E.C Tubb - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun
Dumarest followed Navalok as the boy guided him to a room which stank of chemicals. A dimly lit place containing stone slabs set on a stone floor, runnels channelling the flags and leading to a drain. A second chamber held a great vat of noxious liquid in which naked bodies like flensed beasts floated beneath the surface, held down by broad straps weighted with lead.
An old man, armed with a long wooden paddle, stirred the liquid and held up a hand to cup an ear as the boy shouted at him.
"Who? Galbrene? He isn't ready yet."
"I know. Where is he?"
"Waiting presentation. In the annex." The man thrust his paddle irritably into the liquid. "Hasn't a man enough to do without young fools asking stupid questions? Get on your way, now. Move before I splash you!"
Galbrene lay in a smaller room, one scented with floral perfumes and lit by the gentle glow of yellow lamps. He rested supine on a wooden table, a decorated cloth covering his body, his hands crossed over his chest. In the soft lighting he seemed to be asleep.
"Earl?"
"Leave me," said Dumarest.
"But-"
"There is something I must do." And then, with quick invention, "A homage I must make to ease myself of the burden of his anger. It is a custom of my people."
And explanation enough to anyone born into a culture obsessed by tradition and ritual.
As Navalok padded from the room Dumarest leaned forward and studied the body. The damage to the eye had been masked and the nose set straight. The blood, sweat and ofl had been washed away and, aside from a slight puffiness of the lips and the dark mottle of bruises on the throat the man looked unharmed.
A jerk and the covering fell away to leave the dead man naked.
Slowly Dumarest inspected him, turning over the body and lifting the arms. He found it beneath the left shoulder-blade, a small, dark-edged puncture, one which could have been made with a heavy bodkin. He leaned close and sniffed at it, pressed the surrounding flesh with his thumbs and sniffed again. A wound too small to have attracted attention and those who had washed and prepared him had no reason to search for anything unusual. Even if they had spotted it it would have meant nothing to them.
Navalok was waiting in the room containing the stone couches. One was occupied now by the body of a young woman, the soft flesh marred by wounds in the stomach and chest.
"The Lady Sepranene," explained Navalok. "They've just brought her in. She challenged the Lady Glabana and wouldn't listen to good advice. She insisted it should be without armor and she had the right."
"To die?"
"To insist. Glabana, so she claimed, was making advances to her lover. The act wasn't denied and after she had publicly accused the woman a challenge was inevitable."
Dumarest said, dryly, "Of course."
Navalok caught the tone and was quick to defend the dead girl.
"She had no choice, Earl. Glabana slapped her face in public. She could have drawn and fired then and the act would have been justified but she adhered to the code."
And died defending a brittle honor. Dumarest looked at the young face wreathed in twisted curls, the lissom lines of the lush figure and his lips thinned at the waste.
Watching him Navalok said, "You don't approve, do you? Is that why you're not wearing Galbrene's badges?"
"There would be no point."
"But-"
"What will happen to her now? The dead girl, I mean."
"She will be cleansed and prepared as Galbrene was prepared. After she has lain in the chapel she will be treated before taking her place in the Hall of Dreams." He glanced to where the old man stirred the fluid in the open vat. "It will take several days."
Time enough for the chemicals to penetrate the tissue, to harden soft fibers and dissolve points of potential corruption. To seal the flesh in a film of plastic, perhaps, or to petrify it, to protect the body against the ravages of time.
To produce monuments to the dead.
They rested in the great hall of the adjoining chamber, massed ranks of them, men and women placed to either side of a central aisle. They faced the external doors, now closed, empty space stretching before them, the plain stone floor fitted with benches to take the anticipated burdens. The bodies of those who would, inevitably, die.
"The Hall of Dreams," whispered Navalok. "Each of them gained his or her trophy which is why there are no children. All died honorably, some of age, most of wounds, but none ever disgraced the Family. Here they sit and dream for eternity."
Lifelike figures who sat and stared with open eyes, the flicker of lights dancing and giving them the appearance of life. Eyes which seemed to follow Dumarest and his guide as he stepped forward between the benches to stand in the central aisle. Curiously he studied the figures to either side.
A man, one elbow resting on his knee, his hands gnarled, the fingers curled, the gleam of a ring bright against the withered flesh.
"A victor," whispered Navalok. "One who later died of his wounds."
