Lacking the essential body-fat which alone could maintain life while in the casket. Metabolism, slowed, still demanded energy and many traveling Low starved before or during resurrection.
Lowish said, "What happened to the others?"
'There are only two caskets," said Dumarest. "Did you find any food?"
"No food and no water. The cargo is made up synthetics and manufactured goods. Valuable but inedible."
"They starved," said Treibig. "But what happened to the bodies? Maybe they — " He broke off, shrugging. "Why guess? The man can give us the answer."
He sat beside the casket, shivering, the cup of basic trembling in his hands. Food brought from the Geniat together with other items. Patiently Dumarest waited until the container was empty.
"What happened? Tell me."
"Later," said Chagal. "He's in no condition yet."
"Have you ever ridden Low?" Dumarest stared at the physician. "I have. I know what he's capable of. What happened, Yemm? Tell me."
The story was much the same as he had read from the log. The warp, the strange forces which had seized the vessel. The death and despair. The grim, final decision.
"With the generator gone we had no hope. Madness had taken too many lives. The food and water were exhausted. There was only one thing to be done. We had to utilize the caskets."
"Why you?" Dumarest leaned towards the man. His recovery had been fast. Already Yemm had stopped shivering and was in command of himself. "The woman had a duenna. The navigator was still alive. Yet they allowed you to take the one remaining casket. Why?"
"It was necessary."
"Why?"
"The decision was made. It was the only one which could have been made. I had no choice but to abide by it. To have refused would have been illogical."
"Why you?" Dumarest added, coldly, "I shall not ask again."
A statement of intention more chilling than any threat. Watching, Zehava saw Yemm look at his hands as if to find comfort and strength in their familiar configurations. A man who must know the position he was in. The ship and all it contained was now the property of those who had found it. His own life had no value. If he was evicted into the void who would complain? Yet he had courage. Not until Dumarest turned, hand lifted to signal, did he speak.
"The Lady Lucia was bound for Kruge there to marry the younger son of Tyrant Manukian. You will have noticed the color of her hair, the translucent quality of her skin. Her eyes, if open, would be emerald. She is the product of centuries of selective breeding. The son of the Tyrant has similar characteristics. On both their worlds it is the mark of aristocracy. The cargo in the holds constitutes her dowry. The duenna had sworn to defend her charge with her life. She did what needed to be done."
"She killed the navigator?"
"It was painless. She evicted his body into space. Then she sealed me into the casket. Afterwards, I assume, she followed the navigator."
A quick death instead of starvation and the torture of thirst. But why had Yemm received special treatment?
"The Lady Lucia has a malfunction of her nervous system," he explained. "It became manifest when she reached puberty. A derangement of the synaptic responses caused, it is thought, by a wild mutation which releases hampering elements from the endocrine glands. The condition can be held in balance by the introduction of living cells which act as beneficial antibodies."
He glanced at the casket holding the woman then back at Dumarest, his eyes darkly enigmatic.
"My tissue culture matches that of the Lady Lucia. My glands have been adapted to produce the essential antibodies. My life maintains her own. Without me she dies."
The cabin held traces of her presence; silks and rich brocades, a cabinet which held gowns, a box which held a profusion of jewels. Things which held the ghostly scent of expensive perfume as did the air, the books and covers, the papers scattered on the bunk.
Dumarest watched as Chagal probed among them. "Is it true?"
"According to what's here,yes."The physician straightened a computer print-out in his hand. This is a report from the Sung-Hagen laboratories on Kruge. It deals with tissue matching and is a copy of one I found in his cabin. He appears to have spoken the truth."
"Appears?"
"Anything can be fed into a computer. What he claims is possible, but hard to prove without tests. I can't run them. I haven't the equipment or the skill. But why should he lie? What would be the point? What could he hope to gain?"
Questions to add to others. Dumarest moved about the cabin, touching, imagining the woman who had occupied it. One warm with vibrant life instead of lying wrapped in the chill of simulated death.
"What would happen to her if Yemm died?"
"She would follow him. The synapses govern the electrical impulses which pass along nerves. Block or distort them and you get paralysis, disorganized muscular responses, failure of the brain to receive and relay vital information. Death would be inevitable and not pretty to watch."
"Why Yemm? Why not drugs?"
"Her condition may not respond to synthetics. It is safe to assume they have been tried and failed. Fresh cells given at regular intervals from someone like Yemm could be her only hope." Chagal added, "Think of it as a blood transfusion. A living donor would ensure a continuous supply."
Neat, logical, all of a piece as was everything else about the Evoy. Too neat. Too logical. Like a puzzle which had been constructed to carry a specific message, to bear an unmistakable pattern. Somehow it didn't ring true. The vessel had known madness, death, violence, murder, sacrifice and suicide. There had been starvation and the horror of thirst. Yet everything was clean, neat, the air sweet with the hint of perfume. Even so there was nothing tangible he could regard as proof as his suspicions. Everything could be explained by madness, habit or blind, unthinking obedience. A discipline which had tried to find security in the continuing of unessential tasks.
Dumarest returned to the hold where the caskets were housed. Yemm, dressed now in dark fabrics, stood at the head of one holding the woman as if at his station or on guard. His face was impassive.
Zehava turned as Dumarest closed the distance between them. She too had been looking at the woman in the casket.
"Well?"
"There are valuables in the cabins. Collect them and have them ready for transfer."
"What about the woman?"
"She can wait."
"With respect, commander, I must disagree." Yemm laid a hand on the transparent lid. "Even though the metabolism of the Lady Lucia has been slowed the deterioration of her nervous system is progressing. Unless she receives treatment she will wake an imbecile. She might not even wake at all."
"Chagal?"
"He could be right." The physician scowled as he studied the figure in the casket. "It would be a damned shame to ruin a body like that. Resurrect her and I'll supervise the transfer of tissue. Yemm will advise me on the correct procedure. He has all the equipment needed in his cabin. Do it," he urged. "What have you to lose?"
Nothing or perhaps too much. Dumarest looked down at the woman in her frozen sleep, feeling the turmoil of conflicting emotions. Of caution against the urge of old associations. To arouse her could be to wake a demon better left asleep, but to allow her to die could bring eternal regret.
"Do it," whispered Zehava. "Earl, you must!"
To press the right controls and to wait, watching, counting as the seconds slipped by. Living again in memory the experience of resurrection. To rise through layers of ebon chill as the eddy currents warmed flesh and bone and interior organs. Sensing the injected drugs which guarded against the agony of returning circulation. Knowing when the electric stimulator ceased and allowed the heart to beat under its own power. The resuscitator yielding to allow the natural function of the lungs. To wake as if reborn, hearing the pneumatic hiss as the casket opened, rearing upright, glowing with the euphoria of resurrection.