He doesn't mean exactly that, she thought with sudden insight. He thinks that I lower my dignity by being here and, by association, his own. She looked at the children. Dignity? Among the starving, what was that?
She said to Brother Glee. "The children would require less quick-time and take up less room. We could take more of them."
"And what of the parents? They would willingly relinquish their children, but have we the right to present them with such a choice? Your husband recognized that we could not, and so the lottery. Some will be lucky; some of the lucky ones will yield their places to others."
He caught her inhalation of disbelief and felt her anger.
"You doubt that? You think the poor and desperate have no higher motivation than the beast impulse to eat and stay alive? Sister, you know little of the realities of life. You think your husband a fool because he does what he must; I tell you he is far from that. How often does the ruler of a world concern himself with the welfare of those less fortunate? You are indeed to be envied, having married such a man. There are so few who, having power, use it as it should be used, to aid and not to destroy."
She caught a reflection of his anger, the helpless rage born of frustration and the indifference of many, of watching children starve while men squandered money on things of transient pleasure, of seeing the arrogance of the wealthy and the unfeeling cruelty of rulers. Startled, she looked at the monk. The church, she knew, had power and many friends in high places. Where poverty lurked they were to be found but, also, their plain robes merged with the colorful garments of many a court. She compared him with Yeon. Cybers, also, graced the places of wealth and influence, but they never mingled with the poor.
She shook her head, baffled by novel concepts and a little annoyed because of them. Had she misjudged Jocelyn so badly? If the church regarded him with such favor could he be such a fool? More important, would they turn against her in times to come?
"My lady, it is time you returned to the ship." Ilgash was insistent.
"A moment." Adrienne looked at Brother Glee. "I am a stranger to Jest," she said. "But if you have no church there, you would be most welcome."
He acknowledged her offer with a slight inclination of his head. "You are gracious, sister, but the matter has already been arranged. A Brother will be accompanying you when you leave."
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.