Another who leaned back, head a little turned as if listening to a voice from behind. A third who looked as if he might be coughing. A fourth who, with lifted hand, tugged at an ear.
And the women were similar in their staged actions; one smoothing her gown, another picking at a thread, a third who, with pursed lips, gave the appearance of blowing a kiss.
Hundreds of them, thousands, the vastness of the hall was packed with mummified figures.
Dust rose beneath Dumarest's boots as he walked towards the shadowed rear of the hall. The stone of the walls changed its nature, became striated with minerals, grained and mottled with time. The air too held an acrid scent, one of dust and stagnation. Reaching out he touched a figure, caught it as it fell. It was surprisingly light. The clothing it wore crumpled to powder beneath his hand.
"Earl! Be careful!"
Dumarest ignored the admonitory whisper from his companion. He looked from the back of the hall to the figures seated lower down towards the doors. Their clothing had altered little, a static culture froze fashion as it did everything eke, but some differences were obvious.
As it was obvious that those who had been placed in the far end of the chamber were old. Old with the crawl of centuries, of millennia.
Navalok gestured to where a small group occupied a raised platform. "The Elders of the First," he whispered. "They are of those who first came to Emijar."
It was natural to whisper, the ranks of silent bodies seemed to be listening, and the atmosphere of the place held a brooding solemnity. Dumarest strode to the platform, stepped onto it, leaned forward with narrowed eyes to study the figures it contained.
The light was bad, dim from suspended globes and dulled with accumulated dust, but it was enough for him to distinguish the motive each wore on their garments; a disc surrounded by tapering spikes.
"What is this?"
Navalok craned his head and followed the finger pointing at the yellow fabric.
"I don't know, Earl. It had something to do with their religion, I think. That device was worn by the Guardians of the Sun."
The sun?
The sun!
Had they known only one?
Dumarest looked at the silent figures, the contours of their faces, the shape of their heads. Compared with Navalok the differences were slight but unmistakable. If priests they may not have married and their genes would have been lost to the common pool. A select group, then, guarding an esoteric secret?
He said, "In your studies, Navalok, did you learn from where the original settlers came?"
"From another planet, Earl. Where else?"
"Its name?"
"I don't know. The records were lost in a fire shortly after the First Families made Emijar their home. In fact nothing is left of them aside from the things in the Shrine and those-"
He broke off as if conscious of having said too much, a fact Dumarest noticed but ignored. Later, if at all, would be the time to press.
"The Shrine, boy," he said. "Take me to the Shrine."
The journey was not long but each step had been taken before many times in other places and, always, such journeys had led to disappointment. A quest which seemed to have no end. A mystery which had yet to be solved. A world lost as if it had never been and yet he knew that it existed and was to be found. Would be found given time and the essential clue. The one fact which would supply the coordinates and guide him back home.
Would fate, this time, be kind?
"Earl?" Navalok was worried at his silence, his expression. "Have I offended you?"
"No."
"If I have it was without intent. No insult was implied in anything I may have done or said. If for any reason you have cause to feel offense then I apologies, humbly and without reservation. Please, Earl. You must believe that."
"I believe it." Dumarest turned to look at the anxious face and smiled. "How could you insult me? We're friends, aren't we?"
"Friends?" Navalok blinked.
"Of course." Dumarest dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Didn't you want for us to be friends?"
"Yes," Navalok stammered. "Oh, yes, Earl. I-I'd like that very much."
A smile and a few words, cheap to give but what seed could bear a richer harvest? Those who took a perverse pleasure in deriding the unfortunate lost more than they knew and risked more than they imagined. No human being, no matter how insignificant, can safely be demeaned. Always there is present the danger of restraints snapping, of self-control giving way beneath the impact of one insult too many. Of pride and the need to be an individual bursting out in a tide of relentless fury.
A thing Dumarest had learned early in life but which Lekhard had not.
He straightened from where he leaned against a wall his voice, like his face, holding a sneer.
"Well, Earl, as I guessed, you find our little freak entertaining. There is, of course, no accounting for tastes, but surely there are others more suited to your whims?" His gesture made his meaning plain. His laughter, devoid of humor, made it obscene.
Dumarest felt the boy tense at his side, the sound of his sharp inhalation, and cursed the unfortunate meeting. To maintain the newly formed friendship he would have to act in a manner which the boy expected which, in this society, meant only one thing.
