Demon princes 01 05 the.., p.16
Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 16
With nothing to lose, Gersen became humble. “Yes, perhaps I should have explained more carefully. But I am accustomed to working by myself. In any event, the situation is now as I have described it. Do I have the cooperation of you all?”
“Humph,” said Warweave. “We have little choice, as you are perfectly well aware.”
“Mr. Kelle?” asked Gersen.
Kelle inclined his head.
“Mr. Detteras?”
“As Warweave points out, we have no choice.”
“In that case I will proceed with my plans. The world on which we are to land, incidentally, is a dead star rather than a planet.”
“Does not excessive gravity make habitation inconvenient?” asked Kelle.
“We’ll know very shortly.”
Warweave turned away, went to look out at the red dwarf. The dark companion had now become visible, a large brown-gray disk, three times the diameter of Alphanor, mottled and reticulated in black and umber. Gersen was pleased to find surrounding space rich in detritus; the radar screen indicated dozens of minuscule planetoids and moonlets in orbits about each star. He could approach the dead star boldly with small fear of detection. A momentary shift into intersplit braked the ship, another brought it to a state of lazy drifting a quarter-million miles above the now looming mass.
The surface seemed dim and featureless, with vast areas covered by what looked like oceans of chocolate-colored dust. The outline of the world was sharp and stark against the black of space, indicating a sparse atmosphere. Gersen went to the macroscope, inspected the surface. The world’s relief leapt into perspective, though the terrain still was hardly rugged. Chains of volcanic mountains netted the surface, there was a mesh of rifts and crevasses, a number of ancient isolated plutonic buttes, hundreds of volcanos, some active, others dead or quiescent.
Gersen set crossbars on a short sharp peak at the demarcation between day and night, the object seemed not to move, nor to alter its position in relation to the line of darkness: apparently the world held a constant face to its companion. In such case, Dasce’s dwelling would almost certainly be on the bright face, probably near the equator, at the longitude directly under the sun. He scrutinized the region carefully, under high magnification. The area was large; there were dozens of volcanic craters, large and small.
Gersen searched for an hour. Warweave, Kelle and Detteras stood watching him with varying degrees of impatience and sardonic dislike.
Gersen reviewed his logic; it seemed to hang together. The red dwarf had been listed on a well-used page in Dasce’s Directory, it was found within the requisite ellipsoidal shell; it had a dark star companion. This must be the star. And, by every likelihood, Dasce’s crater must be located somewhere within the warm sunlit area below.
An odd formation attracted his attention, a square plateau, with five mountain ranges radiating like the fingers of a hand. A phrase of the Melnoy Heights Imp occurred to him. “Thumbnail Gulch.” At fullest magnification Gersen examined the area corresponding to the thumbnail. Certainly there was a small crater here. Certainly it seemed to show a slightly different color, a slightly different texture than the others. And there where the sunlight struck glancingly on the inside wall, a glint. And below, the faint shine of white.
Gersen reduced the magnification, studied the surrounding terrain. Even though Dasce might not detect approaching ships at planetary distances, his radar might warn him of ships approaching for a landing. If he dropped down on the far side of the world and then slanted in behind the horizon, to land behind the plateau which formed the palm of the hand, he might well be able to surprise Dasce.
He fed the necessary information into the course computer, engaged the autopilot. The ship veered and began its descent.
Kelle, unable to contain his curiosity, asked, “Well? Have you found what you were looking for?”
“I think so,” said Gersen. “I can’t be certain.”
“If you are careless enough to be killed,” said Kelle, “you put us to enormous inconvenience.”
Gersen nodded. “This is essentially what I meant to convey to you a short while ago. I am sure that you’ll help me, at least passively.”
“We have already agreed to this.”
The dark star loomed below and the ship landed on a shelf of naked brown stone a quarter mile from a heave of low black hills. The stone was the texture of brick; the surrounding plain displayed a surface resembling dried brown mud.
Overhead the red dwarf bulked large; the ship cast a dense black shadow. A thin wind blew small curls of dust across the plain, sifting a greenish-blue powder into long herringbone drifts.
Detteras said thoughtfully, “You know-, I think it only fair that you leave the filament here. Why victimize us?”
