Installations which could send missiles to vaporize any threatening scrap of debris. Men trained to working in void conditions. Teams which could disperse to defend Zabul from unwanted visitors.
That was the best Dumarest could hope for. Rising, he said, "Check on all equipment and keep it on operational alert. Double the observers and arrange for alternative sources of power to all essential installations."
Quiley grunted as he made notes. Without looking up from his memo pad he said, "I'll recheck the possibility of locating the generators in more favorable positions. Maybe, if we cut down some of the extensions and ran wave-grids down passages 27 through to 92, the field could be extended for a short-term use at least. I'll see to it."
As he left Althea said, "He's on your side, Earl. Most of the technicians are."
"Most?"
"Some want to hang on to the old ways. They think you threaten their importance. Once we reach Earth what will they have to do?"
Dumarest left the question unanswered; the anxieties of potentially redundant technicians were the least of his worries.
Always Zabul held sound; the muted susurration of trapped vibrations echoing and harmonizing to form a medley which could be translated by the imagination into subtle music, mathematical sequences or abstract resonances. A noise not even noticed by those accustomed to it, but now it held something new. A harsh, martial sound which grew as Dumarest neared the gymnasium, to flower into cries, the clash of metal and stamp of feet, the harsh yells of command from the instructors he had trained.
"In! Get in there! Attack! Delay could cost you victory!"
On the cleared floor two dozen men faced each other in a dozen pairs. Each was naked aside from shorts, all armed with a short bar of metal; dummy knives held sword-fashion, thumb to the blade and point held upward. Many carried ugly weals and dark bruises. One had a broken nose; dried blood masking mouth and chin. Several bore trails of blood from lacerated scalps.
"Horrible!" At his side Althea voiced her disgust. "Earl, is this necessary? To turn men into beasts?"
"You would rather they died?"
"Who is to hurt them? Earth is a haven of peace. They have no need to train as butchers."
Dumarest said patiently, "I've explained all that. Before we can enjoy your haven of peace we have to get there. Others might object." He lifted his voice as the men prepared to reengage. "Erik! Hold the action!"
Medwin came toward him, smiling, face and torso beaded with sweat. A long scrape ran over his ribs and a bruise rested over his navel.
"Earl! Glad you could drop in. What do you think of our progress?"
The truth would have been cruel and they were not to blame for their ignorance. Even Volodya's guards knew little of martial arts, relying on acceptance of their authority more than their skill with club and gas-gun.
Reaching out Dumarest touched the long scrape, the mottled bruise.
"If you'd fought for real you'd be dead by now. And so would most of those others down there. Here, let me show you."
Stripped, Dumarest joined the others and, watching, Althea noted the differences. Not just his superior height or the hard musculature of his body but his stance, the feral determination which dictated every move. Beneath the lights the tracery of cicatrices on his torso made a lacelike pattern, scars earned during the early days of his youth when he had learned the skill he was now trying to pass on.
"You!" He pointed to a man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, who was as yet unmarked. "Ready? Attack!"
Kirek was confident, proud of his physical development, eager to score. He blinked as his thrust met no resistance, grunted as metal slammed against his side, backed as the bar darted toward him to halt with the point touching his throat.
"Let's do it again," said Dumarest.
This time he stood, waiting arms outstretched at his sides. A tempting target and, smarting with his recent defeat, Kirek rushed in.
To stumble as Dumarest moved deftly aside, to fall as, pushed, he tripped over an outthrust foot.
"You've got a choice," said Dumarest as the man climbed to his feet. "You can make excuses or you can admit you need to learn. If you want to make excuses then you've no place here."
"You were fast," muttered Kirek. "So damned fast I didn't see you move."
"Well?"
"I-" Kirek swallowed, then threw back his shoulders. "I guess I need to learn."
"Good. The first thing to bear in mind is that this isn't a game. When you face a man, armed or not, recognize the fact that he wants to kill you. It's your life or his. If you want to stay alive you have to hit first, hit hard and make the blow tell. To hesitate is to give your opponent an advantage. To aim to hurt and not to kill, the same. To do either is to invite death." To Kirek he said, "What did you do wrong?"
"I rushed in. You looked too easy. I guess I underestimated you."
"And maybe you wanted to show off a little right?" Dumarest smiled, removing the sting from the rebuke. "It's a natural reaction. Now let's do it again and this time remember what I said."
This time he made no concessions, crouching in a fighter's stance, poised on the balls of his feet, the bar of metal held before him, point upward, the metal slanted to one side. Had it been a real knife the hold would have given the opportunity to slash in a variety of directions, to thrust, to turn so as to catch and reflect the light. His face matched the stance, falling unconsciously into the bleak mask of a man determined to kill, fighting for his life.
Kirek tried to copy him, a tyro against a veteran, but he had the elements and was willing to learn.
Dumarest opened the encounter, doing as he would never have done in a ring, moving to touch his dummy knife against the other's and by so doing presenting him with an opportunity.
One he took, moving in to knock Dumarest's bar aside with his own weapon before lunging forward in a vicious thrust.
Metal rang as Dumarest parried, striking back in turn, the slash deliberately slow and falling short by an inch. Kirek parried the proffered weapon, cut at Dumarest's stomach, missed and, too late, tried a backhanded slash. He grunted as Dumarest weaved, dodging the attack to slap his own bar of metal against Kirek's side.
"I win," said Dumarest. "Resent it?"
"No, of course not, but-"
"You were good," said Dumarest. "And you can be better. All it needs is practice. But you're all trying to rush things. Erik!"
"Earl?"
"Keep them at basic drill for a while. You've matched them too soon. Wait until they have mastered the basic movements and can do them without conscious thought. Then have them go through routine attacks and parries. If they learn bad habits now they'll be hard to get rid of later." He added, seeing the shadow in the young man's eyes, "But you've done well. Far better than I'd hoped for. You're just a little too impatient."
"Can you blame us for that?"
"No, but it takes time to train a man. Once you've taught these they can teach others. That goes for all of you." He glanced at the men, the other instructors. "Just don't try to run before you can walk."
The noise rose again as, dressed, Dumarest walked with Althea from the gymnasium. In a small enclosure filled with plants and heavy with the scent of flowers she halted and sat on a bench.
As he joined her she said, "You were kind in there, Earl. You could have made Alva look a fool."
"Alva?"
"The man you fought. Alva Kirek. He is Volodya's nephew. You didn't know that?"
Dumarest shook his head; the relationships of the Terridae were a mystery to him, but he saw no point in solving it. Marriage, family life, personal loyalties-all must be strange when conducted among those who spent the major part of their lives in ornamented caskets waiting for the culmination of a dream.