As they went out of the place Zurzal explained and turned his wrist well out into the daylight to show Jofre.
"Each world has its own form of exchange for goods and services. But there are ways of transferring such credit without having to pass it into the form of another planet. Thus—" He flexed his hand and the wristlet was a gleam in the thin sunlight. "I have funds on several worlds to draw on, and pay from those funds may be demanded by merchants on other planets. It is a simple system—"
Jofre thought he could see the flaw in it. "If that is stolen and used—"
Zurzal shook his head. "It is blood joined to me alone; it will not work for any other. Now, let us go ahunting for this spacer."
He turned quickly into a side street, threading a way he seemed to know well, heading again for the Stinkhole. Jofre slipped a hand across the new weight of those recently added knives. Last night his unarmed skill had been put to the test; he wondered if this time his ability with steel would be called upon.
THERE WERE NO BURSTS OF EYE-TORMENTING LIGHT from any of the smoldering doorways, no whine of drums. Today they might be walking through a sink of long-deserted squalor. One or two muffled figures kept close to the verges of the pavement, since the center of that was a riverlet of corruption. Only the thick stench was the same, puffing out at them from the opening of every alley as if the Stinkhole itself had life and nauseous breath.
Zurzal seemed to know where he was going. Jofre was a step behind, every issha instinct alert. He did not like what he could not see but was sure was lurking in the stained walled buildings, in every one of those alley mouths; he did not like what he heard—which was nothing at all. Certainly there should be some sound.
As Zurzal took a sharp turn to the right, a moment's glance around placed Jofre. This was the same place where he had come to the rescue of the Zacathan the night before. To venture into such a trap was more than foolhardy.
At least a small measure of light had come with the day and Jofre could see the path ahead, choked as it was with rubbish. The alley was dead-ended by a portion of the building on their right which extended at a sharp angle. There was a door at floor level and up the narrow slit of this wing a series of windows, all covered with boarding.
They passed the site of last night's skirmish. The noisome debris underfoot had been churned and there were signs of some heavy object having been drawn along through the muck—doubtless one of their opponents taken away. A sound brought Jofre into action. He was before his patron, a punch of his shoulder sending the Zacathan back against the moisture-running wall while he half crouched in defense. Out of the disturbed muck and nameless mounds ahead poked the nasty white snout of a ku-rat—the largest Jofre had ever sighted.
His hand went from the hilt of his dagger to the far less familiar grip of the sidearm. He brought the weapon up, sighted and fired. There was a screech, then the twisting body arose from the rubbish in which it had sheltered to curl into both silence and a motionless ball. Jofre stared at the creature. A lucky shot certainly, he had had very little time to practice—save in dumb show—before they made this expedition and he must not believe that his accuracy with the off-world weapon was more now than rank fortune.
"The power of the first part," Zurzal observed from behind him as Jofre still sheltered the Zacathan with his own body, "is enough if we meet more than rats—to stun is allowable. I think that a burnoff even in this place might bring some retribution down on us."
Jofre made the adjustment before he returned the weapon to his unfamiliar overbelt. He had changed into the new clothing before they had started and he regretted deeply the loss of his wide-sleeved overshirt, though he retained the girdle which had always supported hand weapons. To be reduced to a dagger and this stunner-blaster meant double caution on his part.
In two more strides the Zacathan reached the door in that wall which blocked their path. It looked as set-in as the boarded-up windows above, as if it were sealed firmly. Yet the off-worlder did not appear to be baffled by this. He drew the taloned fingers of his useable right hand down the splintery surface, scratching into wood spongy with rot.
At waist level those fingers stopped to circle about as if outlining some lock which did not appear. Then Zurzal drew his own weapon, examined the setting critically before he made a small adjustment, and put the barrel to the door. There was a flash and a crackle of sparks ran from that point of contact. A moment later the Zacathan resheathed the weapon, put palm flat against the door to push. Reluctantly the barrier gave, showing a thick gloom within.
"This is a back way," Zurzal's voice dropped near to a hissing whisper. "What we seek lies there." He jerked his head toward the wall of the building from which this portion angled.
Jofre's hand was quick. His fingers closed about the Zacathan's sinewy arm.
"I first," he made that an order. "Which way?"
"Right. There should be a stair near. The man we seek has lodging, such as it is, near the top floor. He is, I think, very near the end. The report made to me is that he has not been seen for three days now."
Within the house there was a thick effluvium of old filth, the result of beings of more than one species being crowded in long-uncleansed quarters. The two invaders found the stairs easily enough, for there was an orb light, near exhausted by the feebleness of its glow, suspended over the well of the steps.
Now there were sounds, grunts, the rumble of speech, and once the throb of a hand drum, a smashing of what might be glass, and again a scream which held both rage and pain. Zurzal continued to climb; Jofre, eyes darting from wall to wall of the stairway, ears and nose alert, edged after him. They reached the third level of the stair and Zurzal stopped, fronting another door.
This time there was a waiting latch and he caught at it, throwing the door open. The room on the other side had once been of fair size, but a partition which did not reach clear to the ceiling had turned it into a pair of alcoves. The stench was now overpowering. In the nearer of those alcoves was a sleep mat and on that lay a body wrapped in a discolored length of bed covering.
Zurzal felt in the pouch which was clipped to his belt. He brought out a package which, without opening it, he squeezed vigorously in his one hand. Now another scent joined the rest, a cloying one which seemed thick enough to be visible in the room.
The bundle on the mat stirred, shifted, sat up. A bloated-faced head wobbled on a neck seemingly too thin to hold it, then a bony hand came out of hiding and made a wide circle through the air. The eyes in that puffed face, which at first had looked unfocused, now centered on the Zacathan. A slobbering tongue crept out from between swollen lips and then a voice which was thick and hardly to be understood spoke a single word:
"Give!"
Zurzal ripped open one end of the drug bag and that wavering hand strove to flatten and hold steady as the Zacathan shook onto the palm a wad of seeds and leaves. Dropping some of the stuff in his haste, the man on the pallet crammed it into his mouth and those jaws so hidden by fatty tissue now moved as he chewed.
The effect came within a few moments. The sagging body on the sleep mat sat straighter. There was a certain dim intelligence back in the eyes to be sighted in the constrained light through a half-masked window.
"You—" The word was mumbled around that cud which the spacer still chewed.
"As I promised," Zurzal returned calmly. "Enough of this to take you to the end—" He gave the bag a little shake and once more the smell of the drug was wafted about.
The bulbous head nodded. "Fair—fair bargain." Then the mouth moved as the speaker spat the pulp of his chewing onto the rotting floor. "I have—" Now two hands emerged from his wrappings and he was tugging at that covering, pulling away from his body.