She was sharp. "Not yourself?"
Was his reply a rebuke? Adrienne examined the words, the tone, and shook her head. It was a simple statement of fact from an old and dedicated man who did what he could with what he had, a man who neither judged nor condemned.
Ilgash said deferentially, "My lady, with respect, it is time to return."
Thoughtfully she walked up the path, pausing as she crested the slope to look back, seeing the monk now surrounded by children and thin-faced women eager for news. The memory lingered all the way to the ship.
A fungus exploded dully to one side, releasing a cloud of yellow spores. They drifted in the soft wind from the sea, the yellow tinged with red so that, for a moment, they seemed a spray of orange blood.
* * *
"A parasite," said Clemdish. "A bad one. Get a spore on your bare skin and you're in real trouble."
Dumarest wiped the other's sweating face.
"Trouble," said Clemdish. "That's a joke. Who needs trouble when they've got me?"
"You had bad luck," said Dumarest. "It could have happened to anyone."
"I didn't listen," said the small man. "You warned me, but I wouldn't listen. I was greedy. I wanted it all. Now what have I got? A busted spine and ribs tearing my lungs to shreds." He coughed and dabbed at the fringe of blood around his mouth. "A cripple," he said bitterly, "a helpless cripple."
He lay against one side of the tent, resting on a bed of soft fungi, his almost naked body glistening with sweat. Rough bandages swathed his chest where Dumarest had set his broken ribs, but there had been nothing he could do about the broken spine.
Dumarest leaned back, his eyes closed, reliving the muscle-tearing effort of dragging the little man to a place of safety, of setting up the tent, of sterilizing them both and tending his partner's injuries. Since then it had been a matter of supplying food and water.
The water was running low.
"We've got to think of something," said Clemdish. "I'm no help like this. Hell, Earl, what can we do?"
Dumarest opened his eyes. "You know the answer to that."
"Split," said Clemdish.
It had been obvious all along. Only a raft could move the injured man and a raft could only be obtained at the station. Dumarest would have to climb the slope alone, descend the far side and make his way back in safety. Even a twisted ankle could mean death for them both.
"There's no hurry," said Dumarest. "Try and get some sleep while I gather supplies."
Outside the tent he straightened and crossed to where the clump of golden spore stood in fantastic splendor. Transparent plastic bags covered the pointed caps, the thin material hanging loose from the binding almost filled with the precious spores. Dumarest slapped each cap smartly with the palm of his hand, watching for the yield. No further spores dropped from the gills of the open caps; the harvest was complete.
Carefully he loosened the bindings, removed the bags from the caps and lashed tight the open necks. Trapped air ballooned the sacks into globes several feet across. Later he would expel the air, transfer the spores to storage containers and seal them against infection. He went to where a clump of liver-colored fronds shaded the tent, and tucked the sacks out of sight. Draping the straps of the canteens over his shoulder he began a cautious descent to the sea.
While waiting for the harvest there had been time to cut steps, drape ropes and set stakes so as to make the descent possible. He swung and dropped into shallow water. A tiny inlet showed a patch of cleared dirt where he had dug a well. Clear water covered the bottom. Dumarest hoped that it would be drinkable.
Dropping onto his stomach, he let the empty canteens fall into the liquid, bubbles of air rising from their mouths as water forced its way into the containers. Leaning farther over the edge of the pit, he sealed them while still immersed. Rising, he stood looking over the sea.
Fifty yards from where he stood something traced a thin line across the leaden waves.
In contrast to the land, there was animal life in the sea, strange aquatic beasts rarely seen and rarely caught. Out in the deep water they browsed on submarine growths and smaller species, able to survive in a medium which was proof against the ubiquitous parasitical spores dominating the land.
Protein, thought Dumarest. Good, solid food to build strength, chemicals and drugs, minerals too, even. Endless riches waiting to be exploited but which never would be. The initial investment would be too great, the immediate return too small, and there were so many other worlds offering just as much for far less effort, a billion worlds, perhaps. Slinging the canteens over his shoulder, Dumarest turned to the cliff and commenced the climb to the upper slope.
There he would find edible fungi and medicinal caps whose hallucinogens could offer Clemdish a means of easing his pain. He would lie in a drugged fantasy, waking to eat and drink and chew more of the caps and to sink again into a restful oblivion.
Dumarest reached the top of the cliff and eased himself over the edge. Rising, he made his way towards the tent.
He froze as he saw the raft.
Chapter Nine
It was Zopolis's scout raft and must have arrived while he was busy at the foot of the cliff getting the water. For a moment Dumarest thought that someone had missed them and had sent out a rescue party, Wandara or the agent himself, perhaps. Then he heard a cold voice and the hope died.
"You there, come forward! Slowly!"
A man stood before a clump of fungus in which he had hidden. The gun in his hand was a primitive slug-thrower and he held it aimed directly at Dumarest's stomach.
"That's right," he said as Dumarest obeyed. "You're a man of sense, just stay that way. Now the machete, get rid of it." The gun jerked a little in his hand. "Careful now. Try anything stupid and you'll get a bullet right smack in the gut."
He was one of the three men Ewan had pointed out back at the station. Another sat at the controls of the raft, his face impassive behind the transparency of his suit. Dumarest did not see the third.
"Hurry!" snapped the man with the gun. "The machete. Move."
Dumarest dropped his left hand to the hilt, unsheathed it and threw it to one side. It landed point first and stood quivering in the dirt. Deliberately he let the canteens fall from his shoulder. "You're late," he said. "What kept you?"
"You're smart," said the man with the gun. "Maybe too smart. You expected us?"
"You were looking for us days ago. We saw you from the other side of the range." Dumarest looked around. Where was the third man? "We could make a deal," he suggested. "We need transport back to the station and we're willing to pay for it."
"Forget it!"
"Three high passages, honest money and no trouble. A quick profit and no complaints." Casually Dumarest added, "Where's your friend?"
"Looking for me?" The third man came from the direction of the tent. He held a knife in his hand, its point stained with blood. "No good," he said to the man with the gun. "He couldn't take it. Maybe this character can sing as well as argue?"
"Maybe." The gun jerked again. "All right, friend. Where is it? The golden spore," he snapped as Dumarest didn't answer. "You've harvested it and put it somewhere. We want it. If you don't hand it over, we'll get rough."
"Kill me and you'll never find it," said Dumarest evenly. His eyes darted from side to side, weighing his chances. The man in the raft could be temporarily ignored, as could the man with the knife. If he could find some way to down the man with the gun and get it perhaps, he might stand a chance.
The one with the knife tittered. "Who said anything about killing you?" he demanded. "We wouldn't do that. Cut you up a little, maybe, but not kill you, not right away." He gestured with the blade towards the tent. "Why don't you take a look at your friend? He might help you to make up your mind."