Scanned by Highroller.

  Proofed by the best ELF proofer.

  Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.

  Kalin

  #4 in the Dumarest series

  E.C. Tubb

  Chapter One

  IT WAS BLOODTIME on Logis and the captain was firm. "I am sorry," he said, "but I will take no chances. As passengers you are free to go or stay as you desire, but I must tell you this: if the perimeter fence should be penetrated I will seal the ship. And," he added significantly, "it will remain sealed until all danger is safely past."

  "You would leave us outside?" The woman wore clothes too young for her raddled features, her cracked and aging voice. "Leave us to be killed?"

  "If necessary, madam, yes."

  "Incredible!" Gem-fire flashed from her hands as they moved in the cone of light streaming from above the open lock. "To treat your passengers so!"

  Her companion, a scarred mercenary, growled deep in his throat. "The captain has no choice, my dear. His first duty must be for his ship." He looked at the officer. "Am I not right?"

  "You are a man of understanding, sir," said the captain. "As you say, I would have no choice. Bloodtime on Logis is not a gentle period. Usually the field suffers no depredation, but beyond the fence anything can happen." His eyes, flat, dull, indifferent, glanced from one to the other. "Those who venture into town do so at their own risk. I would advise you all to restrain your curiosity."

  A thin-faced vendor of symbiotes stared thoughtfully after the retreating figure. "He's exaggerating," he said. "Inflating the potential danger in order to keep us all nicely to heel."

  "Maybe he is, but he wasn't joking about sealing the vessel." A plump trader fingered the charm hanging about his neck, a good luck symbol from one of the Magic worlds. He looked shrewdly at Dumarest. "You've traveled, Earl. You've seen a lot of the galaxy. What do you advise?"

  Dumarest looked at the trader. "About what?"

  "You heard what the captain said. Do you think he was exaggerating? Would it be safe for us to go and see the fun?"

  Dumarest made no comment. From the vantage point at the head of the ramp on which they stood he had a good view of the city. It sprawled, an ill-lit shapeless conglomeration of buildings beyond the high wire mesh of the fence. It was barely night but already the red glow of fire painted the lowering clouds. The soft breeze carried the echoes of screams, shouts, the savage baying of a mob.

  The woman shivered. "Horrible! Like animals. Dogs worrying a bone. Why?" she demanded. "Why in a so-called civilized community do they do it?"

  Her companion shrugged. "It is their custom."

  "Custom!" She wasn't satisfied. Her eyes met those of Dumarest, held, with dawning interest. "A word which explains nothing. Why do they throw aside all law, all restraint?"

  "To cleanse themselves, my lady," said Dumarest. "At least, that is what they claim. Once, perhaps, the thing had purpose but now it has become a vicious habit. For three days the population of Logis will hunt and kill, hide and die." He looked at the flames. "Burn and be burned."

  But not all of them. Only the weak and helpless, those without friends willing to lend their protection. The old days when harmful mutations, the insane, the crippled, the physically weak and morally vicious were culled from society were over. Now old scores would be settled, debts and grudges paid, revenge taken. A few politicians would be hunted down for their lying promises. Some cheating traders, businessmen, company heads would be sacrificed to appease the mob. But, when it was all over, those in power would still remain.

  The woman shivered again at the echo of a scream. Her hand glittered as she touched the arm of her companion. "Let's go inside," she said.

  "We can sit and talk and play cards, maybe. Listen to music, even. Anything but this. I have no love for the sounds of violence."

  And, thought Dumarest watching, neither had the man. Not now. The mercenary was old and afraid of what the future could bring. A man who had too often seen the amniotic tanks, suffered the pain of wounds. Now he searched for a haven and the woman could provide it. She too had lived a hard life but, unlike the man, she had something to show for it. Jewels instead of scars. Together they could find comfort if not happiness.

  Dumarest turned, breathing deep of the night air, suddenly conscious of his isolation and a little envious of those who did not travel alone. Behind him the trader shuffled, restless, his eyes reflecting the glow of mounting fires.

