The rest was a matter of mental intoxication.
Always, after rapport, when the grafted Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the body reassociated itself with the mind, came this period of supreme revelation. Hugas drifted in a limbo alive with alien memories and unexperienced situations, eerie thought and peculiar physical sensations. Thoughts like scratching whispers on the surface of his mind tantalizing with concepts of engrossing magnitude and unsuspected complexity. Scraps of overflow from other minds, the residue of powerful intelligences caught and transmitted by the massed brains of Central Intelligence.
The entity which, once having the secret carried by Dumarest, would have gained potential immortality.
Pangritz was a harsh world. Mines to the north fumed acrid dust into the sky and smelters added plumes of roiling smoke. Smuts drifted in the air and clouds of swirling dust hung low beneath a leaden sky. A world sacrificed to the gaining of wealth, disposable, a planet to be gutted, ravaged, left as a desert. One close to the Lonagar Drift.
"Kaldar?" The handler shookhis head. "No. We don't go there. It's too deep in the Drift. We wouldn't risk it even on full charter. The best I can offer is passage to Weinzt. You could get a ship to Kaldar from there. We leave in three hours. The woman can have a high passage but you'll have to ride Low."
Locked in a casket meant for the transportation of beasts, doped, frozen, ninety-percent dead. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.
Dumarest said, "I've a better idea. I'll ride High and work the table while the woman goes into the box. A deal?"
The handler stared thoughtfully at Zehava. She had changed the metallic dress for garments similar to those worn by Dumarest. A high-collared, long-sleeved tunic reaching to mid-thigh with matching pants thrust into knee-high boots. Clothing easy to clean and refurbish, popular among travelers for the protection of its mesh, the thermal defense against extremes of temperature. Hers was maroon against his grey, a gilded belt emphasizing her waist, her femininity.
"All right," said the handler. "Be there an hour before leaving. You can pay me now if you like."
"No," said Zehava quickly. "But we'll be back. Is Weinzt an easy world?"
"You'll get on fine," assured the handler. "Trust me."
Another ship. Another handler, this one more honest.
"You're on the right world if you want to get to Kaldar but we can't take you. Try the office," he jerked his head to where a low building stood beside the fence.
Inside a Hausi reached for a pad covered with jottings. "Kaldar? A ship leaves tomorrow, another next week. The one tomorrow is a private charter but I might get you passage — traders are always eager to cut costs. It'll be extra, but any passage will cost you double normal rates. The Drift," he explained. "Good navigators don't come cheap."
An official barred their path as they headed towards the gate, gesturing to where a ship was unloading. A file of men stumbled down the ramp urged by guards bearing short rods which they handled like swords. The men had cropped hair, wore rough coveralls and each had a collar embracing his neck. Criminals sold to work in the mines. None of them would last more than a year.
"Why do they stand it, Earl?" Zehava shook her head as she watched the shambling line. "They have no hope and nothing to lose. They are as good as dead so why don't they do something about it? At least they could kill a guard."
He said, dryly, "Have you ever worn a collar?"
"No, of course not, but what difference does it make? A collar doesn't make you a slave."
Not unless the love of life was too strong. The fear of pain. The rods could activate a mechanism in the locked band and turn every nerve into liquid fire. If unlawfully opened the collar would explode and decapitate the wearer.
Things they both knew. An experience he wanted to forget.
"The hell with it," she said. "Let's get a drink."
A tavern stood beyond the gate, the facade ornamented with bizarre depictions of an ancient ritual. The door gave on a wide chamber flanked with a bar and secluded alcoves all warmed by yellow light from glowing tubes. On a dais a girl writhed to the accompaniment of cymbals and a wailing pipe.
As Dumarest led the way to an empty alcove the music increased in tempo, the writhing become more abandoned until, with shocking abruptness, the girl froze as the music ended.
A moment of silence then coins showered at her feet as the audience yelled appreciation.
"A fool," said Zehava.
"Could you do better?"
"I was thinking of the first handler. Does he really think we'll be back?" She sipped at the wine a serving girl had brought and pursed her lips at its tartness. "He lied about getting to Kaldar from Weinzt. He lied about the planet, too. It's as bad as they come. Scum like that should be taken care of."
And would be, but not now and not by him. Dumarest looked around, noting some new arrivals, a trio sharing a bowl of stew, a man frowning over a handful of coins. On the dais a juggler had replaced the dancer, filling the air with glittering balls which formed a fountain of brilliance.
Zehava said, "Why did you try to book passage on that ship? There was no need. We're as good as home."
"So you told me."
"But you had to check, is that it?" She smiled, not waiting for an answer. "You're too suspicious, Earl. At times I feel you still don't trust me." Her hand fell to the satchel at his side, moved to rest on his thigh. "You will once we get to Kaldar."
Dumarest said, dryly, "We have a problem. You heard what the Hausi said. As things stand we haven't money for passage."
"You can get the money," she said. "We both know how."
By entering the arena, facing naked steel, risking his life for a fee. Pretending to be clumsy and slow and easy prey while she moved among the crowd using what money they had to make bets at favorable odds. Relying on his skill, his luck, her honesty.
Or to steal, to kill, to take from those who had. The way of the Kaldari. The way he must go if he hoped to be accepted.
"Don't worry about it, Earl." Her hand closed with warm intimacy on his thigh. "I don't want to take the chance of you getting killed and there's no need for either of us to risk wearing a collar. The traders here know me and will extend credit. It will pay them to help and they know it. I only have to get in touch."
She moved to where a row of communicators stood beneath a faded sign. A woman with a odd sense of humor or one who had submitted him to a test. Or, perhaps, she was taking a small and belated revenge — she had known all along that the traders would be willing to help her. But if she had waited? Forced him to a decision?
Dumarest looked at the juggler, the balls rising to fall to rise again. Symbols of a life in which every hour could bring a change of fortune.
Hollman Brasch raised his glass and said, "A toast to unexpected but more than welcome friends. Zehava. Earl. I salute you!"
He was smooth, bland, a man of middle years to whom the gaining of profit was a personal religion. Others at the table shared his creed; men who priced everything they saw, women who searched for every advantage. Traders with a vested interest in Kaldar and what the world could offer.
Rhia Styne, tall, dark, cosmetics masking her age, the hard set of her features, said, "I must say I envy you, Zehava. To have traveled so far with such a charming companion. I'd love to hear of your adventures."
"Is that what you call them, Rhia?" Marcia Tomlin, blonde, as old and as hard, cracked a brittle smile. "From the look of Zehava, I'd call them beauty treatments. She positively glows."
"Thank you, Marcia. You too, Rhia. You are both most kind." Zehava forced a smile. "But extra thanks to you, Hollman, the dinner was superb. On Kaldar I will more than repay your hospitality."