The Terridae

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

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

Synopsis

Zabul was no ordinary world. It was a private religious sanctuary - location secret, visitors unwelcome. It was a world fanatically dedicated to one belief and to one goal. The belief that mankind originated on a single world . . . the goal was to find it. To find Earth was a goal that Earl Dumarest shared. But how much did he really have in common with the zealot Terridae, who slept in caskets decorated with the zodiacs and dreamed of soaring towers of crystal and floating cities? And what were their despotic Guardians really after? (First published 1981)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 158

Sample

The Dumarest Saga:

1: The Winds of Gath (1967)

2: Derai (1968)


3: Toyman (1969)


4: Kalin (1969)


5: The Jester at Scar (1970)


6: Lallia (1971)


7: Technos (1972)


8: Veruchia (1973)


9: Mayenne (1973)


10: Jondelle (1973)


11: Zenya (1974)


12: Eloise (1975)


13: Eye of the Zodiac (1975)


14: Jack of Swords (1976)


15: Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun (1976)


16: Haven of Darkness (1977)


17: Prison of Night (1977)


18: Incident on Ath (1978)


19: The Quillian Sector (1978)


20: Web of Sand (1979)


21: Iduna’s Universe (1979)


22: The Terra Data (1980)


23: World of Promise (1980)


24: Nectar of Heaven (1981)


25: The Terridae (1981)


26: The Coming Event (1982)


27: Earth is Heaven (1982)


28: Melome (1983)


29: Angado (1984)


30: Symbol of Terra (1984)


31: The Temple of Truth (1985)


32: The Return (1997)


33: Child of Earth (2008)


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 Tormented City(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)

He was small, brown, dressed in a jupon of scarlet edged with silver, a pointed cap on a rich tangle of curls and striped
hose on slender legs, a boy of about ten now caught in a mesh of brambles with one foot snared in the clamped jaws of a vegetable
trap. On each wrist captive bells made a harsh jangling as he waved his arms.


Dumarest had heard the sound as he crested the ridge and tracked it to its source lower down the slope. Now, halting, he eased
the weight of the pack on his shoulders.


“Are you hurt?” Dumarest frowned as the boy shook his head. “Can’t you speak?”

Again the shake of the head, this time accompanied by the thrust of a finger toward the opened mouth. A mute, trapped in a
prison of thorns, the bells his only means of calling for help. Yet would such a boy be out alone?


Dumarest turned, eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. On all sides the ground fell from the encircling hills to cup the solitary
town of Shard in a spined embrace. Matted grass broken with tall fronds bright with lacelike blooms intermingled with rearing
brambles. Sprawling growths reared twice the height of a man, bearing succulent berries and traps designed to snare insects
and small rodents. The branches and stems, some as thick as a man’s body, were covered with curved and vicious barbs.


“Don’t move!” Dumarest called the warning as, again, the air shook to the desperate jangle of bells. “Just stay calm. I’ll
get you out.”


He studied the ground as the lad obeyed, noting marks in the matted grass, the lie of stems. To one side a thorned branch
had been broken and sap oozed from the fracture. As he knelt to check for tracks he heard a soft rustle and spun, snatching
at the knife he carried in his boot, sunlight splintering from the nine inches of edged and pointed steel.


A rustle, followed by others as a gust of wind stirred the fronds and filled the somnolent air with the heady scent of their
perfume.


Rising, Dumarest slipped the pack from his shoulders and eased his way toward the trapped boy. Small and lithe, the lad would
have had little trouble slipping through the brambles, but three times Dumarest had to slash clear a path. As he reached the
recumbent figure certain things became clear.


The jupon was of cheap material, patched, frayed, the silver edging nothing but scraps of discarded foil. The bells were of
brass suspended from wires on either wrist. The hose were covered with darns and the pointed hat had been roughly made—unmistakable
signs of poverty despite their bright show, matched by the hollow cheeks and the too-bright eyes, the frail bones of the boy
himself. A basket to one side explained his presence, the container half-full of purple berries; a harvest painfully won.


