Urich wasn't to be invited-she understood well enough.
"Eunice?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think I can make it." She added, with venom, "I'm pretty busy just now. Or have you forgotten I'm to be married soon."
"My dear!" The raddled face was clownish in its pretense. "How can you forgive me? But the news-Myrna is so close. Just like my very own daughter. And you, to be married, well, well. To a fine man, I'm sure. How could it have slipped my mind? Sybil mentioned it the last time we met. Urich, isn't it? A pity he's an Outsider but-" Her shrug was pure insult. "We have to take what we can get at times. And they do say age isn't everything. A mature man can have unexpected compensations. Tomorrow evening, then?" Helga's smile held acid. "I'm sure you'd like to congratulate Myrna on her achievement."
The screen blanked and Eunice looked at her own reflected image. It was startlingly young, the face round, smooth, bearing a childish immaturity matched by her eyes, the soft line of her jaw. Blond hair added to the doll-like impression and only the curves beneath her gown betrayed her ripe femininity.
With sudden anger she slapped the screen wishing it was Helga's face.
Should she call Urich?
In a moment she was punching his number. If nothing else he would provide comforting reassurance as to his love and their future security. Impatiently she waited for his face to appear on the screen. Instead she looked at a stranger.
"Madam?" He was of the Ypsheim, his brand livid between his eyes, and dutifully polite. "How may I serve you?"
"I want Urich Sheiner. Isn't that his office?"
"It is, madam."
"Then where is he?"
"Absent." He added, "He is on duty in the plaza. At the Wheel."
On it a man was dying.
He was naked, wrists and ankles lashed to the rim, the wheel itself tilted so as to face the full glare of the sun. Dust coated the emaciated body and insects were busy at work on the wounds now caked with dried blood. The one who had wielded the whip had been an expert; the cuts, while extensive, were only superficial. Death would come from exposure and would not be soon.
"A hundred!" A leather-lunged man yelled the odds ten yards from where Urich was standing. "One gets you a hundred if you guess the moment of death to within five minutes. That's a ten-minute total bracket-how can you go wrong? A hundred to one! The best odds you'll get. You, sir? You?"
An accomplice in the crowd set the pace. "I'll take ten."
"To win a thousand. Time?"
"Sixteen hours fifty minutes." He added, "Tomorrow."
"A shrewd judge of form, sir. The thin ones have stamina." The bookie made out a slip and exchanged it for cash. "Now you, sir? Madam? Step up and make your bets!"
A vulture, but he wasn't alone. Others offered less odds for a wider bracket and they would shorten as time passed. Urich paced ten steps before the Wheel, turned, walked back to his previous position. The sun was warm on his back and shoulders, heating the helmet he wore and causing him to sweat. He touched neither the helmet nor the perspiration; as officer in charge of the detail he had to set an example. Even so it was hard to remain dispassionate.
"You there!" He snapped at the bookie. "Move away!"
"What? I-"
"Guards! Clear the area! No one within twenty yards. Move!"
Above him the dying man groaned.
It was a sound he didn't want to hear. Did his best not to hear, but it was impossible to avoid. For a moment he was tempted to use the laser holstered at his waist then sense returned and his hand fell from the weapon.
To kill would be an act of mercy-but the shot which ended the other's suffering would blast his own life to ruin.
"Captain?" A guard looked up at the groaning man. "He wants water."
Another mercy he dared not give, as the man should have known. Then he saw the young face and haunted eyes. This was a man new to the detail and yet to learn. But to him, at least, he could be kind.
"Take a break, soldier. Get a drink and duck your head. Fifteen minutes. Go!"
"Sir!"
He returned the salute and turned to see one of the other guards, an older man, stare at him with sympathetic understanding.
"Something wrong, Benson?"
"No, sir."
"You can take a break in turn when Carrol gets back."
"Thank you, sir. It will be appreciated." The guard looked at the crowd, the groaning figure. "I guess he'll be gone by dark. Midnight, I'd say." He inhaled, sweat gleaming on his face. "I won't be sorry to get back to normal duty."
He would be guarding the ships and patrolling the fence to make sure none robbed the Families of their dues. The Harradin and Marechal, the Duuden and the Yekatania-all had a vested interest in landing fees and taxes, cargo-tithes and repair costs. As they had in the auctions and markets, the open dealing, the free license which provided the main revenue of Krantz.
In which, soon now, he would share.
He paced on, turned, paced back hoping the sound of his boots would drown out the groans. A forlorn hope-only the excited shouts of the backers did that. A flurry of bets based on experience and greed. It took an effort not to let them annoy him. A greater effort to remember that, as a potential member of the Yeketania, he would be partially responsible for similar scenes to come.
"Sir?" It was one of the Ypsheim. A woman with a canteen in her hand. "Please, sir, could I give him some water? Just a little, sir. Please."
"It is forbidden."
"Just a drop, sir." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "One drink, sir, and in an hour he will be dead. I swear it."
Beneath the grime her face held beauty and her hair, rich and full, belied the dust greying the strands. The man's daughter? His wife?
"Captain." Her hand reached out to touch his arm. "One drink, sir, and he'll be at peace. Be merciful and I'll give you anything you want. Do anything you want." Then, as he shook his head, "For God's sake-what kind of a man are you?"
"Move!" Benson was between them, his baton held in both hands, pushing against the woman, sending her back into the crowd. "Get away from here! All of you-back! Back, I say!"
The incident was common enough and over as soon as started, but it left a taste which lingered. One which soured his mouth as Urich paced before the Wheel. A woman pleading to give the surcease of death. Killing from motives of love. She would have given him anything he'd asked for if he'd agreed.
Would Eunice have done that for him?
He imagined her standing as the woman had stood, young, her beauty masked by dust and grime, pleading with a man she must have hated. Pleading yet promising and willing to keep her promise. His daughter, they would have thought. As he had thought-but was it so strange for a man to marry a younger woman?
One young enough to be his child?