Lallia

E. C. Tubb Lallia

I

On Aarn a man was murdered and Dumarest watched him die.

It was a thing quickly done in a place close to the landing field: a bright tavern of gleaming comfort just beyond the main gate of the high perimeter fence, a cultured place of softness and gentle lighting snugly set on a cultured world. The raw violence was all the more unexpected because of that.

Dumarest saw it all as he stood with his back to a living mural in which naked women swam in an emerald sea and sported with slimed beasts of obscene proportions. Before him, scattered over soft carpets, the customers of the tavern lounged in chairs or stood at the long bar of luminescent wood. An assorted crowd of crewmen and officers, field personnel, traders, and transients. Bright among them was the gaudy finery of pleasure girls, flaunting their charms. Soft music saturated from the carved ceiling and perfumed smoke stained the air.

Against the softness and luxury the killer looked like a skull at a feast: tall, horribly emaciated, eyes smoldering in the blotched skin of his face. He was a mutant with mottled hair and hands grotesquely large, a sport from some frontier world. He crossed to the long bar, snatched up a bottle of heavy glass and, without hesitation, smashed it on the back of his unsuspecting victim's head. Half-stunned, dazed, the man turned-and received the splintered shards in face and throat.

"Damn you!" The mutant dropped the stained weapon as he spat at the dying man. "Remember me? I swore I'd get you and I have. It's taken years but I did it. You hear me? I did it! I got you, you stinking bastard! Now roast in hell!"

A woman screamed and men came from the shadows to grasp the killer. Dumarest took two long strides towards the door then paused, thinking. The tavern was close to the field, police could not be far away and it was possible that he had already been noticed. To leave now would be to in shy;vite suspicion with the resultant interrogation and intermi shy;nable delay. He regained his position before the mural as of shy;ficers poured into the tavern. On Aarn the police were highly efficient, and they moved quickly about the tavern as they quested for witnesses. Not surprisingly they discovered them hard to find.

"You there!" The officer was middle-aged, his face hard beneath the rim of his helmet. His uniform was impeccable and the leather of his boots, belt, and laser holster shone with a mirror-finish. "Did you see what happened?"

"Sorry, no," said Dumarest.

"You too?" The officer echoed his disgust. "Over fifty people in the place and no one saw what happened." He glanced over his shoulder towards the scene of the crime. "If you were standing here how could you avoid not seeing? You've a perfect view."

"I wasn't looking that way," explained Dumarest. "I was studying this." He pointed at the mural. "All I heard was some shouting. When I turned the sport was standing over something on the floor. What happened? Did he hurt some shy;one?"

"You could say that," said the officer dryly. "He killed a man with a bottle." He stared curiously at Dumarest, eyes narrowing as he took in the gray plastic finish of pants, knee-boots, and tunic. The tunic was long-sleeved, falling to mid-thigh and fastened high and snug around the throat. It was unusual wear for a city dweller of Aarn. "Are you a resident?"

"No, a traveler. I came here to arrange an outward pas shy;sage."

"Why not go to the field office?" The officer didn't wait for an answer. "Never mind. I suppose a tavern is the best place to do business if you can afford it. Your papers?"

Dumarest handed over the identification slip given to him when he had landed. The officer checked the photographic likeness and physical details incorporated in the plastic. He softened a little as he saw the credit rating.

"Earl Dumarest," he mused. "Planet of origin: Earth." He raised his eyebrows. "An odd name for a world. I don't think I've ever heard it before. Is it far?"

"A long way from here," said Dumarest flatly.

"It must be. Why did you come to Aarn?"

"To work. To look around." Dumarest smiled. "But mainly to visit your museum. It is something rather exceptional."

He had struck the right note by his appeal to planetary pride. The officer relaxed as he handed back the identifica shy;tion.

"We're rather proud of it," he admitted and then added, casually, "my son has a position there. In the ancient artifact division, with special reference to Aarn's early history. Did you know that once the planet held an intelligent race of sea creatures? They must have been amphibious and there is evidence they used fire and tools of stone."

"I didn't," said Dumarest. "Not before I visited your museum, that is. Tell me, is your son a tall, well-built youngster with thick curly hair? About twenty-five, with vivid blue eyes?" The officer had blue eyes and the hair on the backs of his hands was thick and curled. "If so I may have met him. A person like that was most helpful to me in my investigations."

"I doubt if that was Hercho," said the officer quickly. "He works in the laboratories. Reconstruction and radio shy;active dating."

"Specialized work," said Dumarest. "It's a pretty impor shy;tant position for a young man to hold. You must be very proud of him."

"He's done well enough for himself." The officer glanced to where two men carried a stretcher towards the dead man. "May I ask what your own particular subject of interest at the museum might be?"

"Navigational charts and tables," said Dumarest easily. "Really old ones. The type which were in use before the Center-oriented charts we have now. I didn't find any."

"I'm not surprised. We have data from over a hundred thousand habitable worlds and ten times that many items on display, but there has to be a limit. And perhaps you were looking for something which doesn't exist. Are you sure there are such tables?"

"I think so," said Dumarest. "I hope so."

"Well," said the officer politely, "there's no harm in hop shy;ing." He turned to move away then halted as Dumarest touched his arm. "What is it?"

"A matter of curiosity," said Dumarest. He nodded to where the attendants carried a sheeted figure towards the door of the tavern. "That man. Who was he?"

"The victim?" The officer shrugged. "No one special. Just a handler from one of the ships."

"The Starbinder?"

"The Moray. Captain Sheyan's vessel. His name was El shy;gart. Did you know him?"

"No. I was simply curious."

Dumarest turned to stare at the mural as the dead man was carried away.

The Moray was a small ship, battered, old, standing to one side of the busy field as if ashamed of associating with her sister vessels. Her captain matched his command. Ber shy;nard Sheyan was small. A ruff of white hair showed be shy;neath his uniform cap. His face, beneath the visor, was seamed and scored with vicissitude and time. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at Dumarest over the wide expanse of his desk.

"You wanted to see me," he snapped curtly. For such a small man his voice was startlingly deep. "Why?"

"I want a job."

"Forget it. I've a full complement."

"No," said Dumarest flatly. "You haven't. You're short a handler. A bit of Elgart's past caught up with him and he's dead."

Sheyan narrowed his eyes. "This past you're talking about," he said softly. "You?"

"No. I just saw it happen. My guess is that Elgart was rotten. That he got his lacks from letting those riding Low wake without the benefit of drugs. One of them finally caught up with him." Dumarest's eyes were bleak. "If I'm right, he asked for all he got. The only thing is that he got it too easily. A man like that should be given a double dose of his own medicine."

To wake, rising through layers of ebon chill to light and the stimulating warmth of the eddy currents. . the scream shy;ing agony of returning circulation without the aid of drugs to numb the pain so that throat and lungs grew raw with the violence of shrieking torment.