WEB OF SAND

E.C. Tubb

www.sfgateway.com

Enter the SF Gateway …

In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

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Chapter One

Marta Caine had a singing jewel which she took from its box and held cupped in her palms as she stood in the salon of the Urusha.

“From Necho,” she said, her eyes on the crystal. “I bought it when young and have carried it with me ever since. A long time now. Too long.”

“It looks dull,” said Kemmer. “Dead.”

“It’s fatigued.”

“Why haven’t we seen it before?” Grish Mettalus leaned forward from where he stood behind Chai Teoh. Like the girl, he was tall, slim, eyes slanted beneath narrow brows but where her face held a high-boned delicacy his features bore a broad and flattened stamp. “You are unkind, Marta. The gem would have helped relieve our boredom.”

“As I said, it is tired.” The veined hands seemed to press reassuringly against the crystal cupped in the palms. “I have kept it cooped in darkness too long. When we reach Fendris I shall set it on a high and open place where it can feed on sunlight and starlight, be caressed by soft breezes and laved with gentle rains. Then it will regain its vitality and become young again.” Bitterness edged her voice. “Would to God that it was as easy for others to restore their beauty.”

“You are beautiful enough,” said Kemmer with heavy gallantry. “With a warmth no stone can possess.”

“You are kind to say so, Maurice—but my mirror tells a different story.”

“Mirrors can lie. The beauty of a woman is more than a patina of skin. It is the need within her, the spirit, the response she creates in those who watch her walk and talk and smile. A thing of the heart. Am I not right, Earl?”

Dumarest nodded, making no comment as he watched the jewel cupped in the woman’s hands. It no longer looked gray and dull like flawed glass but had gained an inner luminescence as, triggered by the metabolic heat and stimulation of flesh, it responded in vibrant light and sound. The glow became brighter, splintered in a sudden mass of broken rainbows which filled the salon with swaths of drifting color, a kaleidoscopic brilliance which gave the chairs, the tables and fittings a transient and enticing magic. And as with the furnishings so those who stood bathed in the splendor now streaming from the jewel; Kemmer, suddenly no longer the gross trader he was but now a figure of dignity as the harsh and somber shape of Carl Santis the mercenary took on hints of a chivalry he had never known from a tradition he had never suspected. Mettalus, the girl standing before him, Dumarest who now wore a shattered spectrum to decorate his face and hair and clothing. But of them all Marta was the most transfigured.

She stood like a priestess of some esoteric cult, hands lifted now, the effulgence of the jewel bathing her uplifted face and robbing it of the scars and marks of time. The skin had smoothed, the mesh of lines marring the flesh at the corners of the eyes lost in flattering glows. The lips had gained fullness, the chin liberated from sagging tissue, the bones of cheeks prominent above exotic concavities. The nose had thinned, become arrogant in haughty affirmation of youthful pride, age and dissolution stripped away to show the girl she once had been. The hair, too, had changed, now displaying glints and glimmers of vibrant hues, of sheens and enticing softness.

The light gave her beauty and she drank it and returned it through the touch of her hands, the emitted nervous tensions of her body which stimulated the symbiote she held into a higher plane of existence.

Chai Teoh gasped as it began to sing. “Grish! What—”

“Be silent, girl!” Santis rasped the command. “Be still!”

His tone held the snap of one accustomed to obedience, but more imperious in its demand for attention was the song of the jewel itself. It lifted, keening, undulating, a note of crystalline purity which penetrated skin and bone and muscle to impact on the nerves and brain and the raw stuff of emotion itself. A song without words and without a predictable pattern but one which held love and hope and joy and all the promise there ever could be and all the happiness ever imagined.

“God!” Kemmer’s whisper was a prayer as he stood, tears streaming over his rounded cheeks. “God—dear God!”

A man lost in the past or dreaming of what he had known or touched by a gentleness hitherto unsuspected and frightening in its overwhelming tenderness. He did not weep alone. The face of Chai Teoh glistened with moist color, shimmering pearls falling unheeded from the line of her jaw as she stood lost in a radiant pleasure. As Santis stood, his scarred face a prison for his eyes, the eyes wells of somber introspection.

Mettalus said, “This is fantastic! I’ve never—”

“Be silent!” snapped the mercenary. “Hold your tongue!”

His scowl deepened as the singing faltered and then, reluctantly, faded to quaver and finally to cease leaving a silence so intense that it could almost be felt as a tangible presence. As the sound died so the shimmering colors diminished, closing in to form a luminescent cloud, a ball, a tinge on the surface of the crystal, a memory.

