"I haven't and I'm broke. I wonder if you could help out? Find me a sponsor, maybe. I'm a skilled mechanic and can fix anything with an engine." He plucked at Dumarest's sleeve. "If you could fix me up I'd be grateful."
"Sorry," Dumarest didn't look at the man. "Try someone else. I can't help."
"Can't or won't?"
Dumarest turned and looked at the speaker. He was a big man with sullen, angry eyes. "Both," he said coldly. "Now take your hand off my sleeve before I break your arm."
He turned as the line moved forward, eyes somber as he looked at the fence, the cluster of men standing beyond the gate. The houses of the town were primitive, built of logs caulked with clay, blending into the background of trees in rural harmony. A row of antigrav rafts seemed an anachronism, as did the suspended lights and the bulk of machines to one side. Harvesters, he guessed, to be expected on an agricultural planet.
"Your name?" The inspector looked at the man just ahead.
"Bastedo."
"Sponsor?"
"None." The man lifted his bag and set it on the edge of the table. "I am a seller of agricultural machines. I have a full set of three-dimensional slides, holograms and working miniatures of the items for which I am agent."
The inspector checked his computer. "I have no record of your clearance. Entry denied."
"What?" Anger mottled the face of the trader. "Now you see here! I'm a legitimate businessman and you have no right to refuse me entry. Just who are you, anyway? I've got-" He broke off as two armed guards, wearing the same red and black as the inspector, moved forward at a signal.
"Now listen to me," said the officer coldly. "If you argue you will be detained. If you resist you will be shot. Is that clearly understood?"
Gulping, the trader nodded.
"Loame is a tributary world of Technos," explained the inspector. "As you have no clearance from that planet you are deemed to be an undesirable alien. As such you are denied entry. You now have a choice of action. You can take passage on the next vessel to leave or, if you have no money, you will be given a Low passage to Technos. There you will be put to work until the debt is paid."
"And how do I go about getting a clearance?"
"You don't," said the inspector. "Those of your profession are unwanted on this world. Next?"
Dumarest shouldered aside the trader. He gave his name and added, "I am a traveler. I carry a message which I am to deliver to a resident of this world. To Grower Lemain. His address-"
"Never mind that." The inspector's eyes were calculating as he looked at Dumarest. "Are you a resident of the Technos complex?"
He restrained the impulse to lie. A resident would carry papers, have easily verifiable information which the inspector could check. The only lies safe here were those impossible to disprove. "No."
"This message, what is it?"
"A few words from a dying man," said Dumarest. He added, lying. "He saved my life at the cost of his own. That is why I am here. I made him a promise and I'm superstitious about such things."
"I see." The officer manipulated his computer,, frowning, his fingers dancing on the keys. "The name of the dead man?"
"Lemain. Carl Lemain."
"His relationship to the man you wish to see?"
"His younger brother."
The officer leaned back, his eyes enigmatic. "You have no objection to giving him this message in my presence?"
"No," said Dumarest. "None at all."
Chapter Three
THE MEETING had been like all the other meetings they had held since the trouble began. Individuals each seeking to gain an advantage, none ready to yield to the common good. And though he could see the force of Colton's reasoning, Quendis wasn't going to be the first to give money and manpower without seeing a chance of immediate return. It was all very well for the chairman to rail and threaten but he held no lands and he refused to understand the motivations of those who did. The land was everything; to tend it was a man's reason for existence. To work together was one thing; to make sacrifices so that another would gain was something else. The agent was asking too much with his talk of pooled resources and shared labor.
Outside the meeting hall Quendis looked at the sun, well past zenith, and wondered what to do now that he was in town with time to spare. Visit the field? A vessel had arrived and old hopes refused to die. Sternly he repressed them. There would be officers at the gate and their curiosity must not be aroused. It was not in his pattern of behavior to visit the field-to break that pattern was to invite interrogation.
He started as a hand touched his arm from behind, feeling the sudden acceleration of his heart as he saw the hated red and black.
The soldier was curt. "Is your name Lemain?"
"I am Grower Lemain." Quendis stressed the title. "What do you want?"
"You will accompany me to the gate." The soldier ignored the question. "Immediately."
Perplexed, he followed the soldier, conscious of the wondering stares of others, the growers who had attended the meeting, the workers lounging around. Too many workers; at this time of year they should be in the fields tending the crops and readying for harvest. They must be some of the dispossessed, he thought. Men and women from the overrun farms who had not been able to attach themselves to another house. Now they hung around the field, eager to work at any degrading task, some even taking Low passage from the planet, their strength and the strength of their children forever lost to the soil of Loame.
"Wait here." The soldier moved on without waiting to see if he was obeyed and again Quendis felt a surge of irritation at his aggression. Give a man a uniform, he thought, give him a gun and you create a monster. He stiffened as an officer beckoned to him from the gate.
"You are Lemain?"
"I am Grower Lemain."
"There is a man here with a message for you." Like the soldier, the officer was curt. He turned to Dumarest. "Give it to him."
Quendis drew in his breath as he looked at the stranger. He wore a high collared tunic with full sleeves, pants thrust into knee boots, all of a neutral gray plastic. The lines and hollows of his face were hard, the mouth firm, the jaw determined. The face of a man, he thought, who had early learned to live without the protection of Guild, House or Organization. And he had come bearing a message. God grant that he be discreet!
"It's from your brother," said Dumarest, "I am sorry to tell you that he is dead."
Carl dead! Quendis felt his shoulders sag and did not have to counterfeit an expression of grief. He had loved his younger brother. But what message had he sent? He cleared his throat, not daring to look at the inspector, knowing that he drank in every word, watched every change of feature.
"You bring bad news," he said to Dumarest. "The message?"
"He asked you to forgive him. He said that he had been a boy and had felt a boy's anger at Susan's choice. He said for me to tell you that he loved you both and that she had picked the better man."
Relief washed over Quendis like a cooling sea. Quietly he said, "It was good of you to bring me his last words. As you may have guessed we had a bitter quarrel and parted in anger. I would appreciate it if you would tell my wife and me the circumstances of his death. I would be happy if you would be my guest."
"You may accept," said the inspector curtly. "I will permit entry. You will report back to the gate in seven days." He looked at Quendis. "I hold you responsible for his appearance."
He turned and moved back to his table and his busy machine. Quendis followed him with his eyes then looked at Dumarest. "I have a raft. If you will please follow me, we can soon be on our way."
The raft was a commercial affair, a well three feet deep, six wide and twenty long, a weatherproofed cab at one end holding the controls and large enough for three persons. Quendis didn't speak again until they were flying high and fast, the drone of air a muted drumming against the cab, the details of the fields below lost in a blur of motion. "Your name?"
Dumarest gave it and added, "Your brother died on Clovis. Do you want the truth or shall I tell a pretty lie?"