Mayenne

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

Earl Dumarest still seeks the mythical planet Earth . . . still roams alien and violent worlds. With him goes Mayenne, whose songs create joy and passion - or forgetfulness. Together they are cast up on Tormyle, a planet from another galaxy; a planet unique throughout the Universe. For Tormyle is sentient - the most powerful intelligence in the Cosmos, constantly recreating itself. Tormyle can be Paradise or Hell. Tormyle can manifest as a dragon or a knight on horseback, faceless behind the helmet. Tormyle understands nothing of humanity, of men and women, of emotion. And Tormyle will let no-one escape who cannot answer the unanswerable. (First published 1973)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 159

Sample

Dumarest heard the sound as he left his cabin, a thin, penetrating wail, almost a scream, then he relaxed as he remembered
the Ghenka who had joined the ship at Frell. She was in the salon, entertaining the company with her undulating song, accompanying
herself with the crystalline tintinnabulation of tiny bells. She wore the full Ghenka costume, her body covered, her face
a mask of paint, the curlicues of gold and silver, ruby and jet set with artfully placed gems which caught and reflected the
light in splinters of darting brilliance so that her features seemed to be alive with jeweled and crawling insects.


She was, he assumed, no longer young. No Ghenka in her prime would be found on a vessel plying this far from the center of
the galaxy; rich worlds and wealthy patrons were too far apart. Someone on the decline, he guessed, unable or unwilling to
meet rising competition, going to where she would be both novel and entrancing. Not that it mattered. Whatever her age there
was no denying the trained magic of her voice.


He leaned back against the wall and allowed the hypnotic cadences to wash over his conscious mind, dulling reality and triggering
sequences of unrelated imagery. A wide ocean beneath an emerald sky. A slender girl seated on a rock, her hair a ripple of
purest silver as it streamed in the wind, the lines of her body the epitome of grace. A fire and a ring of intent faces, leaping
flames and the distant keening of mourning women. Ice glittering as it fell in splintered shards, ringing in crystal destruction.
Goblets shattering and spilling blood-red wine, the chime of chandeliers, the hiss of meeting blades, harsh, feral, the turgid chill of riding Low.


“Fascinating.” The low voice at his side broke his reverie. Chom Roma held unsuspected depths of artistic appreciation. The
plump hand he raised to stroke his jowl, matted with hair and gaudy with rings, trembled a little. “Fascinating,” he repeated.
“And dangerous. Such a song can lead a man into memories he would prefer to forget. For a moment there I was young again,
a slim boy flushed with the triumph of his first sale. And there was a girl with lambent eyes and skin the hue of a pearl.”
He fell silent, brooding, then shook his head. “No, Earl, such dreams are not for men like us.”


Dumarest made no comment; softly as the entrepreneur had spoken his voice had been a jarring irritation. There would be time
for talk later, but now the spell was too strong and, he agreed, too dangerous. A man should not become enamored of mental
imagery. The past was dead, to resurrect it, even by song-induced stimulation, was unwise.


Ignoring the Ghenka he concentrated instead on the salon and the company it contained. Both were familiar from countless repetitions;
a low room fitted with tables and chairs, dispensers against a wall, the floor scarred with usage and time. The assembly a
collection of men and women with money enough to afford a High passage, their metabolism slowed by the magic of quick-time
so that an hour became a minute, months shortened into days. Yet even so the journey was tedious; in this part of the galaxy
worlds were none too close, and entertainment, because of that, the more highly appreciated.


The song ended and he heard a ragged sigh as the bells fell silent, the company blinking a little, silent as they regretted
lost imagery, then breaking the tension with a storm of applause. A shower of coins fell at the Ghenka’s feet and she stooped,
gathering them up, bowing as she left the salon. Dumarest caught her eyes as she passed close to where he stood, deep pits
of smoldering jet flecked with scarlet. Her perfume was sharp, almost acrid, and yet not unpleasant.


Quietly he said, “Thank you, my lady, for the display of your skill. A truly remarkable performance. The company is honored.”


“You are most gracious, my lord.” Even when speaking her voice held a wailing lilt. “I have other songs if you would care
to hear them. If you would prefer a private session it could be arranged.”


“I will consider it.” Dumarest added more coins to the heap clutched in her hand. “In the meantime again receive my thanks.”

It was dismissal, but she did not leave. “You go to Selegal, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“I also. It may be that we shall meet again. If so it would be my pleasure.”

“And mine,” said Dumarest.

