An art collector seemed an unlikely prospect for information on the galactic coordinates of the forgotten planet Earth. But Earl Dumarest never overlooked any clue--and when he defended an art devotee named Sardia, he was unexpectedly rewarded by the sight of the painting she sought. For in its sky was the unmistakable features of cratered Luna, Earth's equally fabled satellite. Sardia said the painter of the picture lived on a planet called Ath--and that was significant. So to Ath they went, she to find the painter, Dumarest to find the source of the accurate lunar presentation. But Ath was not yet Earth, and between the painter and the seekers stood the ominous forces of the Cyclan and the enigmatic insurrectionists called the Ohrm.
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
188
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The Cap Kennedy (F.A.T.E.) Series (E.C. Tubb writing as Gregory Kern)
1: Galaxy of the Lost (1973)
2: Slave Ship from Sergan (1973)
3: Monster of Metelaze (1973)
4: Enemy Within the Skull (1974)
5: Jewel of Jarhen (1974)
6: Seetee Alert! (1974)
7: The Gholan Gate (1974)
8: The Eater of Worlds (1974)
9: Earth Enslaved (1974)
10: Planet of Dread (1974)
11: Spawn of Laban (1974)
12: The Genetic Buccaneer (1974)
13: A World Aflame (1974)
14: The Ghosts of Epidoris (1975)
15: Mimics of Dephene (1975)
16: Beyond the Galactic Lens (1975)
17: The Galactiad (1983)
Alien Dust (1955)
Alien Impact (1952)
Journey Into Terror (originally published as Alien Life (1954, rev 1998))
Atom War on Mars (1952)
Fear of Strangers (first published as C.O.D. – Mars (1968))
Century of the Manikin (1972)
City of No Return (1954)
Death God’s Doom (1999)
Death is a Dream (1967)
Dead Weight (first published as Death Wears a White Face (1979))
Escape into Space (1969)
Footsteps of Angels (2004) (previously unpublished work written c.1988)
Hell Planet (1954)
Journey to Mars (1954)
Moon Base (1964)
Pandora’s Box (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)
Pawn of the Omphalos (1980)
S.T.A.R. Flight (1969)
Stardeath (1983)
Starslave (2010) (previously unpublished work written 1984)
Stellar Assignment (1979)
Temple of Death (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)
Fifty Days to Doom (first published as The Extra Man (1954))
The Life-Buyer (1965, 2008)
The Luck Machine (1980)
World in Torment (originally published as The Mutants Rebel (1953))
The Primitive (1977)
The Resurrected Man (1954)
The Sleeping City (1999)
The Space-Born (1956)
The Stellar Legion (1954)
To Dream Again (2011)
Venusian Adventure (1953)
Tide of Death (first published as World at Bay (1954))
E. C. Tubb (writing as Arthur MacLean)
The Possessed (revised version of Touch of Evil (1957))
E. C. Tubb (writing as Brian Shaw)
Argentis (1952)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Carl Maddox)
Menace from the Past (1954)
The Living World (1954)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Charles Grey)
Dynasty of Doom (1953)
The Extra Man (first published as Enterprise 2115 (1954) & then as The Mechanical Monarch (1958))
I Fight for Mars (1953)
Space Hunger (1953)
The Hand of Havoc (1954)
Secret of the Towers (originally published as The TormentedCity(1953))
The Wall (1953)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Gill Hunt)
Planetfall (1951)
E. C. Tubb (writing as King Lang)
Saturn Patrol (1951)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Roy Sheldon)
The Metal Eater (1954)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Volsted Gridban)
The Green Helix (originally published as Alien Universe (1952))
Reverse Universe (1952)
Planetoid Disposals Ltd. (1953)
The Freedom Army (originally published as De Bracy’s Drug (1953))
Fugitive of Time (1953)
The figure was becoming far too bizarre in its depiction of pain. Thoughtfully Cornelius studied it, unsatisfied; no one locked
in a personal hell of torment should present the likeness of a clown. The jaw was disproportioned and he altered it with a
touch of the brush. The eyes, deeply sunken beneath flaring brows, held what could be taken for a glint of ironic amusement
and the mouth, gaping, seemed to bear the ghostly vestige of a smile. Only the body gave him satisfaction; thin, gaunt, the
ribs stark, the stomach a taut concavity, the musculature harshly delineated. The toes, like the fingers, were indrawn in
the semblance of avian claws.
A man suspended by lashings holding his wrists to a beam. One left to die in insolation. A simple theme—what had gone wrong?