For a long moment Marta Caine held her poise then, slowly, she lowered her hands to stand looking at the dull surface of the gem. Robbed of its magic she looked as she was, a woman too old for comfort, one who had lived hard and who showed it. The face, lax, showed the marks of cheap cosmetic surgery; subtle distortions of ill-matched implants giving her a pathetically clownish appearance. Her hair looked like the graft it was. Her eyes when she finally raised her head, betrayed her misery.

For a moment only and then the mask reappeared, the hard cynicism which was her defense against misfortune and her shield against derision.

“Well? Did you like it?”

“It was superb!! Chai Teoh dabbed at her eyes. “So wonderful! I felt as if—oh, how can I explain?”

Grish Mettalus was direct. “How much?”

“For what?”

“For the jewel, of course, what else? I want it. How much?”

“It isn’t for sale.”

“And if it were I would buy it,” said Kemmer. “Marta, you have been most gracious. I think I speak on behalf of us all when I thank you for having let us share the pleasure given by your jewel. From Necho, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Necho.” Kemmer pursed his lips. “A long way from here but, perhaps, not too far if a high profit is to be made. Your home world?”

“No.” Gently she restored the jewel to its box. “I was born on Lurus. My people owned a farm but the climate changed and what was once fertile ground turned into desert. A solar imbalance—” She shrugged. “The details are of no importance. I was young and decided to help as best I could. I traveled—it’s an old story.”

And one printed on her face. The mercenary said, “Did you ever return?”

“Does anyone?” The lid snapped shut on the box. “Did you?”

“No.”

“Nor I,” said Kemmer. “How about you, Earl?” He smiled as Dumarest shook his head. “Once we leave the nest it quickly loses its attraction. Sometimes we choose to dream of a childhood more pleasant than it really was and of a life garnished with false tinsel, but when it comes to it who would go back home if given the chance?” He shrugged, not waiting for an answer. “Well, how now to pass the time? Some cards?”

The Urusha was a small vessel, a free-trader plying on the edge of the Rift, and the passengers were left to entertain themselves. No real hardship with planets close and quick-time turning weeks into days, the drug slowing the metabolism and relieving the tedium of the journey. But even so boredom was an enemy and one to be combatted. Grish Mettalus had found his own method, making it plain he regarded Chai Teoh as his personal property and she, for reasons of her own, had not objected.

Marta grunted as they left the salon. “The girl’s a fool. She is selling herself too cheaply.”

“How can you know that?” Kemmer dealt cards and turned one over. “A jester. Match, beat or defer?” He watched as they made their bets, small amounts as to whether their own cards could show a value equal, higher or lower than the one exposed. A variant of High, Low, Man-In-Between. “You win, Carl. Well?” He looked at the woman. “How do you know?”

“I’ve ears. He paid her passage and has promised her an apartment on Fendris. Promises!” She echoed her contempt.

“So they come to nothing,” said the trader. “But she has still earned passage.”

“And could gain more.” Santis scowled at his card lying face down on the table. “A settlement, perhaps. Even marriage. On a journey like this a girl could make a man her own. Mettalus is young and impressionable despite his cultivated air of sophisticated indifference, and the girl has charm.”

“But no brains.” Marta thinned her lips as, again, she lost. “And you’re mistaken about Mettalus. He’s older than he seems. Right, Earl?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me. You’d know and so would you, Carl, if you took the trouble to look. I can spot it—the way he stands, moves, walks. The way he acts. Young? He’s old enough to be her father!”

“And so would make a better prize.” Kemmer smiled as he dealt a new round. “There is no fool like an old fool and I speak from experience. But what are a few years between lovers? Age brings experience and a certain degree of tolerance. Matched to youth it can have a beneficial effect. Some cultures realize that. On Richemann, for example, no girl is permitted to marry a man less than twenty years older than herself and no man a woman less than twenty years younger. That way all gain the benefit of both worlds; when young you match with age, when old you enjoy youth. Sometimes I think I will settle there.”

“Why don’t you?”

“The journey is long and I not too fond of unripe fruit.”

“You degenerate swine!” Her words were hard but she smiled as she spoke them and Dumarest knew she was joking. Knew too that she and the trader had both found comfort in each other’s arms.

He said, “Have any of you made this journey before?”

“From Elgish to Fendris?” Kemmer shook his head. “Marta? How about you, Carl?”