Still she lingered. “You will pardon me if I cause offense, my lord, but, as you probably know, I travel alone. To one in
my profession such a thing is not wise. Also, on Selegal, I will be unfamiliar with the local ways. I am not suited to the
arrangement of business ventures. Perhaps, if you would consider it, something could be arranged.”


Dumarest caught the note of appeal, the desperate need that broke through the stilted formality which was a part of her professional
training. A woman alone, most likely afraid, doing her best to survive in a region foreign to her experience. Yet he had no
intention of getting involved.


Before he could refuse she said, “You will consider it, my lord? At least your advice would be of value. Perhaps we could
meet later—in my cabin?”


“Perhaps,” said Dumarest.

Chom Roma drew in his breath as the woman moved on to her quarters. “A conquest, Earl. The woman finds you pleasing and a
man could do worse than take her under his protection. Had she made me such an offer I would not have hesitated.” Envy thickened
his voice a little. “But then I am not tall and strong and with a face that commands respect. I am only old Chom who buys
and sells and makes a profit where he can. A stranger to courts and the places where the rich and high-born gather. A woman
can tell these things.”


“Some women do not regard that as important.”

“True, but the Ghenka is not one of them.” Chom glanced down the corridor to the closing door of her cabin. “She lives for her art and herself like all her kind. Could you
imagine such a woman living in a hut? Tilling fields or working in a factory? She needs someone to stand between her and the
harshness of life. A strong protector and someone to take care of unpleasant details. I wonder what happened to her manager.
Perhaps he tried to sell her and she had other ideas. A knife in the dark, a drop of poison, who can tell? These things happen.”
He shrugged, thick shoulders heaving beneath the ornamented fabric of his blouse. “Well, Earl, such is life. What now? Shall
we try our luck?”


Dumarest glanced to where the gambler sat at his table ringed by a handful of players. Harg Branst was a thin man with prominent
ears, his features vulpine and touched by advancing years. A true professional, he wore no rings and his nails were neatly
trimmed. He rode on a profit-sharing basis, as much a part of the ship’s furnishings as the steward and cabins. He looked
up from his cards, met Dumarest’s eyes, and made a slight gesture of invitation for him to join the game.


Chom spoke in a whisper. “Have you noticed his good fortune? Never does he seem to lose. Now, to me, that is against all the
laws of chance.”


“So?”

“Perhaps something could be arranged between us? I have a little skill, and you are no stranger to the gaming table. It would
be a kindness to teach him a lesson.”


Dumarest said, dryly, “At a profit, naturally.”

“All men must pay to learn,” said Chom blandly. “Some do it with their lives. We need not be so harsh. It will be enough,
I think, to trim his wings a little. Working together it could easily be done—a matter of distraction at a critical moment.
You understand?”


The palming of cards, the switch, the squeeze when, convinced that he could not lose, the gambler would allow greed to dull
his caution. It could be done, granted the basic skill, but unless the man was a fool the odds were against it. And no man
who earned his living at the tables could be that much of a fool.


“The cost of the journey,” urged Chom. “A High passage safe in our pockets when we land. Insurance in case of need. You agree?” He scowled at the lack of response. “A golden opportunity, Earl. Almost a gift. I cannot understand why
you refuse. We—” He broke off as if knowing it was useless to argue. “Well, what else to kill the time? Daroca has some wine.
Come, let us test his generosity.”


Dumarest frowned, the man was beginning to annoy him. A shipboard acquaintance, met when he had joined the ship at Zelleth,
the entrepreneur was becoming a nuisance. Deliberately he looked away, studying the others in the salon. Two dour men, brothers,
Sac and Tek Qualish, consultant engineers now intent on their cards. Mari Analoch, hard, old, with eyes like those of a bird
of prey, a procuress seeking to open a new establishment. A squat amazon, Hera Phollen with her charge the Lady Lolis Egas,
young, spoiled, eager for excitement and adulation. Vekta Gorlyk, who played like a machine. Ilgazt Bitola, who played like
a fool. The man who waited with his wine.


“Earl?” Chom was insistent.

“No.”

“You have something better to do? More study, perhaps?” Chom smiled as Dumarest turned to stare into his eyes. “The steward
was careless and failed to close the door of your cabin. I saw the papers you had been working on. Such dedication! But I
am not after charity, Earl. Daroca wants to meet you and I think it would profit you to meet him.” He paused and added, softly:
“It is possible that he might be able to tell you something of Earth.”