Irritably Cornelius set down his brush and examined the painting with minute care. The background, a coiling mass of amorphous
vapor, was deliberately neutral as was the foreground, a raw expanse of sand and stone. The cross-beam, like those supporting
it at either end, was of rough wood depicted with the same lack of fine detail in order to throw the suspended figure into
greater prominence.
A man hanging, naked, lost in a universe of pain. One alone and beyond even the concept of hope. A human creature in the last stages of terminal agony. A victim. A sacrifice.
And yet, somehow, he had missed capturing the essential ingredient. To simply depict pain was not enough; there had to be
an affinity between the viewer and the subject. A delicate communication which would be marred by the slightest inconsistency.
Surely he had the details right?
Cornelius leaned back in his chair, thinking, blinking to sigh with vexation. No, he had not been wrong about the anatomical
details. A man so suspended would have the entire weight of his body thrown in a constriction against the lungs which would
require a constant effort to ensure an intake of air. Death would come by asphyxiation but before that would be the struggle
to survive, muscles tensing to ease the constriction, those muscles turning into areas of screaming torment when assailed
by cramps. And even when they failed to support the weight and so ease the constriction death would not come swiftly. A man
could hang in such a position for days and, if provided with a block on which to support his weight, even longer.
A thought, and for a moment he considered it, then shook his head. To add a block, while enhancing the symbolism, would ruin
the composition. A second cross-beam would have to be added lower down and would provide a distraction to the eye. An upright
surmounted by a cross-piece would serve, but that would eliminate the frame in which the suspended man was centered. No—man
was trapped in a prison and the beams were symbols of that. A cage grounded in dirt in which he could find nothing but death
and pain. A limited universe which held only anguish.
But how to convey the message?
How to eliminate the distracting hints of amusement in eyes and mouth? The touch of the bizarre? The glint and twist, the
subtle but damning suggestion that everything was a joke and death itself the final comedy?
“Cornelius!” The voice came from beyond the arched doorway causing little tinklings to murmur from the crystal chimes hanging
beside the portal. Ursula, of course. Who else could create music from shaped and suspended fragments of glass? “Cornelius?”
She entered heralded by the whispering chimes, tall, slim, graceful as she crossed the tessellated floor to stand beside his
chair. She was all in blue, a variety of shades which included her eyes, her lips, the sheen of her hair. Deep colors rising
from the sandals which hugged her feet, to her cinctured waist, the swell of high and prominent breasts, paling as they rose
to frame her softly rounded shoulders with azure, deepening again at her lips, her brows, the crested mane of jewel-set tresses.
“Cornelius.” Her hand fell to rest on his shoulder, long fingers tipped with richly blue nails, tinted skin a background to
the gleam of gems set in wide bands of silver. Looking at the painting she said, “Another composition. It’s superb!”
“No.”
“You are too critical. That man—I can feel his pain.”
“And?” He shrugged as she frowned. “Is that all you see? A man in pain—nothing else?”
Her hesitation was answer enough. He had failed and by working on now he would only accentuate the failure. Later, when less
tired, he would again examine the painting.
Rising, he applied solvent to his hands, ridding them of traces of pigments. As he worked he said, casually, “Did you enjoy
your swim?”
“It was exercise.”
“And Achiab? Was he also exercise?”
“When you are hungry, Cornelius, you eat.” She turned to look at an unfinished statuette. “You were busy and I was restless.
Achiab was a means of passing the time. We enjoyed an interlude, together, though, I must admit, I was disappointed. He was not as I remembered.”
“Perhaps he, too, was merely hungry?”
“Perhaps.”
“Or,” he said dryly, “maybe he was simply bored.”
She turned, stung, meeting his eyes as he finished cleaning his hands, her own eyes hard beneath the finely drawn arch of
her brows. For a long moment she stared at him and then, shrugging, turned away. A whisper came from the chimes as she headed
toward the door.
“Ursula—I’m sorry!”
She paused and turned, the suspended chimes catching the vibrations of her voice, providing a muted accompaniment to her accusation.
“You checked—why?”
“An accident.”
“What I do, where I go, whom I see—what are they to you?”
“It was an accident, Ursula, you must believe me.” He gestured toward the painting. “I was studying this. The figure seemed
wrong and I was checking anatomical detail. And then, I suppose—”
“You checked.” Her voice cut short his words, caused tinkles to stream like liquid notes from the chimes. “You asked and pried.
You had to know where I was and what I was doing. Why?” And then, before he could answer, she added, softly, “Is it because
you are in love with me, Cornelius? Is that it?”
A way out and to accept it would be to save his dignity. And there could be truth in it—-why else had he wanted to know where
she had been and with whom she had spent her time? A subconscious urge? An association of ideas? He glanced at the painting—no,
that was ridiculous. And yet love could be considered to be a prison and the victim of the sweet madness as firmly trapped
as any prisoner.