  "Let's go down to the gate and take a closer look," he suggested. "That should be safe enough. We could take care and might see something interesting."

  "We might," agreed the thin-faced vendor. He sucked in his cheeks. "It seems a pity to come all this way and see nothing. It won't happen again for another year and who knows where I'll be then?" He nodded, deciding. "All right. I'll come with you. How about you, Earl?"

  Dumarest hesitated and then, slowly, followed the others down the ramp.

  * * *

  Guards stood by the gate, armed, armored and sullen. They were field personnel selected to remain stable during the three day period. They were carrying weapons which were rare on Logis— automatic rifles. These could fire a spray of shot as effective if not as lethal as lasers at short range. One of them glared as the three men approached.

  "You going out or staying in?"

  "Staying in," said the trader promptly. He squinted past the guards into the town. A wide road, apparently deserted, ran directly from the gate. "How bad is it?"

  "Not bad at all," said the man. His face was hard, brutal beneath his helmet. "Those who asked for it are getting it." His face convulsed in sudden rage. "Damn it! I shouldn't be here at this lousy gate. I should be out there hunting down the bastard who stole my wife!"

  "Take it easy," said one of his companions. He wore the insignia of an officer. "That's no way to talk. You got divorced, didn't you?"

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "She got married again, didn't she?"

  "So?"

  "Forget it," said the officer. "I'm not looking for a quarrel. But you volunteered for gate-duty. You swore that you had no grudges to settle and that you could use the extra pay. So you're here and you're going to stay here for the duration. Get it?"

  "Go to hell!"

  "This is your last chance, Brad."

  "—you!"

  The officer reached out and snatched the rifle from the guard's hands. "All right," he said coldly. "That's enough. Now beat it."

  "What?" The man blinked. "Now wait a minute!" he stormed. "I've got a right to—"

  "You're relieved," snapped the officer. "I don't want you on this gate. Now get to hell out of here while you've still got the chance."

  Dumarest looked at the officer as the man walked away mouthing threats. "He'll get you for this."

  "No he won't," said the officer. "Brad's a coward and a bully and that's a poor survival combination. He's made too many enemies and won't last until dawn." He sucked thoughtfully at his teeth. "A little insurance wouldn't hurt though," he mused. "I know his ex-wife. She's a decent woman married to a trained fighter. I'll tip them off about what has happened. Just in case," he explained. "Some rats have a lot of luck and Brad might just about make it to their apartment."

  "But that's as far as he'll get," said Dumarest.

  "Sure," agreed the officer. "That's the whole idea." He walked to where a booth stood beside the gate, to a phone and his warning call.

  Dumarest joined his companions where they stood looking down the road. There was little to see. Fires sent drifts of smoke billowing across the street. The sound of breaking glass came from the business section where shops which had economized on shutters were providing meat for the looters. A band of men appeared, lurched toward the gate and then disappeared into a tavern. Light shone from the open door but quickly vanished as the panel slammed. The trader licked his lips.

  "A drink," he said. "I could do with something to wet the gullet." He licked his lips again. "How about it, Earl? Shall we walk down to that tavern and order a bottle? Hell," he added, "why not? No one can possibly have cause to hate us on this planet, so where's the danger?"

  It was there: Dumarest could smell it, sense it riding like smoke on the air. The blood-craze of normally decent people suddenly relieved of all restraint. More. Proving themselves by being the first to accuse, the loudest to complain, the quickest to act.

  Among such people, how long would a stranger last?

  The thin-faced vendor moved restlessly. He was getting cold and bored and thought longingly of the comfort waiting in the ship. Also he should attend to his samples. That symbiote from Een: it was time he wore it. If he put it off too long the thing would encyst to sporofulate which, if not tragic, would be an inconvenient nuisance.

  A shout came from down the road. A man lurched from between two buildings, a bottle in one hand, a long knife in the other. He crossed the street, stood swaying, then vanished down an alley. Another followed him, a woman with long, unkempt hair. She carried a crude club made of a stone lashed to a stick. Crude, but effective enough if swung against a skull. On Logis revenge wasn't forestalled by poverty.

