"Heldar," said Dumarest slowly. He had heard the gossip. "He was close?"
"He passed us on the path."
"Alone," said Brother Glee quickly. The damage was now done; all he could do was to minimize the probable consequences. "And there is no proof. We saw nothing to connect him with the crime."
"Have no fear, Brother," said Dumarest curtly. "I shall not harm an innocent man."
* * *
The crowds had thickened at the fair when Dumarest returned. A girl caught his arm; her face was dotted with luminous points and her hair a frizzled mass of silver and gold.
"Hello, handsome," she cooed. "Why look so grim?" He shook free his arm and pressed deeper into the crowd, his eyes searching.
Another girl, a blonde with tattooed lips, pressed her lush body against his chest. "How about me giving you something nice, good looking?" Her smile was inviting. "Nice clean sheets, full stimulating apparatus and something to get you into the mood. Satisfaction guaranteed, or a full refund." She tilted her head to where a space ship, blazoned with phallic symbols, stood close by. "Yes?"
"No."
"Impotent?" she snapped, then lost her sneer as she saw his face.
He ignored her, pressing through the crowd and using the advantage of his height. A man like Heldar, frightened perhaps, would find comfort in a crowd; he would not like to be alone until his nerves had settled. Yet he wasn't at the fair. The station, perhaps?
Dumarest strode through the dormitories, not finding the man he sought. He could be lurking somewhere in Lowtown, though it was doubtful, or the sheds, perhaps.
* * *
Wandara shook his head. "No, Earl, I can't say that I've seen him. Is it important?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Do you mind if I have a look round?"
"Sure," said the overseer, "help yourself."
The interior of the shed was silent, shadowed with equipment. Dumarest walked slowly down the center, his eyes probing to either side. Heldar could have entered by the door to the rear of where Wandara had been working. He heard a soft rustle, the sound of movement.
"Heldar?"
It came again. It was the sound of fabric sliding against metal, as if a man were squeezing himself between the end of a raft and the wall of the shed.
"Come out," said Dumarest. "If I have to come after you, you'll regret it."
"What you want?" Heldar blinked as he came from between two rafts. "I was catching a nap; you woke me up. What's all this about?"
"Come outside," said Dumarest. "I've got something to tell you." Casually he led the way to where Wandara stood at his bench. The overseer looked up and laid down his machete.
"Find him?"
"I'm here." Heldar stepped into the sunlight. "I still want to know what all this is about."
"A woman was murdered down in Lowtown," said Dumarest curtly. "I think you did it."
"You're crazy!"
"You were seen!"
"That's a lie!" Heldar looked at Wandara. "I've been here for the past five hours, asleep in the shed. How the hell could I have murdered anyone?"
"Just a minute," said the overseer. He looked at Dumarest. "So a woman's been murdered," he said. "So what business is it of yours?"
"She was a friend of mine."
"That's different," said Wandara. "You're lying," he said to Heldar. "This shed was locked tight until three hours ago."
"So I misjudged the time," said Heldar. "But why blame me if a woman got herself killed? I had nothing to do with it."
"The woman was hit over the head," said Dumarest. "She bled quite a lot. You've got some of it on your boots."
Heldar looked down, then up, his eyes frightened. "I didn't do it."
"There's an easy way to find out," said Dumarest gently. "The witness could be wrong. All you have to do is to go to the church and get under the benediction light." he explained. "The monks are good at finding out the truth."
It was by hypnosis, naturally, with the swirling mass of kaleidoscopic colors from the benediction light a perfect tool for the purpose. If Heldar was innocent there was no reason why he should refuse. "All right," he said. "I'll do it."
He walked past Dumarest towards the landing field, where the portable church was almost lost among the milling crowd. He reached the bench, the spot where the overseer had laid down his machete. As he passed he picked it up and, spinning in a blur of motion, swung it at Dumarest.
Automatic reflex saved him. He ducked and felt the blade slice off the crown of his hat. He jumped back as Heldar advanced and felt the point rasp across his chest, laving open the plastic and baring the protective mesh beneath. Then Wandara moved in, trapping Heldar's arm and twisting it until he dropped the blade.
"Hell," he said, "If you want to fight, do it properly."
It was an excuse for a spectacle. Dumarest felt the sun on his bare head as men rushed to make a circle, the avid faces of women appearing at their sides, the dust slowly settling as volunteers attended to the formalities.
"You'll have to strip, Earl!" His ebon face gleaming with sweat, Wandara looked to where Heldar was baring his chest. "He's good," he warned. "I've seen him fight before. Watch out for an upward slash on a backhand delivery; he twists the blade at the last moment."
"I'll watch out for it," said Dumarest.
"He's got a trick of dropping and slashing at the ankles, too." Wandara took the proffered tunic and threw it over his arm. "Do you really think he killed that woman?"
"Why else did he attack me?"
"I heard about it," said Wandara. "The poor bitch! Don't let him get away with it, Earl." He handed over a machete. "I'll have to take your knife."
Dumarest nodded, handed over the weapon and stopped forward, swinging the machete to get the feel of it. It was too long and clumsy for comfort. At the far side of the ring Heldar was accompanied by the men Dumarest had seen at the bar. They took his tunic and slapped him on the back.
"All right," said Wandara. His voice rose above the babble and brought silence. "This is between these two; anyone interfering can have his chance later." He looked from one side of the ring to the other. "It's all yours. What are you waiting for?"
He ducked away as they advanced, the scuff of their boots loud in the silence.
It was a silence Dumarest had heard before; the bated breath of watchers hungry for the sight of blood and pain, eager to taste the vicarious thrill of hacking a man to death. It hung over the crowd like a miasma, merging with the brooding heat of the sun, adding to the mounting tension so that men clenched their hands until the nails dug into their palms and women chewed orgiastically at their lower lips.