INCIDENT ON ATH

E.C. Tubb

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Chapter One

The figure was becoming far too bizarre in its depiction of pain. Thoughtfully Cornelius studied it, unsatisfied; no one locked in a personal hell of torment should present the likeness of a clown. The jaw was disproportioned and he altered it with a touch of the brush. The eyes, deeply sunken beneath flaring brows, held what could be taken for a glint of ironic amusement and the mouth, gaping, seemed to bear the ghostly vestige of a smile. Only the body gave him satisfaction; thin, gaunt, the ribs stark, the stomach a taut concavity, the musculature harshly delineated. The toes, like the fingers, were indrawn in the semblance of avian claws.

A man suspended by lashings holding his wrists to a beam. One left to die in insolation. A simple theme—what had gone wrong?

Irritably Cornelius set down his brush and examined the painting with minute care. The background, a coiling mass of amorphous vapor, was deliberately neutral as was the foreground, a raw expanse of sand and stone. The cross-beam, like those supporting it at either end, was of rough wood depicted with the same lack of fine detail in order to throw the suspended figure into greater prominence.

A man hanging, naked, lost in a universe of pain. One alone and beyond even the concept of hope. A human creature in the last stages of terminal agony. A victim. A sacrifice.

And yet, somehow, he had missed capturing the essential ingredient. To simply depict pain was not enough; there had to be an affinity between the viewer and the subject. A delicate communication which would be marred by the slightest inconsistency. Surely he had the details right?

Cornelius leaned back in his chair, thinking, blinking to sigh with vexation. No, he had not been wrong about the anatomical details. A man so suspended would have the entire weight of his body thrown in a constriction against the lungs which would require a constant effort to ensure an intake of air. Death would come by asphyxiation but before that would be the struggle to survive, muscles tensing to ease the constriction, those muscles turning into areas of screaming torment when assailed by cramps. And even when they failed to support the weight and so ease the constriction death would not come swiftly. A man could hang in such a position for days and, if provided with a block on which to support his weight, even longer.

A thought, and for a moment he considered it, then shook his head. To add a block, while enhancing the symbolism, would ruin the composition. A second cross-beam would have to be added lower down and would provide a distraction to the eye. An upright surmounted by a cross-piece would serve, but that would eliminate the frame in which the suspended man was centered. No—man was trapped in a prison and the beams were symbols of that. A cage grounded in dirt in which he could find nothing but death and pain. A limited universe which held only anguish.

But how to convey the message?

How to eliminate the distracting hints of amusement in eyes and mouth? The touch of the bizarre? The glint and twist, the subtle but damning suggestion that everything was a joke and death itself the final comedy?

“Cornelius!” The voice came from beyond the arched doorway causing little tinklings to murmur from the crystal chimes hanging beside the portal. Ursula, of course. Who else could create music from shaped and suspended fragments of glass? “Cornelius?”

She entered heralded by the whispering chimes, tall, slim, graceful as she crossed the tessellated floor to stand beside his chair. She was all in blue, a variety of shades which included her eyes, her lips, the sheen of her hair. Deep colors rising from the sandals which hugged her feet, to her cinctured waist, the swell of high and prominent breasts, paling as they rose to frame her softly rounded shoulders with azure, deepening again at her lips, her brows, the crested mane of jewel-set tresses.

“Cornelius.” Her hand fell to rest on his shoulder, long fingers tipped with richly blue nails, tinted skin a background to the gleam of gems set in wide bands of silver. Looking at the painting she said, “Another composition. It’s superb!”

“No.”

“You are too critical. That man—I can feel his pain.”

“And?” He shrugged as she frowned. “Is that all you see? A man in pain—nothing else?”

Her hesitation was answer enough. He had failed and by working on now he would only accentuate the failure. Later, when less tired, he would again examine the painting.

Rising, he applied solvent to his hands, ridding them of traces of pigments. As he worked he said, casually, “Did you enjoy your swim?”

“It was exercise.”

“And Achiab? Was he also exercise?”

“When you are hungry, Cornelius, you eat.” She turned to look at an unfinished statuette. “You were busy and I was restless. Achiab was a means of passing the time. We enjoyed an interlude, together, though, I must admit, I was disappointed. He was not as I remembered.”

“Perhaps he, too, was merely hungry?”

“Perhaps.”

“Or,” he said dryly, “maybe he was simply bored.”

She turned, stung, meeting his eyes as he finished cleaning his hands, her own eyes hard beneath the finely drawn arch of her brows. For a long moment she stared at him and then, shrugging, turned away. A whisper came from the chimes as she headed toward the door.

“Ursula—I’m sorry!”

She paused and turned, the suspended chimes catching the vibrations of her voice, providing a muted accompaniment to her accusation.

“You checked—why?”

“An accident.”

“What I do, where I go, whom I see—what are they to you?”

“It was an accident, Ursula, you must believe me.” He gestured toward the painting. “I was studying this. The figure seemed wrong and I was checking anatomical detail. And then, I suppose—”

“You checked.” Her voice cut short his words, caused tinkles to stream like liquid notes from the chimes. “You asked and pried. You had to know where I was and what I was doing. Why?” And then, before he could answer, she added, softly, “Is it because you are in love with me, Cornelius? Is that it?”

