Dumarest felt his stomach tighten as he looked at the tent. The thin plastic was ripped to shreds. Under the ruined cover Clemdish lay, eyes open, blood ringing his mouth. His body was cut in a score of places, deep, vicious gouges above sensitive nerves, the blood making a pattern of ruby on the white skin. He was dead. "He tried to scream," said the man with the knife casually. "But I stopped that. Cut out his tongue," he explained. "We didn't want conversation, only a straight answer to a straight question. I felt sure he'd come across when I tickled a nerve or two. That kind of pain will make a dead man get up and dance. But not him. Odd."
"He was crippled," said Dumarest, "paralyzed from the waist down. He couldn't feel what you did."
He had not felt it, but he had known of it, realizing the damage done to nerve and sinew, and not all of the cuts had been made low down. Dumarest drew air deep into his lungs, fighting for calm. This was no time to yield to blind, consuming rage; Clemdish was dead and beyond help or harm.
Slowly he walked back to where the machete stood upright in the dirt.
"So you see your position," said the man with the knife. He was enjoying himself. "You've got the spore and we need it. We've gone to a lot of expense to get it. So, if you don't want to wind up like your friend, you'll hand it over."
"Hurry it up," said the man on the raft. He had a harsh voice, heavy with impatience. "I've been out too long as it is. By the time I drop you off and report in, they could be asking questions."
"Relax," said the man with the gun. "Phelan knows what he's doing."
"That's right," said Phelan. He looked thoughtfully at his knife. "Give it to him, Greek. One slug in each knee. Fire at the count of three unless he comes across."
"You want the spore, you can have it," said Dumarest quickly. "You can have anything you want. Just leave me alone."
"Sure," said Greek. "We'll leave you alone. Just deliver the spore and we'll all be happy. Now go and get it before I get impatient."
"Please," said Dumarest. "Just give me a minute. Please."
He cringed a little, putting fear into his voice, almost running as he went to collect the sacks of spore. He opened the necks of the containers as he returned.
"I'll make them easier to carry," he said. "I'll tip one into the other." He stood, manipulating the swollen bags, making two from the seven. "There! Is that all right?"
Greek smiled and raised his gun. "That's fine," he said, and frowned as he realized that Dumarest was holding the sacks in such a way that they shielded his body. A bullet would pass through them without hindrance, but the valuable spores would escape through tho holes. Greed overcame caution. "Throw the bags to one side," he snapped. "Quickly!"
The man on the raft cleared his throat. "Hold it, Greek. Get the ring first."
"To hell with the ring!"
"It was part of our deal. Get it, or we could be in trouble. Unless you want to run up against the big time; I don't."
Greek snarled his impatience. "Quick!" he ordered Dumarest. "Hand me that ring on your finger."
Dumarest frowned. "I'll have to take off my suit to get it."
"Then take it off. Hurry!"
Slowly Dumarest obeyed. It was awkward removing the suit while holding the sacks of spore and he was deliberately clumsy, moving as if by accident closer to where the machete stood in the dirt. Death, now, was very close. To the threat of the gun and knife was added that of the parasitical spores. At any moment a ripe fungus could fling its lethal cargo into the air. Even now a minute spore could have settled on his skin and be thrusting hungry rootlets to the moisture beneath, to explode into frantic life.
Dumarest threw aside the sacks of precious spore. Automatically Greek followed them with his eyes, then, too late, realized his mistake. The thrown suit came hurtling through the air to settle over his gun. A shimmer of steel followed it as Dumarest snatched up the machete and flung himself after the suit. The pistol roared as he lifted the blade and roared again as he swept it down. Greek stared in horror at the stump of his arm, at the blood jetting like a fountain from the severed arteries and at his hand, still holding the gun, lying on the ground. "Phelan!"
Dumarest cut once more; then sprang aside as Greek fell, his life gushing from his slashed throat. He threw the machete. The blade spun, glittering with crimson droplets, and buried its point in the knife-man's stomach. He staggered, tried to throw his knife, then fell face down in the dirt.
Dumarest snatched up the blade as fire burned across his shoulders.
Leaning from his seat at the controls of the raft, the third man aimed his laser again. The beam again narrowly missed, cutting across Dumarest's side, searing the plastic of his tunic, fusing the protective mesh and burning the flesh beneath. Dumarest threw the knife.
The knife plunged hilt-deep into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He reared, the laser falling from lax fingers as he reached upwards, then he toppled, falling from the seat to the ground. Relieved of his weight, the raft lifted to be caught by the wind and carried away.
A bursting cloud of spores rose from the spot where the pilot had fallen.
They were yellow, tinged with the ruby light so they looked like a spray of orange blood. The wind caught them, scattered them on a vagrant breath and them drifting like smoke over the slope and towards the encampment.
Dumarest looked at them, then at his suit. It would be impossible to don it in time. To stay meant certain death from the parasitical spores. The raft was hopelessly out of reach; the tent was useless. He had perhaps three seconds in which to save himself.
Snatching up the sacks of golden spore, he raced down the slope and flung himself from the cliff into the sea.
He hit with a bone-bruising impact, feeling the sacks torn from his grasp; falling deep, until he managed to convert his downward motion into first horizontal and then vertical movement. He broke the surface retching for air and weakly treading water until his starved lungs allowed him to think of other things. To one side he spotted the sacks and swam towards them. There were two of them, their necks tied so as to trap the air. He turned on his back and rested his neck on the juncture so that a sack rose to each side of his head. Their buoyancy ensured that he would not drown.
But, if drowning was now no problem, there were others. Spores could drift from the coast despite the wind and he concentrated on putting distance between himself and the land. The exertion made him conscious of his burns. Fortunately the skin was unbroken as far as he could discover and there was no choice but to suffer the pain.
He thought of stripping; then changed his mind at memory of what could lurk beneath the waves. The clothes were hampering but would protect his body against fin or scale. Thoughtfully he stared up at the sky.
It was past the end of summer. During the next few days the fungi would finish sporing and the spores would settle. To be safe he would have to remain well out to sea until the autumn and the first rains, about twelve days, he guessed. Then would come the effort of reaching land, climbing the hills and reaching the station. It would be hard, but not impossible. The sea would contain food of a kind and some of it should contain drinkable fluid. The sacks would allow him to sleep and the wind would prevent him losing sight of the coast. Even if he drifted lower he could still make his way back. The sun if nothing else would guide him. It was a question of timing.
Something traced a line across the waves to his left He heard a muffled sound through the water lapping his ears as if an oared vessel had passed close by. He turned, resting his weight on the sacks, his eyes narrowed as he searched the waves. He caught a glimpse of a line crossing ahead. It circled, came closer, and aimed itself directly at him.