“I don’t plan to be killed, Mr. Detteras.”
“Your plans might go awry.”
“If so, your troubles will seem very trivial in comparison to mine. May I have my weapons?”
The locker was opened; the three watched warily while Gersen armed himself. He looked from face to face. In the mind of one of these men feverish plots were hatching. Would he act as Gersen anticipated—which was to say, not act? Here was a chance Gersen must take. Suppose he were wrong, suppose this were not Dasce’s planet and Malagate knew it; suppose Malagate, through some intuition, suspected Gersen’s goal. He might be ready to sacrifice his hopes of acquiring Teehalt’s world in order to maroon Gersen out here on this dark star. There was a precaution Gersen could take; it would be foolish for him not to do so. He stepped back into the engine room and detached a small but vital component from the energy reactor, one which could be refabricated, if necessary, with ingenuity and patience. He tucked it into his pouch, along with the filament. Warweave, standing in the doorway, observed the act but made no comment.
Gersen dressed himself in an airsuit, left the ship. Opening the forward hatch, he winched down the little platform flyer, loaded aboard a spare airsuit and spare tanks of oxygen, and without further ceremony set out for Thumbnail Gulch, skimming low to the ground, the thin atmosphere keening over the windshield.
The landscape was odd even to one accustomed to the terrain of strange planets: a dark spongy surface in varying shades of maroon, brown and gray, marred here and there by volcanic cones and low wallowing black hills. This might be true star stuff—clinker remaining after the fires had died—or it might be sediment swept up from space. Most likely both. Gersen wondered, did the awareness that he was traversing the surface of a dead star contribute to the sense of weirdness and unreality? The thin atmosphere allowed absolute clarity of vision; the horizons were far, the panorama seemed endless. And overhead there was the glowering sphere of the red dwarf, filling an eighth of the sky.
The ground shouldered up to become the plateau which comprised the palm of the hand; a titanic flow of lava. Gersen swerved to the right. Far ahead he could see a line of black hills lying across the landscape like the back of a monstrous petrified triceratops. This was the “thumb” at the end of which rose Dasce’s volcano. Gersen flew low to the ground, taking advantage of all possible cover, swerving in and out, close to the wall of the plateau, and so approached the line of jagged black peaks.
Slowly, cautiously, he eased up the tumbled slope, Jets muffled by the thin air to no more than a mutter. Dasce might have installed detectors along these slopes—but, on second thought, it seemed hardly likely. He would consider the effort superfluous. Why attack by land when a torpedo from space would be easier?
Gersen gained the ridge. There, two miles ahead, was the volcano which he hoped would be Dasce’s hideaway. Off to the side, down on the plain which continued on and on indefinitely, was the most welcome sight of Gersen’s experience, a sight which brought tears of sheer savage heart-rending joy to his eyes: a small spaceboat. His hypothesis had been correct: here was Thumbnail Gulch in all certainty; here would be found Hildemar Dasce. And Pallis Atwrode?
Gersen landed the platform and continued on foot, taking advantage of all possible cover, avoiding approaches where detectors would be most likely, even though caution seemed no more than a formality. Destiny could not bring him this far only to deal him failure! He mounted the slopes: mingled basalt, obsidian and tuff. Reaching the lip of the crater, he peered over—out on a webbed dome constructed of thin cables and transparent film, held distended by air pressure. The crater was not large: fifty yards in diameter and almost perfectly cylindrical, the walls being formed of striated volcanic glass.
At the bottom of the crater Dasce had made a careless attempt at landscaping. There were a pond of brackish water, a clump of palm trees, a tangle of rank vines. Gersen looked an implacable god, a god of vengeance.
In the center of the crater was a cage, and in the cage sat a naked man: tall, haggard, his face a ghastly wreck, his body crooked, marked with a hundred welts. Gersen remembered Suthiro’s explanation of how Dasce lost his eyelids. Looking again, he remembered the photographs in Dasce’s parlor: this man was the subject of the photographs.
Gersen looked elsewhere. Directly below was a pavilion of black cloth, a series of connected tents. There was no sign of Hildemar Dasce. Entrance to the crater was apparently by way of a tunnel leading through the wall of the volcano.