A way out and to accept it would be to save his dignity. And there could be truth in it—-why else had he wanted to know where she had been and with whom she had spent her time? A subconscious urge? An association of ideas? He glanced at the painting—no, that was ridiculous. And yet love could be considered to be a prison and the victim of the sweet madness as firmly trapped as any prisoner.

The sweet madness—why had he called it that?

“Cornelius!” She had moved to close the gap between them and now stood so close that her perfume was thick in his nostrils. A heavy, slightly acrid scent, but one which went well with the full sensuality of her lips, the sexuality of her breasts. “Why be so diffident? If you love me then why not simply say so?”

And if he wanted her the same. He had enjoyed her in the past and could again—the appetite she had spoken of was obviously still unappeased. But it was her appetite, not his. As always after working he felt drained.

“Ursula—”

“Don’t say it!” Her hand rose to touch his lips. “I understand. We have been close too long for me to take offense. You were concerned about me and the question slipped out and how could you avoid the answer? And I?” She shrugged and turned from him to pace the floor, her sandals making small, firm noises, the echoes from the chimes turning into explosive chords. “I’m bored,” she said, coming to a halt. “Bored.”

“You could find diversion.”

“What?” She waited as he thought, spoke as he blinked. “Well? What do you suggest? Gorion’s project for landscaping the southern slopes? Sagittinia and her mobiles? Mitgang’s hunt? Belzdek’s drums? Debayo and his hopes of contacting the dead?”

“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 him 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.

“Feld? Is that you? What the hell are you playing at?”

Unless he was blind he would have recognized Dumarest for a stranger so the words were to provide a distraction. Dumarest moved as the hand lifted from the belt, closing the distance between them before the weapon it held could be brought into play. Air whined as his knife slashed upward, the edge meeting the hand at the joint of the wrist, dragging, slicing through skin and fat and tendon, releasing a shower of blood, moving on as it grated against bone.

A cut which did no more than maim, but the laser fell from the numbed fingers as the giant yelled and drew back the fist of his other arm.

And yelled again as the knife, moving upward, changed direction to slash at his eyes.

Dumarest felt the tip hit the cheek, scrape over the bone and miss the eyeball by a fraction before slicing the nose. A cut which released blood but failed to blind as he’d intended. As the knife whined on its way the cocked fist slammed forward.

As he fell Dumarest heard the woman scream.

He rolled as he landed on the cobbles, rising to dodge the vicious kick the giant aimed at his face, dodging another as he regained his feet. The blow had numbed his right shoulder and would have smashed his skull had he not risen to block it and rode the punch as it landed. A chance the big man had missed and the only one Dumarest intended he should get.

“You bastard!” The man panted as he lifted his injured wrist. “You dirty bastard!”

The hand moved as he spoke, a carmine rain spraying over Dumarest’s head as he ducked and lunged, the knife a stinging extension of his arm. The giant was huge, solidly packed with muscle, resistant flesh it would be difficult to penetrate with a stab. Also he could be wearing protective clothing similar to Dumarest’s own, metal mesh buried in shielding plastic and proof against point or edge.

Where was the mutant?

Had the woman screamed because it had reached her? Was it even now tearing at her throat or had she screamed to warn him of its approach?

Dumarest lunged, cut, backed as blood spurted from the inside of one of the thick thighs. Moving to one side he saw the woman, the furred shape at her side, the gleam of the claws resting against her throat. Saw, too, the laser where it lay in the street where it had fallen from the gashed hand.

He sprang, the knife lifting, moving forward as he landed, umber and emerald flashing from the blade as it left his hand. Immediately he stooped, snatched up the laser and, turning, lifted it, his finger tightening on the release as he aimed. The ruby guide beam illuminated the scarred face, added a deeper hue to the blood seeping from cheek and nose, found the eye and ruined it as the projected heat burned its way into the brain.

As the giant fell Dumarest spun, laser lifted, finger poised on the release. His arm fell as he saw the huddled shape at the woman’s feet.

“You killed it,” she said blankly. “You threw something and it fell.”

“A knife.” He recovered it, drawing it from the throat, wiping it clean on the matted fur before thrusting it back into his boot. Are you hurt?”

“So fast,” she whispered. “You moved so fast. One second you were facing that man and then, the next, you’d turned and thrown and—” She looked at her hand, at the smears on her fingers. “Blood! It tore at my throat!”

“Scratched it,” corrected Dumarest. “The skin is barely broken. Why didn’t you use the net and the club?”

“I tried but I couldn’t seem to move fast enough. I guess I’m a coward,” she admitted. “And perhaps a fool. I was warned but—” She broke off, looking at the dead. “Why did they want to hurt me?”

“For what you are and what you carry. For fun. Even, perhaps, for food. Was this yours?”

She looked at the laser he held out to her.

“Yes. I drew it when they frightened me but one knocked it from my hand. Then I ran but they followed. If it hadn’t been for you I would have been helpless.” She shivered then said, “Please, will you take me home?”