it!'
He stood watching as she moved away, trying not to yield to the sudden weakness which assailed him, the pain which clawed at every muscle.
* * * * *
The control room was locked. Dumarest pounded at the door, kicked it, then slipping the knife from his belt rammed the sharp steel between the edge and the jamb, levering until the latch snapped and the panel swung open.
From the ulterior gloom Remille said, 'Take one step over the edge and I'll burn you down.'
'Captain?'
'You heard what I said, Earl. I mean it.' The voice was thick over the rustle of heavy movement, the captain moving in his chair. 'Just stay away from me.'
'I must know-are you sick?'
'What the hell could you do about it if I am?'
'Are you?'
'What the hell do you think?' Remille's voice was bitter. 'My ship rotten with disease, my crew dead or insane, passengers evicted-yes, I'm sick. Sick of the years of struggle I've spent and all for what? Quarantine and penalties and my ship lost and that's if I'm lucky. And if I'm not-'
'You'll die,' said Dumarest. 'Is that what you want?' Remille made no answer, breathing heavily. A point of light shifted as he moved, a momentary brilliance which vanished to reappear again as he blinked an eye. A sudden flurry of activity from the tell-tales and Dumarest saw his face, strained and tense, the lifted hand and the laser it held, the finger hard against the trigger.
'I'm not coming in,' he said quickly. 'I just want to talk.' His knife was in his hand, a throw and the captain would be dead. But he was limned against the light and no man, no matter how fast his reflexes, could lift a blade, aim it, throw it with accuracy in less time than it took for another to move his finger. The captain might die, but Dumarest knew that he would die with him. And he had no intention of killing.
'To talk,' he said again. 'You know the situation. Mayna's gone insane.'
'I know.'
'Then what about the course? Did he set it and feed it into the computer or was he running it from his head?'
'You're asking do I need him anymore,' said Remille. 'The answer is no. I don't need him, but you need me. If you've any fancy ideas about taking over the Varden, forget them. It's my ship. If it goes then I go with it.'
'And if you go?' Dumarest waited; then, when he received no answer said, 'I've saved some of the drugs, Captain. Enough to put you into a casket. You could ride Low until we reach our destination. A time-trigger could be set and-'
'No.'
'You'd wake and be able to make a landing. It would give you a chance. Even if you have the disease they might be able to cure you. Life, Captain. Think of it.'
'Is that what you came here to talk about?'
'Yes.'
'Then you've wasted your time. I'm not leaving the control room. If you want to freeze yourself then go ahead, but you're not going to freeze me.'
'But-'
'Get out! I mean it, Earl, get the hell away from me. I'd rather not shoot but I will if I have to.' The heavy voice broke, the sound of breathing harsh in the gloom. 'Leave me, damn you! Leave me-and don't come back!'
The corridor spun as Dumarest stepped back from the control room. He turned, almost falling against the bulkhead, feeling the hard metal beneath his hands. He rested his forehead on it, leaning forward as sweat ran from his face to drip on the deck. A sudden flood, of perspiration born of the tide of pain which rose to engulf him, a searing, acid-like fire which turned every nerve into a channel of torment.
Dimly he heard the slam of a panel, smelt the scent of burning metal. The laser welding shut the control room door. If he was to die Remille intended to die alone.
Dumarest drew air into his lungs and slowly straightened. His head ached and he felt a little dizzy but the pain had lessened a little as if the very fury of its onslaught had numbed feeling. He took three steps down the passage, cannoned into a wall, took three more and almost fell. Grimly he regained his balance. As if from a far distance he
