"That's what I said."
"Then that's what it'll have to be." Shem produced a bottle, poured, handed Dumarest a glass. "Drink to seal the bargain?"
Dumarest lifted the glass, pressed it to his closed lips, watching Shem's eyes. They lifted, flickered, fell again.
"How many ships are on the field?"
"Five-you want specifications?"
"No. Are more expected soon?"
"Two should arrive at dawn, another three before nightfall. We're pretty busy at the moment."
Good news, if ships were due to arrive then others must be ready to leave. Cargo vessels ferrying processed metals, others with loads of contract-workers, still more with imported staples. The workings made a ceaseless demand on men and machine replacements, explosives and tools-all which had to be fetched in from nearby worlds.
Dumarest said, "How are you going to work it?"
"I'm in charge of a bunch of workers. I'll get you a set of dungarees, you change, join the bunch and walk in with us. I can vouch for you, and arrange for a man to fall out so you can replace him. It won't be easy, but if we pick the right time it can be managed. I'll need the advance now."
Dumarest said, casually, "I've seen the gate. They check each man individually. How are you going to get over that?"
"I told you, they trust me. Hell, man, you want me to help you or not?"
"I'll think about it. See you here this time tomorrow?"
"Hell, no!" Shem lifted his voice. "Evron!"
Dumarest smashed aside the lamp. It fell on a mass of wadded nets, bursting, sending tongues of flame over the oiled strands. A thread of gun fire spat from the roofed section, the report of the pistol muffled, a vicious cough, splinters flying as lead slammed into the table. Shem cried out, falling backwards, the victim of bad aiming. Dumarest crouched, his shoulder against a wall, the pale frame of the door to one side. From the burnings nets rose a thick cloud of rancid smoke.
"Muld! The fire! We'll be burned alive!"
"Shut up, watch the door, shoot if he tries to escape." The voice was a feral purr. "Crell, Van, you drop from the back and go around the sides. Move!"
A trap, baited and primed. Only his instinctive caution had saved him from the closing jaws. But he still had to get out.
Dumarest tensed, pressed against the wooden planks at his side, felt something yield a little. Reaching out he found something hard and round, a float for one of the nets. He threw it to the far side of the hut, rising as it left his hand, throwing his full weight against the planking as it fell.
Wood splintered, nails yielding with a harsh squeal, smoke following him through the opening as he lunged outside. Something tore at his scalp to send blood over his cheek, and a giant's hammer slammed at his left heel.
Then he was out, running, dodging as a figure rose before him, one arm lifted, aiming, the hand heavy with the weight of a gun.
A hand which fell beneath the upward slash of his knife, the figure staggering, screaming, trying to quench the fountain of blood gushing from the stump of his wrist.
Dumarest stooped, snatched up the discarded weapon, tore the severed hand from the butt and, lifting it, closed his finger on the trigger. Three shots aimed low and in a tight fan. Three bullets a little higher, the second echoed by a shriek, the sound of a falling body.
Evron's snarling voice. "Back, you fools, he's armed!"
Dumarest turned. The man with the severed hand was leaning against a bollard, his face ghastly in the thickening dust, a crimson pool at his feet. Beyond him men came running, fishermen intent on saving their nets, boathooks and gaffs held in their hands. A near-mob who would not be gentle. Past the hut, leading to a ridge and a road, ran a narrow path.
Dumarest raced towards it, almost fell, regained his balance as bullets hit the dirt inches from his feet. Quickly he emptied the gun at the burning hut, threw it aside and headed for the road. A ditch lay on the other side and he ducked into it, crouching low, a blur among the vegetation which almost filled the narrow gully.
From above came the sound of running feet and panting breath.
"A set up," the voice was bitter. "Crell dead and Van without a hand. Shem-"
"To hell with Shem!" The feral purr was savage. "He should have handled it different, instead he must have aroused suspicion. Get the raft. He's got to be around here somewhere. We'll lift and drift. Move!"
"Why bother?" The third voice was cynical. "He'll go back to the woman. All we have to do is to get there first and wait."
"The woman." Evron chuckled. "Sure, why didn't I think of that? Good thinking, Latush. We'll meet with her and have a party."
Three of them, close, lost in anticipation of lust and bestiality. Within minutes they would be airborne and out of reach. Dumarest could wait until they had gone, make his own way to the field and do his best to elude the watchers.
But the woman had been kind. He rose, moving silently, a shadow among other shadows, seeing the three silhouettes dim against the sky. Two facing each other, a third moving away down the road, obviously to collect the raft. His hand dipped, rose, lifted with the knife, moved forward to send the steel slamming into the exposed back. As the man fell he sprang up onto the road and lunged forward, hands stiffened, blunt axes which lifted and fell.
Latush died first, his neck broken as he turned, eyes glazed as he fell. Evron was luckier. With the instinct of a rat he dodged, one hand clawing at his belt, mouth opening to shout or plead.
Dumarest hit him, bone snapping beneath his hand, the reaching hand falling from the belt. He struck again and blood spouted from the pulped nose.
"For God's sake!" Evron backed, his broken arm swinging, the other lifted in mute appeal. "You can't kill me, man! You can't!"
"A party," said Dumarest thickly. "Enjoy it you swine-in hell!"
He stabbed, the tips of his fingers crushing the larynx then, as Evron doubled; chopped at the base of the neck.
Like a crushed toad the man slumped, dying, vomiting blood.
"Hey!" A voice called from beside the smoldering hut. "There's a dead man here. God, look at the blood!"
"Here's another, shot. What's been going on?"
Murder, violence and sudden death. Execution dealt to those who deserved it. A threat eliminated and something gained. Money and a raft, the wealth they carried on them, the vehicle parked nearby. Dumarest could use both.
* * * * *
"Earl!" Ayantel stared from her open door, her eyes shocked. "God, man, you look like hell!"
Blood which had dried in ugly smears, dirt and slime on his clothing and boots, his hands begrimed, his hair a mess. He could have washed in the sea, but it would have risked too much. Instead he had flown high in the raft, looking, waiting, dropping down to the roof of her apartment, lashing the raft firmly before climbing down to a window, then her landing.
He said, quickly, "Let me in."
"You hurt?" Her voice was tense as she closed the door after him.
"No, but I could use a bath."
"A bath and a drink, by the look of it. What happened?" Her lips tensed as he answered. "Shem, the bastard! He sold you out. Me too. Earl, if Evron-"