  "She's after him," said the trader. "Did you see that, Earl? She's tracking him down as if he were a beast. Waiting until she can sneak up on him and smash in his head." He chuckled. "Unless he sees her first." he qualified. "He wasn't carrying that knife for fun."

  "Murderers," said the vendor. He sounded disgusted. "Let's get back to the ship and breathe some clean air."

  The trader bristled. "
Now wait a minute—"

  "Murderers," repeated the vendor. "Not you, them. I enjoy a little excitement as much as the next man but what are we seeing? An even match? A regulated bout with ten-inch knives, first-blood winner or to the death? An even melee? Listen," he emphasized. "I've got a couple of symbiotes in the ship which will give you all you could hope for. You ever seen leucocytes chase malignant bacteria? With one of my pets you can really join in. Mental affinity achieved on a sensory plane and, what's more, the thing takes care of you while you feed it. Really takes care." He winked. "Guess what I mean?"

  "I can imagine." The trader hesitated. "These symbiotes come expensive, right?"

  The vendor nodded. "Tell you what," he suggested. "I'll rent you one. I've got a thing from Een which would suit you right down to the ground." He read the other's expression. "You're wondering if they're safe. Would I be selling them if they weren't? They're symbiotes, man, not parasites. They give you something in return for what they take. Look," he urged. "Ask anyone. The captain, the medic, anyone. They'll tell you the same."

  "All right," said the trader. "I'm convinced. Let's get back to the ship." He looked at Dumarest. "Coming, Earl?"

  Dumarest didn't answer. He was staring down the wide street. A flicker of gold showed in the distance. It vanished, reappeared with a sudden burst of resplendency, vanished again as a leaping flame died. It shone again with reflected brilliance, coming nearer, closer, with the sound of racing feet. Beside him the trader sucked in his breath.

  "By God," he whispered. "It's a girl!"

  She came running down the road, long legs flashing beneath the hem of a golden tunic. It was cut away from her arms, her throat, falling to mid-thigh and cinctured with a crimson belt. Flame red hair was bound with a fillet of gold. Sandals of gold hugged her feet showing the scarlet of painted nails. Her face was deathly pale, the eyes enormous, the red lips parted as she fought for breath.

  Behind her seethed a yammering, screaming mob.

  "They'll get her," breathed the seller of symbiotes. He looked pale, sick. "They'll run her down for sure."

  "Run her down and tear her apart," agreed the trader. He narrowed his eyes. "She's trying to reach the gate," he murmured. "With luck she might make it. Not that it'll do her any good but—" He broke off as she tripped and fell, naked flesh white against the gold, white and gold stark against the flame-bright cobbles of the street. "She's down!" he groaned. "They'll get her now for sure." He sensed movement, the shifting of the guards, the stir of displaced air. "Earl!" he yelled.

  "Earl, you crazy fool! Come back here!"

  Dumarest paid no attention. He ran, face hard as he estimated time and distance. He could reach the girl before the mob. He might just be able to reach her and return to the gate before they covered the distance. It was a thing he had to try.

  She looked up at him, eyes pools of green fire in the translucent pallor of her face. Her hands lifted, white butterflies of defense. "No!" she said. "No!"

  His words were quick, harsh. "I mean you no harm. Can you stand? Run?"

  She moved, winced. "My ankle—"

  There was no time for more. He stooped, gripped her wrist and hauled upward. The impact of her body was light on his shoulder. He felt the smoothness of her naked thigh against the palm of his left hand, the warmth of her body against his cheek. He ran toward the gate, seeing the faces of the assembled guards, their lifted weapons, the watchful eyes of his two companions.

  "Earl!" called the trader. "Behind you!"

  Something struck his leg. Something else clawed at his arm. He spun, lashing out with his free hand, saw a snarling face fall away. A man, quicker than the rest, had reached him and had tried to tear the girl from his shoulder. Dumarest set her on her feet and thrust her toward the gate.

