"Give me the lamp," he snapped, "quickly!"
The flame danced as he held it close to the faces of the dead men. Hendris had none of the characteristics of his companion, but that meant little. They could have come from different worlds. If they had grown up together it still meant nothing. If Brephor was the norm, then Hendris could have been an atavist; if Hendris was the norm, Brephor would have been a freak. Both, to Dumarest, were strangers.
He found the gun and examined it. It was a simple slug-thrower of cheap manufacture and used an explosive to drive the solid projectile. Dumarest threw it into the darkness. It was useless without matching ammunition and a laser was far more efficient. Handing the lamp back to Selene: he dragged both men into the shelter of the hut. Straightening, he looked at the woman.
"If you want anything, take it," he said. "But don't waste time doing it."
She hesitated.
"Strip them," he said curtly. "Are you so rich you can afford to throw away things of value?"
"You know I'm not. Earl," she protested. "But if I take things which may later be recognized by a friend, I shall be blamed for having caused their deaths."
"Men like these have no friends," he said flatly. "Let's see what they were carrying."
The clothes were ordinary, but of a better quality than they seemed. There was money, a phial of drugs from Brephor, spare clips of ammunition for the discarded gun of the bearded man, and five rings of varying quality and size, all with red stones. Also there were a couple of sleeve knives and an igniter and flashlight with a self-charging cell, but nothing more of interest or value.
Dumarest frowned as he examined the rings. "Odd," he mused. "Why should they want to collect rings?"
"They were robbers," said the woman, "raiders. They saw your ring and thought to take it."
Slowly Dumarest shook his head.
"They were spoiling for trouble," she insisted. "The cat-man must have sensed your presence. He was a killer desiring sport." Her finger touched the phial of drugs. "Doped," she said. "Riding high, and fast! When he went for your eyes his hand was a blur. If you hadn't been even faster he would have torn out your eyes."
That was true enough. Dumarest opened the phial and cautiously tasted the contents. A euphoric, he guessed, probably wedded to slow-time so that the effect of the drug would be enhanced by the actual speeding up of the metabolism. If so, Brephor's speed was understandable; time, to him, had slowed so that he could do more in a second than could a normal man.
Dumarest sealed the phial and threw it on the table. "Why?" he demanded. "Why should they have come here as they did? They weren't looking for shelter: they had enough money to buy that at the station. And they know you had someone staying at your home."
"Coincidence," she said. "They were looking for sport and changed their minds when they saw my face."
"They were looking for something," he agreed. "The cat-man attacked as soon as he saw my ring." He looked at it, a warm patch against his finger, and idly ran his thumb over the stone. "They had five rings," he mused, "all with red stones. Did five men die to supply them?"
"They were raiders." she insisted stubbornly, "men who hoped to rob and kill in the cover of the night."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "You are probably correct." He looked at the pile of clothing and the small heap of the dead men's possessions. "Take it." he said, "all of it."
Her eyes fell to where the two bodies lay sprawled on the floor. "And those?"
"Leave them to me."
The huts were built on the slope of a valley, the only feasible place on a planet where the rain fell with the relentless force it did on Scar. All through the thirty-day winter the skies emptied their burden of water, the rain washing away the soil, garbage and refuse, carrying it down to the valley which was now a small sea of ooze.
Dumarest picked up the cat-man; his muscles bulged beneath his tunic as he supported the weight. Cautiously, he walked through the cluster of shacks to where the ground fell abruptly away from beneath his feet. He heaved, waited, and turned when he heard the splash of the body. The bearded man followed, sinking into the morass, food for the parasitical fungi, the bacteria and the anaerobic spores.
Slowly Dumarest walked back to the hut. The door was open, the guttering flame of the lamp illuminating the interior and casting a patch of brightness on the mud outside. He paused at the opening; the dead men's effects had vanished from sight. Selene looked at him from where she stood beside the table.
"You're leaving," she said, "going to the station, back to the field."
Dumarest nodded. "You don't need me," he said, "not now, and it's almost spring. I would have been leaving in any case."
Her hand rose and touched the scar on the side of her face, the seared and puckered blotch which ran over cheek and neck. "You don't have to go, Earl. You know that."
"I know it."
"Then-"
"Goodbye, Selene."
He was three steps away from the hut when she slammed the door.
* * *
The rain eased a little as he climbed the slope towards the landing field where the only really permanent buildings on the planet were clustered. Here were the warehouses, the stores, the factor's post, processing plant, commissary and the raised and sheltered dwellings of Hightown. They were empty now. Tourists came only at the beginning of summer, but others resided all the year round.
One of the buildings, built solidly of fused stone and with a transparent roof which could be darkened during the time of sun and heat, shone like a lambent pearl in the darkness. Underfoot the yielding mud gave way to a solid surface and Dumarest lengthened his stride. Light shone on a trough of running water and he stepped into it, washing the slime from his boots before reaching for the door. Hot air blasted as he stepped into the vestibule; the air was replaced by a spray of sterilizing compounds as he shut the door. Three seconds later the spray ceased and the inner door swung open.
"Earl!" A man lifted his hand in greeting as Dumarest stepped from the vestibule. He sat at a table littered with cards, dice, chips and a marked cloth. Three hemispheres of plastic about an inch wide stood ranked before him on the table. "Care to play?"
"Later," said Dumarest.
"Well, come and test my skill." The gambler was a jovial man with a round paunch and thick, deceptively agile fingers. Busily he moved the three hemispheres. Under one he slipped a small ball, moved them all and looked questioningly at Dumarest. "Well? Where is it?"
Dumarest reached out and touched one of the shells.
"Wrong! Try again."
"Later, Ewan."
"You'll come back?"
Dumarest nodded and moved across the room. Tables and chairs littered the floor. An open bar stood against one wall, a closed canteen against another. The remaining space was filled with counters fashioned for display. Men sat or sprawled and talked in low whispers or moved languidly about. Del Meoud, the local factor, sat at a table and brooded over his glass. He wore the bright colors of his guild, which gave him a spurious appearance of youth; but his face was etched with deep lines beneath the stylized pattern of his beard.
His eyes flickered as Dumarest approached him.
"Join me," he invited. Then, as Dumarest took the proffered chair he said, "I warned you: do a woman a favor and she will reward you with anger. Your face," he explained. "You were lucky that she did not get an eye."
Dumarest touched his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingers. He remembered the razor-edged steel Brephor had flung at his eyes. Looking down he saw scratches in the gray plastic of his tunic. They were deep enough to reveal the gleam of protective mesh buried in the material. He dabbed again at his cheek.
"Let it bleed," advised the factor. "Who knows what hell-spore may have settled on the wound?"
"In winter?"
"Winter, spring, summer-Scar lives up to its name." Meoud reached for his bottle. "Join me," he invited. "A man should never drink alone, not when he is haunted by specters of the past." He filled a second glass and pushed it towards his guest. "I was the second highest in my class," he mourned. "Everyone predicted a brilliant future for me in the guild. It seemed that I could do no wrong. So tell me, friend, what am I doing on this isolated world?"
"Growing old." said Dumarest dryly. "You had too much luck, all of it bad."