Eisach Daroca was a slight man, tall, dressed in somber fabrics of expensive weave, the starkness relieved only by the jeweled
chain hanging around his neck, the wide bracelets on his wrists. He wore a single ring on the third finger of his left hand,
a seal intricately engraved and mounted on a thick band. His face was smooth, soft, the skin like crepe around the eyes. His
hair was clubbed and thickly touched with silver. A dilettante, Dumarest had decided. A man with wealth enough to follow his
whims, perhaps jaded, perhaps a genuine seeker after knowledge. An eternal student. Such men were to be found in unexpected
places.


He rose as they approached, smiling, extending his hand. “My dear Chom, I’m so glad that you managed to persuade your friend
to join us. You will join me in wine, Earl? I may call you that? Please be seated.”


The wine was an emerald perfume, delicate to the nose, tart and refreshing to the tongue. Daroca served it in goblets of iron-glass,
thin as a membrane, decorated with abstract designs, expensive and virtually indestructible. A part of his baggage, Dumarest
knew, as was the wine, the choice foods he ate. Not for him the usual basic, the spigot-served fluid laced with vitamins,
sharp with citrus, sickly with glucose, which formed the normal diet of those traveling High. Everything about the man spoke
of wealth and culture, but what was he doing on a vessel like this? Bluntly he asked the question.


“A man must travel as he can,” said Daroca. “And it amuses me to venture down the byways of space. To visit the lesser worlds
untouched by the larger ships. And yet I do not believe there is virtue to be gained by suffering hardship. There is no intrinsic
merit in pain and, surely, discomfort is a minor agony to be avoided whenever possible. You agree?”


“At least it is an interesting philosophy.”

“I like my comforts,” said Chom. He lowered his empty glass. “The trouble is in being able to afford them. More often than
not it isn’t easy.”


Daroca refilled his glass. “And you, Earl? Do you also enjoy comfort?”

“He’s had too much of the rough not to enjoy the smooth,” said Chom before Dumarest could answer. “I can tell these things.
There is a look about a man who has lived hard, a set of the lips, the jaw, an expression in the eyes. The way he walks and
stands, little things, but betraying. As there is with a woman,” he continued, musingly. “You can tell the one who is willing
and the one who is not. The one who is seeking and the one who has found.” He took a mouthful of wine. “What did you think
of the Ghenka?”


“She has skill.” Daroca glanced at Dumarest. “More wine?”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Is the vintage not to your liking?”

“It is too good to be hurried.”


“As is interesting conversation. I contend that intelligent discourse is the hallmark of civilized man. As yet I have found
no evidence to shake my conviction, but plenty to uphold it. You are satisfied with the wine, Chom?”


The plump man dabbed at his lips, his second glass almost empty. If he caught the irony he gave no sign of it. Instead he
said, “She is more than skilled. The Ghenka, I mean. She is a true artist. Did you know that it takes twenty years to train
such a one? The voice has to reach full maturity and they begin learning as soon as they can talk. Twenty years,” he brooded.
“A lifetime. But with such a woman what more could a man want?”


“A place of his own, perhaps,” said Daroca softly. “A home. Children to bear his name and continue his line. Some men are
not so easily satisfied, as I am sure Earl would agree. The mood of a moment does not last. It holds within itself the seeds
of its own destruction. Passion is a flame which devours what it feeds on. The satisfaction of conquest, of possession, fades
to be replaced by new aims. The happy man is the one who finds contentment with what he has.”


Dumarest made no comment, sitting back in his chair, watching, savoring the wine. He was curious as to why Daroca should have
wanted his company. Boredom, perhaps, but that was too facile an answer. The salon held others to whom he could have given
his wine. An audience, then, someone to listen while he spoke? But why the crude and grossly coarse entrepreneur? Why himself?


Caution pricked its warning and yet the man seemed harmless enough, even though it was obvious he had arranged the meeting.
And even if he weren’t harmless there might be information to be gained. It was barely possible that he knew something of
Earth and, if he did, the time would be well spent.


Dumarest looked down at his hand. The knuckles were white from the pressure with which he gripped the goblet. Deliberately
he relaxed. Haste now would gain nothing, and hope was not to be encouraged. Also, Chom could have lied.


Quietly he said, “I understand that you have traveled much and far. May I ask why?”

“Why I travel?” Daroca shrugged, a gesture of pure elegance when compared to Chom’s heaving shoulders. “As I told you, it
amuses me to visit other worlds, to study other cultures. The galaxy is incredibly vast when c. . .