“Once—some time ago now.” The mercenary frowned, thinking, remembering. “It seemed shorter than this.”

“Shorter? You think something is wrong?” Marta Caine was genuinely afraid. They were in the Rift and in the Rift danger was always close. “Maurice! Earl! Carl—are you sure?”

“No, how can I be?” He bridled beneath her urgency. “It was years ago. But if you’re worried I’ll ask the steward.”

“No,” said Dumarest. “We’ll ask the captain.”

Frome matched his ship, a small, hard man with filed teeth over which his lips fitted like a trap. He scowled as he came to the door leading into the control room.

“You’re off limits. Return to the salon at once.”

“Willingly, Captain, as soon as you have eased our minds.” Dumarest kept his voice casual. “We are a little concerned about the delay. Is something wrong with the ship?”

“No.”

“I’m glad to hear it. The ladies were anxious. Then it’s true we are being diverted? The steward mentioned—”

“What he shouldn’t have done.” Unthinkingly the captain fell into the trap. “The fool should have known better than to relay ship-business to passengers.”

Dumarest said, flatly, “Our business too, Captain. Where are we heading?”

“Harge.”

“Harge?” Carl Santis thrust himself forward, his face ugly. “I booked to Fendris. I can’t afford the delay.”

“You leave the ship on Harge. You all leave it.”

Dumarest dropped his hand to the mercenary’s arm, feeling the tense muscle as he restrained Santis’s lunge. Frome was armed, a laser holstered at his waist, one hand resting close to the butt—an unusual addition to any captain’s uniform and a sure sign that he anticipated trouble. The navigator too was armed. He stood back in the control room, his weapon aimed at the group beyond the door.

Kemmer snapped, “That isn’t good enough. I demand an explanation.”

“Demand?” Frome bared his pointed teeth. “Demand?”

The trader had courage. “A deal was made, passage booked, money handed over. A high passage to Fendris. That’s what I paid for and that’s what I want.”

“What you paid for was passage to my next planet of call and that’s exactly what you’re getting.”

“You—”

“It should have been Fendris,” said Dumarest quickly. Kemmer was about to lose his temper and, once antagonized, the captain would tell them nothing. He might even use his laser—Frome was the type. “But in space things can happen,” continued Dumarest evenly. “The unexpected and the dangerous and the more so when in the Rift. Is that what happened, Captain? Some danger you had to avoid?”

“A warp,” said Frome after a moment. “We hit one and it created strain in the generator. To proceed to Fendris would be to take too big a risk. That’s why I headed for Harge.” He added, “We’d have landed by now if it hadn’t been for the storm.”

The girl was careless, setting down the cup with too great a force so that the delicate china rang and a little tisane slopped from the container to puddle in the saucer. A puddle she quickly removed with the hem of her dress but the damage had been done and the very act of cleaning the mess had been an affront. To use the hem of her dress! The action of a common strumpet in a low tavern or of a slut from the Burrows!

“My lady, will that be all?”

“Yes.” Even the thick tones of the girl created irritation. “No! Take the cup away. The saucer too, you fool! And change into a clean dress.”

And, she thought, for God’s sake learn how to act like a product of civilization instead of an ignorant, stupid peasant. Words she left unsaid as the girl picked up the tisane and hurried it from the room. Alone Ellain Kiran stared at the window.

A swirling brown grayness stared back.

An illusion, of course, the dust didn’t possess eyes but always when looking at the wind-blown grains she could see them; the eyes of the dead, the eyes of those who would die and were even now dying. And other eyes, less human, those of the inimical forces which created the storms, the dust, the death it carried. The hatred of nature for man and his works. The eyes of a thing bent on destruction.

And yet, still, it held a strange and tormented beauty.

It drew her closer, naked feet padding over the tufted carpet, her gown rustling as the fabric dragged over the surface of a low table, small chimes spilling from disturbed bells. A tintinnabulation she ignored as, halting, she stared at the smooth curve of the plastic, the fury of the storm beyond.

The air, the dust, all were joined in seething turmoil. Winds sweeping from the distant mountains, lifting sands from the deserts, catching them, driving them in a composite whole. Grains of silica, basalt, granite, manganese. Crystalline particles formed of minute rubies, agates, diamonds, emeralds. The detritus of ancient cataclysms which had taken the mineral wealth of Harge and pulverized it and spread it wide and far to be the sport of surging winds. Crystals each facet of which were knives, each point a needle. Carried by the winds at fantastic velocities, they scoured the world.

