"What is it?"
"Something good, I think. Come and check it out, will you?" Clemdish waited until Dumarest had joined him and then pointed. "That's a basidiomycete if ever I saw one. Worth collecting, too. Agreed?"
Dumarest dropped to his knees and examined what Clemdish had found. Ringed by the puce and emerald growths was a group of spiraloids of cream dotted with flecks of brown and topaz, the whole cluster seeming to be the towers of some fairyland castle. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the folder. It was already open to show the pictures of golden spore. He flipped the pages until he found the information he wanted.
"You're right," he told the little man. "This one is worth money. We'd better mark it and clear the area."
He swept his boot across the surrounding growths as Clemdish returned to the packs for one of the thin rods. He thrust it close beside the cluster of spirals. Around the rod was wrapped a ten-foot length of thread and the top was split so as to hold a card marked with their names. All the ground within the compass of the thread was theirs to harvest.
Clemdish joined Dumarest in clearing away the unwanted fungi to give the selected growth more room to develop.
"That should do it," he said. "Our first claim. Unless someone steals our marker," he added, "or switches cards, or gets here before we do."
"You're a pessimist," said Dumarest.
"It's been known," insisted Clemdish. "You should know that. Some of the boys last season swore that someone had shifted their markers. If they find him, hell never do it again." He looked at the sun and ran his tongue over his lips. "Let's get moving," he suggested. "You all right now, Earl?"
"I can manage."
"Well head directly back," said Clemdish. "Cut a straight line from here to the station. If we see anything good we'll mark it, but we won't stray from the route. We can come out later," he added, "when you've had a chance to get some rest. Run a circle close to the station and check out a couple of spots I know. You agree. Earl?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Then let's go. I'll take the lead."
"Just a minute," said Dumarest. "There's something you should know." He looked at the other man. "We've found the jackpot," he said quietly. "There's a clump of golden spore on the other side of the hills."
Clemdish sat down, his legs suddenly weak.
Chapter Four
Heldar felt the gnawing pain in his chest, the scratching irritation and the liquid demanding release. He coughed; the initial expelling of air triggered a bout of hacking which left him weak. Grimly, he looked at the red flecks staining his hand.
The small, round vendor with the ruff of yellow at wrists and ankles looked at him with sympathy. "You need help," he said. "Why don't you see a physician?"
Heldar grunted. The station had no resident medical technician, only a snap-freeze cabinet where the severely infured could be held in stasis and the deep-sleep facilities, which could be adapted to promote healing. All else had to wait until a traveling physician arrived to ply his trade. Such doctors had a strict order of priority: money came first. Heldar had to raise a loan.
Craden shook his head when Heldar mentioned it. He was new to Scar, but was far from inexperienced. Casually he inspected one of the yellow ruffs circling his wrist, "You work for the company, don't you? Wouldn't they make you an advance?"
"Zopolis wouldn't lend his own mother the price of a meal," said Heldar viciously. He had already tried and been refused. The pain in his chest mounted and he coughed again. When he recovered he looked frightened. "It's killing me," he gasped. "What the hell can I do?"
The vendor inspected his other ruff. "Beg," he suggested. "What else?"
Heldar left the room and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. It seemed to cover most of the sky with the glowing fury of its disk, but that was an optical illusion. It was big, but not that big. If it had been Scar would long ago have shattered into a ring of debris.
He coughed again. The chest pain was getting worse as it grew hotter and there was still more heat to come. Heldar reached back to where his hat hung from his neck on a thong and drew it over his eyes. Beg, Craden had advised. But from whom? The monks had nothing but the barest essentials. The factor couldn't give what he didn't have, and neither he or anyone else would make what would have to be an outright gift of money.
He stared over the field, seeing the ships waiting to carry their passengers home and others discharging people in order to get away. They were commercial, and, if they carried a physician at all, he would be exactly the same as the one in Hightown. There was only one chance, the small, private vessel with the peculiar insignia. It carried royalty and would be certain to have a physician. Maybe, if I'm humble and pile it on? He coughed again and spat a mouthful of blood; there would be no need for pretense.
* * *
"Sit down," said the doctor. "Relax. Throw your head back until it touches the rest. Farther. That's right. Now just relax."
Gratefully Heldar did as ordered. He felt euphoric, still unable to believe his luck. Coincidence, he told himself. I just managed to see the right man at the right time, the boss man himself. I hit the right button and he did the rest.
He heard metallic tinklings behind him and resisted the desire to turn. The doctor's voice was flat and indifferent.
"Do you wish to stay, my lord?"
"Will you be long?"
"For the examination? No, my lord."
"Then I will stay," said Jocelyn. He looked down at the patient's face. "You have nothing to worry about," he soothed. "Just do as Erlan tells you to do."
Erlan, thought Heldar, the physician. And the one who just spoke is the boss man, the ruler of Jest. But where were the courtiers? The guards? He felt the desire to cough; then something entered his mouth and sent a spray down his throat, killing the desire. He tensed.
"Relax," said the doctor sharply. "Constriction of the muscles does not ease my task."
Something followed what had contained the spray. Seemingly huge, it slid down his throat, probing past the back of the throat, the tonsils and penetrating into the windpipe. There was a soft hissing, and abruptly he lost the sense of feeling from his mouth to his lungs. Wider tubes followed; he could tell by the mechanical dilation of his mouth.
"I have expanded the path to the lungs, my lord," said Erlan, as if commenting to a colleague. "Now we pass down the light, so, and swivel, so." He drew in his breath. "A classic case," he murmured. "Extreme erosion of the junction together with scarification of the trachea and widespread seepage." His voice faded as he manipulated more instruments. Metal scraped on crystal. Heldar felt something tickle deep in his chest, then the tube was withdrawn from his throat and another spray returned feeling to the numb areas. Automatically, he coughed.
"Some wine?" Jocelyn extended a glass filled with amber glintings. "Sip," he advised, "your throat is probably a little tender."
"Thank you, my lord." Heldar sat upright and turned his head. Erlan sat at a microscope studying a slide. As he watched he changed it for another and increased the magnification.
"Well?" said Jocelyn.
"There is no doubt, my lord." Erlan straightened from his instrument and casually threw both slides into an incinerator. A flash of blue flame converted them both to ash. "The man is suffering from a fungous infection, obviously parasitic and of some duration. It could have been caused by a single spore which has increased by geometrical progression. Both lungs are affected, the left almost hopelessly so, and the inevitable result, unless there is surgery, is death."