  "Move!" he ordered. "Hop if you have to, but move!"

  "But you—"

  "Damn it, girl, don't argue!"

  He turned just in time to avoid an ax swinging at his skull. He stepped backward, caught the haft, tore it free and slammed the side of the blade into the wielder's mouth. He fell, spitting teeth and blood, screaming as feet trod him to the stone. A knife flashed in the firelight. Dumarest lifted an arm and blocked the blade. It slashed his tunic; the edge sliced through plastic and grated on the metal weave below. He struck out with the ax, felt it stick, released the haft as a thumb gouged at his eyes. He kicked and felt bone snap beneath his boot. With both hands stiffened he moved slowly back toward the gate: chopping, stabbing with his fingers, kicking, using elbows and head as a weapon. Lashing out, always on the move, always on the attack.

  Abruptly he was standing alone, ringed by savage faces, the moans and whimpers of the injured rising above the soft rustle of advancing flames, the ragged sounds of breathing.

  A man spat a mouthful of blood. "Listen," he said. "I don't know who you are but we want that girl. Do we have to kill you to get her?"

  "You could try," said Dumarest.

  "We can do more than that," said the man. "You're one against the lot of us. You're quick and you're fast but how long do you think you can hold out?"

  "Be sensible," urged someone from the rear of the crowd. "What's the girl to you? Hell, man, why lose your life trying to protect someone you don't even know?"

  "You've done enough," said a third. "Maybe you don't understand, so we'll let it go. But try to stop us again and you'll get taken apart."

  Dumarest edged a little further from the ring of faces. They were talking, normally a good sign: men who talk rarely act. But these people were degenerate rabble taking advantage of the Bloodtime to slake their lust for violence. They were talking to summon up their courage, not to arrive at a compromise.

  Dumarest glanced over his shoulder. The girl stood before the assembled guards, her eyes wide as she watched the mob. Why didn't she pass through the gate into the field?

  The first speaker wiped blood from his mouth. "She can't escape," he said. "The guards won't let her through the gate. Only those with booked passage are permitted on the field at Bloodtime. There's no sanctuary in there."

  Dumarest raised his voice and called to the trader. "Seegihm."

  "Earl?"

  "Get a message to the captain. Have him book a passage for the girl at my expense. Use the phone and pass her through when it's done."

  A woman screamed from the rear of the mob. "Mister, you're crazy! You don't know what you're doing. That girl's a witch!"

  "That's right!" roared a man. "A dirty, filthy, stinking witch! She hexed my daughter so that she aborted!"

  Others took up the chorus. "She called up a wind to rip the roof off my barn!"

  "I had a whole brewing ruined through her!"

  "My boy lost an eye!"

  "She dug a hole and my wife fell in it and broke a leg!"

  "I bought stock and went broke. She did it!"

  The shouts became an animal snarl.

  "She did it! She did it! Witch! Stinking, lousy witch! Kill her! Burn her! Flay her alive! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

  Dumarest retreated as they began to advance, then heard the frenzied shout of the trader.

  "Back, Earl! Back! It's all fixed!"

  He turned and dived for the gate, seeing the girl pass through with a flash of red and gold and gleaming white. The guards closed in behind him, presenting a solid front to the screaming mob, their hands tight on their weapons, their eyes oddly red.

  "Witch!" shrieked a voice. "Don't let her get away!"

  The mob howled, indifferent to personal danger, hurling themselves against the guards, their guns, the fence, smashing it beneath the pressure of their bodies, racing across the field to where Dumarest and the others ran up the ramp and into the open lock seconds before the captain sealed the ship.

  Chapter Two

  HER NAME WAS KALIN and she really was a witch.

  She sat facing Dumarest at the table in the lounge of the ship, watching as he shuffled a deck of cards. They were alone. Seegihm, the trader, lay in his bunk, a purple symbiote wreathing his neck, his eyes closed in a sleepless dream. The vendor was busy with his stock. The woman and her companion stayed in her cabin. The crew, as always, took care not to mingle with the passengers.