"Or what?" The man shrugged. "You want to kill me then go ahead-you think I like being like this?" He coughed again and almost choked on the fretted tissue which rose from his chest. Dumarest found water, held it to the carmined lips, supported the man while he drank. "Thanks, mister," he whispered. "You going to kill me?"
"No."
"Just leave me here?"
"You've got food, water and a gun." Dumarest eased the man's head back to the pillow. "Which way did they go? North? East? South?" He watched the subtle shift of the eyes. "Any heavy equipment? Rocket launchers? Field-lasers? How about supplies? How many rafts? Did they get much warning?"
The man said nothing but his eyes spoke against his will, minute flickers, little tensions, signs which Dumarest had learned to read when facing players over countless gambling tables.
Gartok looked up from where he sat on a crate at the far end of the hut when, finally, Dumarest allowed the man to sink into an exhausted sleep.
"Well?"
"They moved out late in the afternoon, heading north and taking plenty of supplies. They had rocket launchers but no field-lasers. It was a sudden move-Tomir sent urgent word."
"Damn the luck!" Gartok glared his anger. "A day earlier and we'd have had them!" He sobered, thinking, "Rocket launchers, eh? Light or heavy?"
"Light."
"A strike force. Men able to live on what they carry, lightly armed, highly mobile, ready to hit and run. But where, Earl? Where?"
Chapter Eleven
In the infirmary a man was sobbing, "God help me. Please help me. Someone help me." On and on, a plea without end in a voice which sounded as if it had come from a broken machine.
A good analogy, thought Lavinia, but one she wished she didn't have to make. Too many human machines lay broken in the room now crowded with beds. Too many voices muttered and mumbled in droning susurations, sometimes crying out, sometimes falling into a low, animal-like moaning.
Why did they need to suffer?
She knew the answer to that; slow-time was expensive and in short supply. Other drugs were also in unusual demand. Injured men were doped and bandaged and left to heal in full awareness of their condition. Heroes faced with their folly-no, she was being unfair. They had fought for her and to mock them was to be cruel. They had the right to look to her for aid. The right to demand that she give it.
"My lady?" A woman, old, her face seamed and withered like the skin of a dried fruit, had caught her by the arm. "Are you ill?"
"No."
"You look pale. This place is not a good one for you to remain in. And it is bad for the-" She broke off, swallowing, realizing to whom she spoke. Women had a common function but not all of them enjoyed being reminded of it. "You must be careful, my lady," she ended. "Why not leave this to me and the others?"
The old and the young and those with the stomach to stand the cries and sights of pain. The injuries. The burns and sears and torn and ruptured tissue. The ruin of what had once been men.
And would be again, she told herself. Nothing must be spared, money, pride, nothing.
But what sacrifice could she make to equal theirs?
She forced herself to stand upright, to throw back her shoulders and smile, to move slowly along the line of beds, touching those who were awake, talking to those who could hear, resting her hands firmly on those who could not see.
And, even while she walked and talked and smiled she wondered. Had the old woman recognized her condition? Some, she knew, had the reputation of being able to spot pregnancy in its early stages before any signs were clearly visible. An intuition, a sixth-sense, something which they could read and understand. How else to account for the warning? The unfinished sentence which caution had broken short?
Were unborn babies affected by external stimuli? Would the atmosphere of the place affect her child?
Science told her that was impossible, but was science always right? Or did she want an excuse to stay away and her own hopes and imagination were hard at work to find one?
Outside the door she took a deep breath. Inside the air was clean and scented with pungent spices and sprayed essences of pine and roses but, even so, that outside seemed better, more wholesome, more pure. More imagination or had she a greater sensitivity than she had guessed?
Idle speculation and of no immediate importance but one matter required her immediate attention.
Roland looked dubious when she asked him to accompany her.
"Ride, Lavinia? Is it safe?"
"Safe? What has that to do with it? I must inspect the herd and select stock for breeding and for sale. It should have been done before." Would have been done if it hadn't been for Chelhar. "Well, are you coming with me or not?"
He insisted on caution, riding slowly, keeping armed retainers close, sending out scouts to check the terrain ahead. A caution which would once have irritated her but now she had lost the desire to gallop and it was good to amble along and enjoy the warmth of the suns and the touch of a cooling breeze.
Warned, the herdsmen were waiting. They had assembled the beasts and urged them past her in line so she could make her selections. Yenne, the master-herder, sat on his mount close to her side, brand-gun in hand ready to shoot colored dyes at her signal.
"That, one!" she pointed. "That and that and that…" She glanced at him as he fired a blotch of ebon on the shoulder of a beast without her signal. "Why cull that one?"
"Weak in the legs, my lady. I've been keeping an eye on her. I'd hoped that her foal would be free of the weakness but it must be a dominant gene."
"The foal?"
His shrug gave the answer. Dead, of course, culled as soon as the fault was recognized. The mother, now caught in the general sweep, would shortly follow, bones, meat, hair and hide all put to good purpose.
The way of nature-only the fit and strong could be allowed to survive.
And the herd must be kept in prime condition.
As the animals passed and she continued to select the beasts Lavinia studied the old man. Later they would pick over the selection together for his final approval. It would be given discreetly, of course, sometimes by no more than the lift of an eyebrow, but he would not permit her to make expensive or stupid errors. But her attention had nothing to do with his skill or her determination to match it.
He was married, she knew, and had sired children. Would he have culled his own offspring?
Would Dumarest?
If the child she was now certain reposed in her womb proved defective in any way would he permit it to survive?
Small, yes, size was a variable. The color of hair and eyes was not important. The shade of skin would be determined by their ancestry. But if it were blind, or deaf or with a grotesque and swollen skull? If it had a split spline or misplaced features or internal organs wrongly placed? If it were a freak like some she had heard about which were displayed on barbaric worlds for the enjoyment of those with money to spend?
Dumarest would kill it.
He would do it with speed and love and mercy but the mite would die and so be spared the lifetime of agony and humiliation, the knowledge of inadequacy and the burden of handicap which had been its heritage.
He would spare it that, she was sure of it, as sure that she sat on her mount and watched beasts pass before her eyes. His face-she had seen it when he had killed. The face of a trait, not of a man, the naked determination to survive.
Would he condemn anyone to a life of hell?
She remembered the rumors of him having killed a wounded and dying man to give him peace. Would he deny that peace to his own child?