The sweet madness—why had he called it that?
“Cornelius!” She had moved to close the gap between them and now stood so close that her perfume was thick in his nostrils.
A heavy, slightly acrid scent, but one which went well with the full sensuality of her lips, the sexuality of her breasts.
“Why be so diffident? If you love me then why not simply say so?”
And if he wanted her the same. He had enjoyed her in the past and could again—the appetite she had spoken of was obviously
still unappeased. But it was her appetite, not his. As always after working he felt drained.
“Ursula—”
“Don’t say it!” Her hand rose to touch his lips. “I understand. We have been close too long for me to take offense. You were
concerned about me and the question slipped out and how could you avoid the answer? And I?” She shrugged and turned from him
to pace the floor, her sandals making small, firm noises, the echoes from the chimes turning into explosive chords. “I’m bored,”
she said, coming to a halt. “Bored.”
“You could find diversion.”
“What?” She waited as he thought, spoke as he blinked. “Well? What do you suggest? Gorion’s project for landscaping the southern
slopes? Sagittinia and her mobiles? Mitgang’s hunt? Belzdek’s drums? Debayo and his hopes of contacting the dead?”
“There’s—”
“Don’t bother. I know them all as well as you do.” The chimes caught the pad of her sandals and turned them into melodious
tinklings. “And don’t suggest I take up painting. Or building. Or manufacturing perfumes. Or—” She broke off, looking at her
clenched hands, the knuckles a pale azure beneath the tinted skin. Like a child she said, “Cornelius, what shall I do?”
“Have patience.”
“Wait! Is that all you can suggest? And while waiting?” She answered her own question. “Where is your tekoa?”
Silently he gestured to where an ornate box rested on a small table set against a wall. The lid opened to reveal swollen pods
brilliant yellow against the scarlet interior. Taking one she bit into it and felt its released pungency fill her mouth with
tingling sweetness.
“Your first, Ursula?”
“Does it matter?” She selected another pod and slipped it into her mouth, biting, chewing it and the other to a pulp. “You
will make love to me?”
“No.”
“You’re a fool.” Chewing she moved toward the window and stood before the high, arched opening which framed the vista beyond.
A third pod followed the others to fill her mouth and to muffle her voice. “A fool,” she said again. “Why refuse when it means
so little?”
But already the refusal was a thing of the past and the rejection of no importance. Nothing, now, was of importance. Not her
irritation, her boredom, her lack of diversion, the cramped routine of monotonous days. All were lost in the soft mantle of
the euphoria which enveloped her with memories of sweet pungency.
She felt nothing as Cornelius guided her to a chair, saw nothing as he turned it to save her eyes from the glare of the setting
sun, heard nothing as he left the room and gave her over to darkness and dreams.
From the shadows the voice was a plaintive wail, “Mister, please help me. For the love of God give me food. I starve!”
Dumarest walked on, keeping to the roadside edge of the sidewalk, giving the shrouded mouth of the alley no more than a single
glance. Someone lurked inside and he saw a lifted hand, a pale, strained face, eyes which held desperation. A girl barely
more than a child, dressed in rags, cheeks sunken, hair a mess, naked feet crusted with sores. An object of pity but on Juba
things were not always what they seemed. The girl need not be alone. A pimp could be crouching behind her in the shadows poised to
rise, to strike, willing to kill in order to rob. The girl herself could be a predator offering herself as bait or she need
not be a girl at all but a youth acting the part.
“Mister, please! Food for my baby! My body for a crust!”
The voice grew ugly and snarled an obscene curse as Dumarest moved on. He ignored it as he had the plea; to yield to anger
and seek revenge would be to run into a trap if the beggar were other than what she seemed.
“Mister!” A harlot this time, tall, thin, her face masked with paint, perfume enveloping her like a cloud. The figure hugged
by glistening plastic was lush and firm but her mouth matched the hardness of her eyes. “You lost? Lonely, maybe?”
“Lost.”
“Looking for something?” Her voice was suggestive. “A game? A girl?”
“The field.”
“You won’t find it in the Maze.” Her voice held mockery. “Drugs, yes, debauchery and degenerates if that’s what you want,
drink and all manner of dubious delights. But the field, no.” She blinked at the coin he slipped into her hand. “What’s this
for?”
“An entertainer should be paid.”
“An entertainer? But I’m a—” She broke off, laughing. “So I’m an entertainer.”
“And one with a way with words.” He smiled as she searched his face with her eyes. “And I could use a guide.” He added a second
coin to the. . .
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