The guard shrugged. "You could, perhaps, arrange for a passage to another world. If you lack even the money for that then you will be confined to a special area. Those with work to offer will seek you out. In time, with luck, you could gain enough to move on."
A lot of time and even more luck. The stranded would have no chance of breaking free of the trap. Those offering work would pay only minimal rates and what money earned would go on food. It would be impossible ever to gain the price of a High passage. Even if a man managed to get enough to travel Low, riding doped, frozen and ninety per cent dead in a casket designed for the transportation of animals, the odds were against him. Starved, emaciated, such a journey would be certain death. Only the fit could hope to survive and even they ran the risk of the fifteen per cent death rate.
Dumarest said, dryly, "Usually when a man is stranded on a planet he has the chance of making his own way. Why the compound?"
"Desperate men are dangerous. Harald is a civilized world. We want no man-shaped animals hunting in our streets."
"And no paupers, either?"
"And no paupers." The guard looked over his shoulder towards the town. It seemed a nice place, tall buildings of at least a dozen stories rising above the painted roofs of sprawling dwellings. Even the field was well laid out, the perimeter fence tall and ringed with lights, the warehouses set in neat array. The compound, Dumarest guessed, would be placed well away from the public eye.
Lowtowns usually were.
"You have the deposit?" The guard was growing impatient even though his tone remained polite. Old enough to have learned caution he knew that a harsh and brusk manner would gain him nothing except, perhaps, a knife in the throat. And Dumarest looked the type of man who knew how to handle a knife.
"I have it." Dumarest counted out the money, thick coins issued by the Jarmasin-Pontianak Combine and recognized on a hundred worlds. He frowned as the guard held out a pad. "What's this for?"
"Your thumb print. It's for your own protection," the guard explained. "A receipt can get lost or be stolen but no one can steal your thumb print. The right hand and rest the ball within the square. Your name?" He wrote it down, apparently unaware of the momentary hesitation. "Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Is there any limit as to duration?"
"None." Now that the formalities had been seen to the guard was willing to talk. "Of course, should you run into debt, become a public charge or show criminal tendencies action will be taken. As I said we have a nicely civilized world here and we want to maintain our standards. If you run into trouble your deposit will be on hand to ship you out if the need arises. We don't believe in hurting ourselves to keep the useless." Deftly he changed the subject. "Are you here for any special purpose?"
"To look around. To work, maybe. There is work?"
"Plenty. You'll find details at the agency. If you want a hotel I'd recommend the Wanderer's Rest. It's a nice place, clean and not too expensive. My wife's sister runs it. Tell her I sent you and she'll do her best."
"I'll think about it," said Dumarest.
"You do that."
"I will."
That and other things. His name and thumb print registered at the gate, both obviously to be fed into a computer, a record impossible for him to erase and a signpost to any who might be looking. And some would be looking, of that he was sure. A mistake to have paid the deposit, perhaps, another way could have been found, but it would have taken time and needless risk. Speed then, he decided. He would do what he had come to do and do it fast.
Dumarest slowed and looked around. A wide road ran from the field now busy with traffic and pedestrians. Men and women, neatly dressed, their faces telling of comfortable living, wandered on either side. Shops with large windows of glass or transparent plastic offered a variety of goods for sale. Taverns echoed soft music and the scents of food.
A nice, warm, comfortable world and Dumarest could understand the desire of the inhabitants to keep it that way.
A car slowed to halt beside him, the driver, a young man with a peaked cap adorned with multi-colored piping smiling from his seat.
"Want to ride, mister?"
"No."
"I'm heading into the city. Half a deci gets you there. A cut-rate, mister, and why hurt yourself for a little money?" His smile widened as Dumarest sat in the passenger compartment. "Anywhere special?"
"You know the Wanderer's Rest?"
"Sure." Eyes too old for the face slid towards him. "It's a home for the senile. You want a little action then leave it to me. Some luxuries, maybe? A girl or two? Some gambling? Name it and it's yours."
"Just take me where I said."
Leaning back Dumarest studied the town. The buildings were all in good repair but with a pool of cheap labor readily available that was to be expected. As was the absence of beggars and the usual touts to be found at any landing field, but the driver had already said enough for him to know that what he saw was a facade over the usual vice.
"Right, mister." The driver held out a hand. "The Wanderer's Rest. Two decis."
"You said a half."
"Man, you're crazy. The fare is two. You want to argue I'll call a guard."
Dumarest looked to either side. Down the street he caught a flash of scarlet and emerald. Opposite a pair of women were gossiping and, lower down, a young couple walked arm in arm.
"Two decis." The driver snapped his fingers. "Come on, man, give. I've no time to haggle with a yokel."
"Two decis," said Dumarest. He fumbled in a pocket, leaning close, hiding the driver from view. The man squealed as fingers closed like steel claws around his arm. "Is a broken arm worth it?"
"You! I-" The man gulped as fingers dug into flesh and grated against bone. "No, mister! No!"
"Two decis?"
Sweat beaded the driver's face as he stared into the hard visage inches from his eyes. The hand gripping his arm was threatening to tear the muscle from the bone, to snap the limb. The pain of impacted nerves was a fire searing naked tissue.
"No! A mistake! For God's sake, mister, let me go!"
"To shout for the guard? To argue about the fare?"
"No!"
"Changed your mind about cheating me?" Dumarest climbed back into the vehicle. "Drop me in the middle of town."
It ringed a plaza set with fountains and flowering shrubs, shaded by graceful trees and dotted with convenient benches. Some children played at the foot of a statue; a cluster of men with their faces turned upwards to face the sky. It had been cast from a reddish metal now bright and smoothly polished. A man stood before it a duster in his hand. He was dressed in grey, wore a round hat and had a wide collar of dull, black metal clamped around his neck.
Dumarest said, "How much do they pay you?"
"Pay me?" The man turned, blinking. "Who are you, mister? Why do you ask?"
"I'm curious. Well?"
"I don't get paid," said the man, dully. "But for each day I work I get five decis knocked off my debt."
And, if he tried to run, the radio-linked collar could be activated to blow the head from his shoulders.
"What about your deposit?"
"What deposit? I was born here." The man turned to wipe his duster over the statue. "At that I'm lucky. They won't let me starve and I'm given shelter. My wife left me, of course, and my kid disowned me but, in seven years, three months and eleven days they'll unlock this collar and set me free."