Gersen moved carefully around the lip, looked down over the slope. The porous brown-black plain extended limitlessly off in three directions. Nearby rested the spaceboat, seeming no larger than a toy in the clarity of the atmosphere, on the endlessness of the plain.
Gersen turned his attention back to the dome. With a knife he cut a small slit in the film, then settled himself to watch.
Ten minutes passed before the pressure drop activated a warning signal. Out from one of the tents charged Hildemar Dasce. Gersen saw him with savage delight. He wore loose white pantaloons and no more. His torso, stained a faded purple, was ribbed with muscle. He stared up with lidless eyes, the blue cheeks blooming from the vermilion face.
Dasce marched across the crater floor. The prisoner within the cage followed him attentively with his gaze.
Dasce vanished from sight. Gersen hid in a crevice, Dasce presently emerged on the plain in an airsuit, carrying a case. He mounted the crater wall with strong easy strides, passing close by Gersen.
Dasce put down the case, brought forth a projector, swept a beam of radiation over the surface of the dome. The escaping air, evidently dosed with a fluorescent agent, glowed yellow. Dasce went to the cut and bent over it, and Gersen felt his instant suspicion. He straightened up and looked all around. Gersen crouched back out of sight.
When he looked once more, Dasce was at work mending the rip with cement and a new strip of film. The entire operation required but a minute. Then Dasce replaced the unused material and the projector into the case, straightened up. He made another careful scrutiny of rim, slope and plain; then, suspicion blunted, he started back down the slope.
Gersen rose from his hiding place and followed, not fifty feet behind.
Dasce, Jumping from rock to rock down the slope, failed to look back—until Gersen dislodged a rock which bounded ahead and past. Dasce stopped, turned sharply. Gersen was out of sight behind a jut of rock, grinning in a kind of mad glee.
Dasce proceeded. Gersen followed close behind. At the base of the slope a sound, a vibration, alarmed Dasce. Once more he turned to look up-slope—directly at the figure leaping down on him. Gersen laughed to see the loose pale mouth open in startlement, and then he struck. Dasce toppled, rolled, bounded to his feet, started to run awkwardly for the airlock; Gersen fired at the back of one of the rangy thighs. Dasce fell.
Gersen seized him by the ankles, dragged him into the airlock, slammed the outer door. Dasce struggled and kicked, the red and blue face hideously contorted. Gersen pointed the projac, but Dasce merely tried to kick it from his grasp. Gersen fired again, numbing Dasce’s other leg. Dasce lay still, glaring like a boar at bay. With a roll of tape brought hopefully for such a purpose, Gersen lashed Dasce’s ankles—Then warily he seized the right arm, bent it back and around. Dasce was forced over on his face. Presently, after a struggle, his arms were taped behind his back. The lock mechanism automatically had filled the space with air; Gersen now removed the vitrine globe from Dasce’s head.
“We renew our acquaintance,” said Gersen in a voice of hushed, reverent joy.
Dasce said nothing.
Gersen dragged him out into the floor of the crater. The prisoner jumped to his feet, pressed himself to the bars of the cage, stared at Gersen as if he were an archangel with wings, trumpet and aureole.
Gersen assured himself as to the security of Dasce’s bonds, ran over to the tent, projac ready for an unexpected servitor or comrade-in-arms of Dasce’s. The prisoner looked after him with astounded, unbelieving—eyes.
Pallis Atwrode lay huddled under a limp dirty sheet, face to the wall. There was no one else. Gersen touched her on the shoulder, and fascinatedly watched her flesh crawl. His-exultation became mingled with horror, to produce a queer stomach-twisting emotion such as he had never before even imagined. “Pallis,” he said, “Pallis—it’s Kirth Gersen.” The words reached her, muffled by the globe which Gersen still wore; she only crouched and huddled more tightly. Gerson rolled her over; she lay with her eyes shut—Her face, once so gay and impudent and charming, was bleak and austere. “Pallis,” called Gersen, “open your eyes. It’s Kirth Gersen! You’re safe!”
She shook her head slightly, held her eyes tight shut.
Gersen turned away. At the door to the tent he looked back. Her eyes were wide open, staring in wonder, but she instantly closed them again.
