He dropped his hand to his boot, touched the hilt of the knife, lifted it, threw it underhand toward the face behind the gun. The point hit, plunged into an eye, the brain beneath. As Brad fell Dumarest turned, the stiffened edge of his hand slamming against the side of Elvach's neck, sending him helplessly to the dirt.
"Fast!" Sley, gasping for breath, stared his amazement. "He had a gun on you, finger on the trigger, and you killed him before he could pull it. You killed him."
"Do you want to follow him?"
"No, mister, I don't."
"Then stay here. Move and I'll cut you down." Dumarest jerked his knife free, wiped it clean on the dead man's clothing and tucked it back into his boot. He picked up the gun and went in search of Shen. Elvach looked up as Dumarest dumped the man at his side.
"Dead?"
"Unconscious. Are there any more of you?"
"No."
"I want the truth," said Dumarest harshly. "Who set this up?"
"Brad." Elvach sat upright, rubbing the side of his neck. "It was going to be easy, he said. Move in, a quick snatch and away. One to work and three to watch, we couldn't go wrong." He sounded bitter, "like hell we couldn't."
"Who would buy?"
"I don't know. Brad had it fixed. Him and that damned gun." His voice changed, became a whine. "Look, mister, how about letting us go? You've gotten Brad. I've a woman lying sick, and a couple of kids close to starving. I made a mistake, sure, but I didn't know about the gun."
"You'd have killed me," said Dumarest flatly.
"No. Knocked you out, maybe, but not killed. What would be the point?"
To gain time, to avoid later recognition, to ensure their escape. They would have killed him.
Sley said, dully, "What now, mister? I suppose you're going to turn us in."
"That's right."
"Turn us in and collect the bonus, then see us lasered down at dawn. The gun'll take care of that. A smart trick which let us down. Brad should have fired and to hell with losing the loot. He was greedy. I guess we all were."
Greedy and stupid. Caught without the gun they would have been knocked around a little, interrogated, fined and set to work. A heavy fine which would hold them fast until the project had been completed, working for small wages, little better than slaves. But they would have stayed alive.
Dumarest lifted his whistle and blew three short blasts.
"So that's it," said Sley bleakly. "The end of the line. I hope you sleep well, mister. I hope you never have hunger tearing at your guts."
"Work won't kill you."
"Work? With that gun?"
"Gun?" Dumarest looked at it and, with a sudden movement, hurled it far into the surrounding darkness.
"What gun?"
* * * * *
For once Nyther was pleased. "Good work, Earl. A fine job. Four of the scum caught at once. A pity you had to kill one, but he'll serve as an example. Did you have to do it?"
"There were four of them," said Dumarest. "I didn't feel like taking chances."
"You had a club. You should have broken his skull and maybe smashed a knee."
"He had something, a bar. It could have been a gun."
"A natural mistake," admitted Nyther. "The light was bad and you couldn't have known. Hell, man, I'm not blaming you. It's just that a man like that could have friends. They might want to avenge him-you understand?"
Dumarest nodded, leaning back in his chair, conscious of his fatigue. It was dawn, the interior of the guard hut thick with stale air, a litter of returned equipment lying on the tables. The structure quivered to the endless roar from the workings.
"Did you get anything from the others?"
"No." Nyther opened a drawer in his desk and produced a bottle and glasses. Pouring, he handed one to Dumarest. "Any ideas?"
"Four men with a plan. And they knew just where to hit."
"You can say that again." Nyther scowled as he sipped at his whiskey. "Those crates held crystalloy components. Sold in the right place they would fetch a high price. Even if torn apart, the shammatite would be more than worth the trouble." A man grown old in security, he guessed what Dumarest was hinting. "An arrangement. Those men were working to a plan set out by a big operator. Right?"
"Maybe."
"Then why no guns?" Nyther answered his own question. "They shouldn't have needed them. Three men watching could have handled any normal guard. And once the scum start using guns I'll have a case in order to increase the guard allocation. You were lucky, Earl, in more ways than one."
Dumarest drank, slowly, saying nothing.
"Four bonuses-you can collect the cash immediately. No guns and the chance of a promotion. Interested?"
"I might be."
"I've been watching you, Earl. You're wasted at the workings. Any foot can handle a machine, but it takes a special kind of man to make a good security officer. He has to have a feel for the job, an instinct. You have it. It sent you to the right place at the right time. I need all the men I can get like you."
"So?"
"How about becoming a full-time guard? I'll make you the head of a sector. Twice as much as you're getting now with free board and lodging. A deal?"
It was tempting, and it would be a mistake to refuse too quickly. A sign of guilt, perhaps. At the workings men did not hesitate at the chance of extra pay.
"Of course, I'll have to check you out with Head Office," continued Nyther. "But that's just a formality. All they want is that you be registered in the computer. The doc can take your physical characteristics and do the rest of it. A blast in the shoulder-nothing to worry about."
Dumarest set down his empty glass, watched as it was refilled.
"A radioactive trace?"
"Sure, just a precaution and, as I said, nothing to worry about. If you take off without warning, we'll know where to look for you."