He said, curtly, "What do you want, Lekhard?"
"I? Nothing, not from you or from any man." Lekhard stressed the gender. "But Dephine was anxious and asked me to look for you. It would be best if you hurried back to your mistress."
Another insult to add to the rest. Dumarest studied the man, saw the way he stood, the way in which his hand rested near the butt of his gun, the expression in his eyes. One he had seen before across countless rings. The look of a man enamored with the desire to kill.
Quietly he said, "Navalok, instruct me. How do I challenge this man?"
"Earl! You carry no gun!"
"Answer my question."
"He has." Lekhard moved from where he stood and halted a few feet from the couple. "Until you have proved yourself you have no right to issue a challenge. The killing of Galbrene makes no difference. It was the act of an animal and I've no intention of following his example and meeting you or any man with bare hands. If you want to challenge me then earn the right to carry a gun. Until then remember your place."
"And that is?"
"In the dirt, scum! In the filth where you belong!"
Dumarest snarled, "I am armed. My knife against your gun. Give the word, boy."
"No, Earl! You-"
"Give it!"
He moved as the youth shouted, wasting no time on snatching the knife from his boot, darting forward and to one side as Lekhard clawed at his gun, closing the distance between them before the weapon lifted free of its holster. His left hand clamped on the wrist, twisting as his right sent fingers to close on the other's throat.
As the gun fell from the nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone of the floor Lekhard sagged, his face mottling, only the hand at his neck preventing him from crumpling to the stone.
Dumarest held him, counting seconds, then threw him to land sprawling against the wall.
"You-" Lekhard rose, coughing, rubbing at his throat. "I'll kill you! My gun-"
"I'll take care of it." Dumarest picked it up and held it casually in his hand. "You can collect it later from the Lady Dephine. I'll tell her you loaned it to me for examination." He added, bleakly, "Or you can tell her the truth as to how I obtained it. Her and everyone else of the Family. The choice is yours."
A choice which was none at all-Lekhard would not want to be shamed by the truth. As he left the chamber Dumarest turned to Navalok and threw him the weapon.
"Here. Take it. Does it make you feel more of a man?"
A mistake which he recognised as the boy caught the pistol. For him to own a gun was to be a man, but it had to come in a certain way, one hallowed by tradition.
"I can't take it, Earl. It isn't mine." Reluctantly he handed back the weapon. "But, Earl, the way you faced him! To best him with your bare hands."
A performance which had mainly been for the boy's benefit.
Dumarest said, curtly, "Let's get to the Shrine."
Chapter Twelve
A century earlier and there would have been armed men standing in honor, a guard carefully chosen and each man jealous of the privilege. A generation ago and older men would have tended the sacred place, sitting and dreaming of past glories, of the strength and vitality of their youth. Now there was only a crippled boy to tend the lights and to sweep the dust and venerate the past.
He said, "Earl, this is where the trophies are thrown when the hunters return after having made their kills."
Dumarest looked down at the floor, the place at which he pointed. It lay before the opening of the Shrine, the stone slightly concave with repeated washings. In imagination he tried to visualize the severed heads and the crowd who had watched the ancient heroes. Now there would be no crowd, only an official of some kind to record the achievement. Alorcene, perhaps, or an assistant. And even he would probably have to be summoned.
"Word is sent from the Watcher," explained Navalok when he mentioned it. "Always there are men stationed in the highest tower. They see the immediate surroundings and, of course, word would also be sent from the raft-enclosure."
"And?"
"Men will come to witness the trophy. The notation is made in the records and, later at dinner, the gun is given in ceremony."
A standard weapon each identical aside from personal adornment to the one he had taken from Lekhard. Dumarest examined it, a primitive thing with a revolving chamber holding five cartridges. The calibre was large, the charge, he guessed, small. The bullet would have high impact-shock but low penetration-to be expected in a weapon intended for use in a crowd.
"Earl, would-" Navalok broke off as Dumarest met his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing." The boy gestured towards the opening. "You wanted to inspect the Shrine."
Not the Shrine but the items it held. Dumarest strode to the slab of polished stone and looked at them. Rubbish for the most part, bits and pieces, some seeming to belong to other, larger artifacts, all showing signs of the ravages of time. Of use and time, the leaves of the plastic file were scuffed a little as well as faded and the metal of the chronometer held a dull patina which covered a worn inscription.