Nothing unprotected could live a moment in such a blast. Even the toughest suit and thickest pane would fret and wear and shred into particles. Cracks would form, widen, open to expose the skin and flesh and muscle beneath. A moment and it would be ripped away by the ravening fury of countless minute teeth. Even now men lost in the storm could be dying, screaming as the acid of the blast flayed them raw, turning them into grinning parodies of men before even bone and teeth vanished with the rest.

The thought created a tension in her loins and she shuddered, drawing a deep breath, inflating her chest as she stared at the fury beyond the window. The pane itself was unmarked, protected from the scouring dust by an electronic field which kept the particles at bay. An expensive installation but one Yunus could afford. As he could afford so much.

She looked down and saw her hand, the fingers spread, the skin pale in the soft light from the room. Yunus Ambalo, a member of the Cinque; the five families which owned Harge. The Ambalo, Yagnik, Khalil, Barrocca and Tinyeh owning water, food, power, accommodation and transportation. On Harge you lived by their sufferance or you didn’t live at all.

The hand had closed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm and in imagination she could feel that same hand closed around her body, holding her, tightening, making her a helpless prisoner of the Cinque. How long could she retain even a fraction of personal integrity? How long before she turned into something as coarse and crude as the girl who had served her?

Outside the dust turned black, lights brightening within the room, the pane becoming a mirror holding her reflection. An image taken from a tapestry; tall, the oval face slashed with a generous mouth betraying in its sensuosity, the eyes, deep-set, vividly green. The hair which hung like a cascade of flame, ruby tints reflected from cheeks and chin and the long column of her throat. The body hugged by gossamer fabrics, the fullness of breasts and hips emphasized by the narrow waist.

“Beautiful! Ellain, my darling, you are beautiful!”

Another image joined her own in the reflective pane, this taken from a frieze; the face of stone, flared nostrils, a cleft chin, a dark mass of hair tightly curled on a peaked skull, the nose aquiline, arrogant, proud. A man taller than herself who stepped close to stand behind her, arms circling her body, the hands rising, cupped, toward her breasts.

Hands which closed to rest on her shoulder blades as she turned to look up into his smiling face, seeing the smile turn into a frown, the amber eyes blaze then turn cold as, deftly, she slipped from the circle of his embrace.

“No, Yunus.”

“You object? But why? May not a man appreciate beauty?”

“From a distance, yes.”

“This to me?” Again a controlled anger burned in the catlike eyes. “Is the past so easily forgotten?”

“The past is just that—the past.” She moved from the window as the cloud of ebon dust yielded to a swirl of paler hue; chalk white touched with scabrous gray laced with somber umber flecked with pearl. “You presume too much.”

“Presume?” His gesture embraced the room, the soft furnishings, the things of value which graced the surfaces of small tables, pedestals, cabinets. Statuettes, carved gems, small figurines some in suggestively erotic poses, others screaming in silent agony. In a bowl stood crystalline flowers with petals exuding an induced scent; rich, heavy and sensuous odors which hung like fragrant clouds over the shimmering petals. “Must I remind you to whom this belongs?”

“You own the room,” she admitted. “The whole, damned apartment and everything in it. But never make the mistake of thinking you own me.”

A matter he could have argued but knew better than to press the point. Later, perhaps, when his interest had waned and she annoyed him too much with her stubborn independence, but not now. Now it pleased him to be gracious, acting the sophisticate, crossing the room with casual indifference to pour wine from a crystal decanter into goblets engraved with interwound figures of classical proportions.

“The storm,” he said gently. “Always you are like this during a storm. And yet your very anger accentuates your loveliness. And I? I cannot help but to respond.”

“You flatter me, Yunus.”

“When has truth ever been flattery?” Smiling, he handed her one of the goblets. “Come, let us drink to a cessation of hostilities between us. To your beauty, my dear! May it never wane!”

A toast in which she could join—God help her should she ever grow ugly. The thought of it made her swallow the wine, feeling its warm comfort as it ran down her throat to blossom in her stomach. His smile grew wider as she handed him the empty container.

“More?”

“No.” She touched her throat, long fingers caressing the larynx, the silken sheen of the skin. “If I am to perform I must stay in condition. I assume you want me to perform?”

“Of course. But—”

“Don’t be tiresome, Yunus. Your generosity has bought my voice, not the use of my body.” She saw the sudden tension of muscle at the edge of his jaw, the tautening of the skin over the knuckles of the hand which held his goblet. Quickly she added, “I’m sorry. The wine, the storm—please forgive me!”