Gersen left her, investigated the entire crater, reassured himself that no one else was present, and returned to Dasce.
“Nice place you’ve got here, Dasce,” said Gersen in a conversational tone. “A little hard to find when your friends want to drop in.
“How did you find me?” said Dasce in a guttural voice. “No one knows of this place.”
“Except your boss.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“How do you think I found out?”
Dasce was silent. Gersen went to the cage, unbarred the door, motioned to the prisoner, wondering whether the man’s mind had also failed him. “Come out.”
The prisoner limped haltingly forward. “Who are you?”
“No matter. You are free.”
“Free?” The man worked his loose jaws over the word, turned to look toward Dasce. He spoke in a reverent voice. “What of—him?”
“I shall kill him presently.”
The man said softly, “This must be a dream.”
Gersen returned to Pallis, She was sitting on the bed, the sheet clutched around her. Her eyes were open. She looked at Gersen, rose to her feet, fainted. Gersen lifted her, carried her out to the crater floor. The erstwhile captive stood looking at Dasce from a respectful distance. Gersen spoke to him. “What is your name?”
The man looked momentarily bewildered. He knit his brows as if trying to remember. “I am Robin Rampold,” he said at last in a soft hushed voice. “And you—you are his enemy?”
“I am his executioner. His nemesis.”
“It is a marvel!” breathed Rampold. “After so long that I cannot remember the beginning ....” Tears began to course down his cheeks. He looked at the cage, walked over to it, studied it, then looked back at Gersen. “I know this place well. Each crack, each crevice, each fleck and crystal of the metal.” His voice faded. Suddenly he asked, “What is the year?”
“1524.”
Rampold seemed to become smaller. “I did not know it was so long; I have forgotten so much.” He looked up toward the dome. “There is no day or night here—nothing but the red sun. When he is gone, there are no events .... Seventeen years I have stood in that cage. And now I am out.” He walked over to Dasce, stood looking down at him. Gersen followed. Rampold said, “Long, long ago we were two different people. I taught him a lesson. I made him suffer. The memory is all that has kept me alive.”
Dasce laughed a harsh cackle. “I have sought to repay you.” He glanced up toward Gersen. “Best kill me while you can, or I will do the same to you.”
Gersen stood reflecting. Dasce must die. There would be no compunction when the time came. But behind the red forehead was knowledge which Gersen needed. How to extract this knowledge? Torture? Gersen suspected that Dasce would laugh while being torn limb from limb. Trickery? Subtlety? He looked speculatively down into the coarse red and blue face. Dasce did not flinch.
Gersen turned to Rampold. “Can you navigate Dasce’s spaceboat?”
Rampold sadly shook his head.
“Then I suppose you must come with me.”
Rampold spoke in a tremulous voice. “What of—him?”
“Eventually I’ll kill him.”
Rampold said in a low voice, “Give him to me.”
“No.” Gersen returned to the inspection of Dasce. Somehow he must be made to reveal the identity of Malagate. A direct question would be worse than useless. “Dasce,” he asked, “why did you bring Pallis Atwrode out here?”
“She was too beautiful to kill,” said Dasce easily.
“And why should you kill her?”
“I enjoy killing beautiful women.”
Gersen grinned. Dasce possibly hoped to provoke him. “You may or may not live to regret your sins.”
“Who sent you here?” asked Dasce.
“Someone who knew.”
Dasce slowly shook his head. “There is only one, and he never sent you.”
So much for that ploy, thought Gersen. Dasce would not easily be deceived. Well then. He would take Dasce aboard the ship. The situation was certain to produce some sort of reaction.
Now a new problem. He did not dare leave Robin Rampold alone with Dasce, not even for long enough to fetch the platform. Rampold might kill Dasce. Or Dasce might command Rampold to release him. After seventeen years of degradation, Rampold might be sufficiently under Dasce’s influence to obey. And Pallis Atwrode—what of her?
He turned to find her standing in the doorway, the sheet clutched around her, watching him with a wide troubled gaze. He approached her and she shrank back. Gersen was uncertain whether or not she recognized him. “Pallis—it’s Kirth Gersen.”
