He was bare of any clothing Jofre could see. In spite of the bloated face and head, his body was a rack of bones covered with greyish, grimed skin. But he wore around his neck a chain which sparked in the light—iridium! How could such a derelict possess that? Supported from that chain was a round medallion of the same precious metal. Long broken nails scrabbled at that until it opened and a tiny dark roll fell out. The ex-spacer weighed it in one hand, and for a moment, in spite of the ruin of that face, Jofre thought he saw a flash of another man who had once been.
"Fair—fair bargain," the spacer stuttered a little. "But— you may find it not so good. Not so good." He shook his big head from side to side. "Give!" he demanded.
Zurzal dropped the packet of graz in the seated man's lap and took the roll, slipping it into his belt pocket.
The spacer's one hand clamped on that opened bag as if he feared it might be taken from him. But with the fingers of the other he swung the pendant from which he had freed the roll back and forth.
"Beyond—call—duty—" He looked up at the Zacathan and then he laughed horribly, his huge face a mask such as one of the Shagga imagined demons might wear. "Get out! You have what you want, lizard man." The more he spoke, the firmer his voice, the clearer his words became. "You have everything but luck, remember that." Greedily he pawed at the bag, brought forth another wad of the drug and crammed it into his mouth, dropping his head back on the bed place. It was plain that he had nothing more to say.
"What do you have?" Jofre asked as they edged out of that horrible box of a room.
"The coordinates of the place on Lochan which I must visit. He was a hero once—did you see that medal ? Through everything he held onto that."
Zurzal's voice was somber as they retraced their way down the staircase. "He is very near the end," the Zacathan continued. "The supply I took him will surely see him out and he will die in what poor comfort that has left him. He was a hero—once—" The repetition of that phrase rang in Jofre's head as they stepped once more into the alley and headed back into what was a cleaner and brighter kind of life.
Ras Zarn stood again in that small private chamber of his, and again he held a farflyer. There was a weariness about him these days. Sometimes fortune turns against a man—then to fight his way through obstacles becomes twice the battle. He was no longer as young as his appearance made him seem to these townsmen lowlanders. And he had been long away from the north and close touch with that which demanded his inborn allegiance. Just as those who gave secret orders were far removed and uncaring about his problems.
They were set in the old ways as tightly as a sunken worm in 4ts shell and perhaps all which would ever get them out was how one dealt with that worm—smash the shell itself.
Zarn shivered with a quick glance from one of the walls to another. The bird in his hands raised its head and quickly he put his other hand over that, cupping it gently, blinding the creature. No one knew, would ever know, just how farseeing the Elders were, nor what strange powers they could call upon. It needed only one small misstep, one planting of a seed of suspicion, and he himself could be a target no matter how well he had served in the past.
Sighing inwardly, he seated himself at the floor table and set the farflyer on its well-scratched surface. Lifting the shielding hand, he looked into the eyes of the north-bred creature.
He gained no comfort from that voiceless communication. His lips drew into a bitter grimace. They made their own rules, disregarding the fact that this was a spaceport, that a section of it was not under planet law, but rather that of the outlanders who policed travelers as long as they stayed within the confines outlined for their supposed safety.
An emissary could be sent in but he would be as visible, in spite of all the preparations of the Elders, as if he marched behind a challenge drum. Oh, the watchers were out; Zarn had learned much these past few days. However, the fighter was now oathed—to an off-worlder. And only this very morning had the news come that that off-worlder was ready to leave planet, taking the subject with him. If they meant him to be followed off-world—but why? Such an expenditure was beyond anything Zarn had ever been authorized to put out.
To arrange now for an assassination was to ask for not only failure of that mission but perhaps the uncovering of at least part of the net he had been cautious years in weaving. He could only report facts—those apart seemed to expect miracles.
Zarn stared at the wall. The feathered messenger uttered a plaintive sound and the man's head jerked. His hand went quickly to his belt pouch and he brought it out again with the globule the creature gobbled before settling down on the tabletop, scaled eyelids closing over those large eyes.
The merchant arose stiffly. They gave him very little choice and part of his present burden was the fact that they refused to make plain to him why and wherefore. What had this renegade Shadow done which made him the focal point of such a stir? What was it he carried? That spark of cupidity which had made Ras Zarn an excellent merchant flared briefly. If he could learn that and turn it to his advantage! But how—how?
Zurzal checked once more the carry bags. The labels were firmly attached.
"We shall transship at Wayright," he said. "Luckily that is a refit planet and sooner or later a trader bound for Lochan will planet there. Then we shall have cramped quarters for the rest of the trip." He looked at Jofre. "You are not space wise—some cannot adapt to such confinement. On the passenger transport it is another matter. But a trader is built first for cargo and only takes passengers on reluctant sufferance."
Jofre shrugged. "What has to be, is," he commented. However, inwardly he had begun to wonder. He had never, before these past few days, even been near one who traveled the star ways. Yesterday they had gone to the port station and he had seen the waiting ships standing nose skyward— there had been such a difference in them—from a swift courier of the Patrol, to a wide-bellied Company freighter. The passenger ships ranked somewhere in between and, looking at them, Jofre had felt an odd small chill, to venture into the unknown in one of these— But men had been doing it now for hundreds of seasons. There were disappearances and wrecks, dark stories of ships devastated with strange plagues, which wandered with a crew of the dead until they were blasted by a Patrol cruiser or were caught by a sun. Space was not kind nor cruel; it was the fortune of travelers which made it one or the other.
As for him, there was no choice. He was oathed and if that took him into space, so be it. He would move into this new world as he would move into an unknown strip of territory, with every sense alert, even though what he might have to face would not yield to any weapon he knew.
He again wondered at the Zacathan's seemingly inexhaustible funds. Jofre's passage had been promptly paid. In fact Zurzal had opened for him an interplanetary account and showed him how one could draw upon it. Into that his wages would be fed automatically every quarter. For himself, however, he was dubious about such a pay method. And surely the Zacathan must be wealthy beyond the means of even a valley lord to so arrange matters.
He had booked passage for them on a passenger ship due to depart before sunset tonight and they were on their way now to board. There were small scooter carts belonging to the hotel which loaded both passengers and their luggage. Having heard so much of Zurzal's scanner, Jofre was silently surprised that no box or container which could contain such was loaded aboard the scooter they chose. But it was not his place to ask questions.
However, there was a feeling of uneasiness which settled on him as they approached the landing stage, where groups of passengers before them were filing onto the lift, to be hoisted aloft into the ship. Did that come from the shrinking of the planet-born who had never been in space, or was it a cautionary impulse triggered by something else?