For a moment she thought that, this time, she had gone too far, and cursed herself for her stupidity. To have called such a man tiresome! The insult was enough for him to take a vicious revenge. To have her taken and stripped and staked out on the sand. To let the wind-driven dust flay her alive. To turn the beauty he professed to admire into a shrieking nightmare of bloody horror.

Why had she been such a fool?

“You will forgive me, Yunus?” Then, as he made no answer, she continued, “Where do you wish me to sing? Here? At a private assembly? In public?”

“Not in public.” Slowly he set down the goblet. Straightening, he turned to face her and she noticed the hard cruelty of his mouth, the implacable anger in his eyes. “I had intended for you to entertain a few selected guests; those who have the sensitivity and understanding to appreciate your talent. Now I am not sure if it would be wise.”

“Because of what I said?” She guessed the answer and knew, with sudden insight, that to crawl now would be a mistake. “I did not say you were tiresome, Yunus, I asked you not to be. A foolish remark, perhaps, but hardly the cause for such annoyance. From a child I would have expected such a tantrum but not from a grown man. And even less from a man of your sophistication.” Her laughter was the chiming of bells. “Come, my dear, let us drink again.”

“And risk your purity of tone?”

“For you, yes. Please?”

She relaxed as he poured the wine, enjoying her triumph, enjoying too, now that it was over, the battle and danger she had tasted, the risk she had run. A small risk, perhaps, even Yunus would hardly dare face the displeasure of the Cinque by taking such a personal revenge as she had imagined, but, if driven too far, he would defy the universe and do or have it done.

And, always, she had enjoyed playing with fire.

She smiled as she took the proffered goblet and turned as she sipped to face the window. The dust was thin now, gusting, forming plumes as the dying wind released its hold. Already the maintenance crews would be busy with scoops and blowers to clear the vents and ports. More would be using heavy-duty lasers to fuse the sides of dunes and form paths, to support threatening masses and hold the dust in the configurations it had adopted. Temporary measures—the next storm would negate all they could do.

“You will sing,” he said as he joined her. “Three songs and I leave it to you to determine which they shall be.” A command—his tone softened as she nodded. “And afterward we can enjoy other entertainment. Sabinnus has a new dancer.”

“A rival?”

“No, my dear, you are beyond compare. In any case she lacks grace. He found her in the Burrows, so I understand, or at least that is what he says. It adds to her attraction.” He added, casually, “She dances between blades of naked steel.”

And those watching would be eager for her to cut feet and legs, more interested in the spectacle of blood rather than a display of art. Ellain lifted the goblet and drank the last of the wine. The sting of alcohol would lull her precision a little but only an expert would notice the loss of purity. Those she had been ordered to entertain would be more interested in her body than her voice. The scarlet gown, then? The color would accentuate that of her hair or, no, it would be better to complement it rather than provide a match. Green, then? Or the tunic of gold which gave full revealment to her legs? Or something simple yet enticing in dusty black?

“Ellain?”

“I was thinking, trying to decide what to wear at your party. It is a party?”

“More of an assembly. A few friends to discuss certain matters of mutual interest. You will provide a diversion.”

The black then, the bodice arranged so as to display her bosom, the skirt adjusted to show her thigh through the slit—old tricks which twisted her lips in a reminiscent smile. How old Teen Veroka, her music teacher and singing master, would have raved at such a blatant display. But he was on another world, probably dead by now, and she had long since learned the value of such exhibitionism. But to dress well she needed a maid.

Yunus shrugged when she mentioned it. “You have a maid. A new girl.”

“A clumsy fool. What does she know of how to dress hair? To arrange a gown? What happened to Julie?” She saw his face turn blank in the fading mirror of the window. “Never mind. You will find someone capable? I want to look my best for your friends.”

“I shall attend to it”

“And after the assembly? You mentioned entertainment.”

He smiled, knowing her needs, his voice a purr to match the amber of his eyes as, leaning close, he whispered in her ear.

“Anything you wish, my darling. Men stripped and sweating as they wrestle for a prize. Others pounding at each other with metal gloves? Women wagering their skill against a score of rodents.” Pausing, he let the images build. “Blood and pain,” he whispered. “The arena?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes!”

Her goblet fell to join his on the floor as his hands rose, cupped, rising to her breasts. And this time she did not turn from the embrace.