"Negative, my lord. Dumarest is not on the Thorn."
"Are you positive?"
"Captain Krogstad listed each and every member of his crew together with all passengers. Most of the passengers and all of the crew are known. Of the rest none fits the description you provided. The man you are interested in is not on the ship."
Ishaq said, "Was he ever?"
Amontabo shrugged, shoulders lifting, hands rising, palms upward in a gesture which was an answer in itself.
"Assuming the man was on the ship and is not there now the conclusion is that he must be one of the two men dumped on that planet," said Avro. "What is its name?"
"Velor, my lord." The Hausi added, "A harsh and barren world."
"There is no need to elaborate. Concentrate on the men. What is known about them?"
"One, younger than the man for whom you are looking, is known to the gambler who has seen him before. His name is Angado Nossak and he was the one who fell sick. The other could have been a mercenary or a miner. Five people swear to that impression."
"His name?"
"Earl, my lord. The younger man was heard to call him that and he was so registered."
Earl! Earl Dumarest! Avro felt the mind-opening euphoria of the proof of his prediction. He had been right. The quarry he hunted had been exactly where he had said it would be.
Ishaq said, "There is no doubt?"
"None, my lord. Krogstad uses a lie-detector as a check against possible trouble. Most vessels in the Burdinnion follow the practice. With worlds so close and markets available the temptation to steal a ship is high."
And so the precaution, the risk Dumarest had been forced to take. A small one; who would be looking for him so far from Baatz? Who would have questioned the sworn testimony of his death?
The answer was reflected in the window Avro faced; his own shape limned against the darkening sky. An unanswerable demonstration of his efficiency; if it hadn't been for Krogstad's action Dumarest would have been taken and on his way to interrogation.
And now?
Avro knew the answer to that too-the hunt must go on.
Chapter Six
The generator was stubborn. Stripped, cleaned, reassembled, it held the beauty of functional design but remained inert. Before the Erhaft field could be created to swathe the Guilia in its blue cocoon and let it traverse the void at a velocity far greater than that of light the similarity components had to be aligned to near perfection. Not true perfection, that was impossible, but 99.9999999 percent of perfection, the nine nines which was the aim and dream of every engineer.
Angado didn't even try to get it. Instead he aimed for the lowest workable alignment of five nines. It took a week to achieve it. Another two before the Guilia completed its journey to Yuanka.
They landed in a storm of wind and dust; minute grains of sand and dirt which eddied like a fog and settled in a gray coating over the town, the field, the warehouses along the perimeter. Within seconds the Guilia was a copy of the other vessels standing on the dirt, a gray ghost standing like a shadow among the roiling dunes, detail lost in the diffused sunlight of a dying day.
Ryder was blunt. "You're fools to stop here," he said to them both. "Stay with the ship. I can use a good engineer, a handler too." His eyes moved toward Dumarest. "And from what I've seen you'd make a good assistant to your friend."
"Thanks for the offer," said Dumarest. "But no thanks."
"You?" Ryder grunted as Angado shook his head. "Well, I guess you know your own business, but take some advice. Watch yourselves-Yuanka is a bad world on which to be stranded. If you are then mention me to a few of the captains. Some of them know me. All of them could use a good engineer."
"We'll remember that," said Dumarest. "And thanks again." He held out his hand. "The rest of the fee, Captain? We'd like to leave with the monks."
They alone were disembarking, loaded with bales, bundles, assorted supplies. Brother Dexter smiled his appreciation when Dumarest offered to help, frowned when he added a stipulation.
"Robes? You both want robes?"
"Just the loan of a couple," said Dumarest. Then added, as explanation, "For protection against the wind. Also it'll be easier to wear them than carry them."
And, robed, they would merge among the monks, becoming members of the party. A thing Dexter realized even as he nodded to Pollard to supply the garments. Normally he would have refused the request; the Church took no part in deception practiced by others, but neither did it refuse needed help. And here, on Yuanka, the Church needed all the help it could get.
The wind caught them as they trudged from the ship, dumping their goods and leaving monks to guard them as they went back for more. Three trips and they rested, faces grayed by the dust, eyes stinging, nostrils blocked. As they waited, backs to the wind, the Guilia headed again into space, spurning the dust and dirt of the planet for the clean emptiness between the stars.
"Ryder's a fool." Angado shouted over the wind. "That generator's shot and needs replacing. He didn't even wait to hire another engineer."
A replacement for Sadoria now lying in a shallow grave on Velor.
Dumarest said, "He knows what he's doing."
"Like hell he does. He didn't even wait for passengers or cargo."
An assumption which displayed Angado's ignorance of free-trader operations. Ryder was impatient but neither crazy nor a fool. He would have contacted the field-agent by radio, have learned there were no passengers or cargo bound for his next world of call, and have decided not to waste time. A gambler risking that the generator would hold and that he could get profitable commissions if he beat other vessels.
Things Dumarest didn't bother to explain; the problem at hand was enough.
To Dexter he said, "Where is this stuff to be taken? Where is the church?"
"We have it with us." Brother Dexter gestured at the bales. "We have none established here on Yuanka as yet but the authorities have given us permission to stay."
"And build?"
"Yes. Beyond the field. In sector nine." The monk pointed to where the wind fluttered a tangle of pennants; strips and fragments of cloth and plastic adorning a sleazy collection of hovels. "Over there, I think. In Lowtown."
On every world they were the same; the repositories of the stranded, the deprived, the desperate. Dumping grounds for the unwanted and differing only in the degree of filth, stench and squalor they displayed. Shacks made of rubbish; mounds of dirt roofed with discarded sheets of plastic, hammered tin, cartons, the remains of packing cases. Huts fashioned of any scrap material to hand. The home of vice and crime, of degeneracy and poverty.
The monks' new home.
Brother Dexter set to work as soon as the wind eased and by the time it had died the church had taken shape. A tent firmly held by stakes, ropes and pegs. One containing space for a communal kitchen, a dispensary, accommodation for the monks and the all-important cubicle containing the benediction light. The portable church now incorporated into the main structure but with its entrance outside. Even before it was finished the line had begun to form.
"Patience." Brother Galpin, young, trying hard to practice the virtue he preached, held up an admonishing hand. "Give us time to get established."
"You have food?" The woman was in her thirties and looked twice as old. A shawl was draped over rounded shoulders and hugged to her hollow chest. "Please, Brother, you have food?"
"And medicine?" Another woman, almost a twin of the first, thrust forward, her face anxious. "My man is sick, dying, medicine could save him. You have medicine?"