“Steady!” The thin ankle trapped in the jaws was mottled with bruises, blood dappling the hose, evidence of frantic efforts
to pull it free. The knife flashed as Dumarest cut at the tangle of thorns. “Don’t move!”


Though mute, the lad could hear and understand and he remained still as Dumarest finished the task and sheathed his knife.
Bells jangled as he lifted the boy and he saw the extended hand, the determination stamped on the small face.


“You want the fruit, is that it?” He recovered the basket as the lad nodded. “Here. Can you walk?” He watched as the boy took
a cautious, limping step. “Too slow. I’ll carry you.”


A heave and the lad was riding on his shoulder, the basket held firmly in the small hands. Cautiously Dumarest retraced his
path, halting as, again, he heard a soft rustle.


This time there was no wind.

A patch of grass lay to one side and Dumarest moved toward it, throwing the boy into its softness as again something rustled
close. He turned, ducking. A club aimed at his head missed to whine through the air, the man holding it thrown off-balance by the unexpected lack of resistance. He was a
grimy, rat-faced man wearing garments stained green and brown, camouflage protecting him from the human predators who lurked
in the brush. He doubled, retching, as Dumarest kicked him in the stomach, staggering back to become hooked in thorned spines.


“Jarl?” The voice came from ahead, impatient, querulous. “You get him? You get him, Jarl?”

Two of them and there could be more. Dumarest lifted the knife from his boot and slipped to one side among the brambles feeling
the rasp of thorns over his clothing, the drag and burn as a barb tore at his scalp.


“Jarl? Answer me, damn you!”

A rustle and Dumarest saw a mottled bulk, the loom of gross body, the gleam of sunlight reflected from furtive eyes. A man
lunged forward, gripping a gnarled branch. His fingers parted beneath the slash of razor-edged steel to fall in spurting showers
of blood.


“You bastard!” Pain and rage convulsed the ravaged face. “I’ll have your eyes for that! Leave you to wander blind in the brush!
Jarl! Kelly! Get him, damn you!”


He backed, his uninjured hand diving into a pocket, lifting again weighted with the bulk of a gun. A wide-barreled shot-projector
which could fill the air with a lethal hail. As it appeared Dumarest threw himself forward, blade extended, the point ripping
into the body below the breastbone in an upwards thrust which reached the heart. Killing as surely as the burn of a laser
through the brain.


As the man fell he heard a frantic cursing, the clumsy passage of a body close at hand, the echoes of another from where he
had left his pack. When he reached the spot he found it gone.


The jangle of bells reminded him of the boy.

He sat where he’d been thrown, his eyes anxious, the injured leg held stiffly before him. The ankle was too swollen for the
lad to do more than crawl. Jarl had vanished, scraps of skin and clothing left hanging on broken thorns, a trail of blood
marking his passage, a trail Dumarest could easily follow but not while carrying the boy. And, with darkness, other predators
would come eager for helpless prey.


“Up!” Dumarest lifted the small body to his shoulder. “I’d better get you home.”

The town matched the planet—small, bleak, devoid of all but functional utility. The field was an expanse of rutted dirt, deserted
now, the warehouses sagging and empty. Once there had been a bustling tide of commerce but the veins of valuable ores had
been exhausted, the operation closed down, sheds and workers abandoned. Among them had been the local factor.


“Earl!” He rose as Dumarest entered his store. “Man, it’s good to see you!”

Mel Glover was a one-time face-worker who had been hurt in an accident and now dragged a useless foot. A big, broad man with
a rugged build and a face marred with a perpetual scowl, he ran the store and acted as agent and hated every moment of it.
He found surcease in talk and drugs and exotic dreams. Now he frowned as Dumarest set down the boy.


“Anton! What the devil have you been up to?” He looked at Dumarest. “He find you or what?” The frown deepened as he listened
to an answer. “Caught in the brambles—anything else?”


An attempt on his life, theft, a man lying dead—but Dumarest chose not to elaborate. He said, “That’s it. I heard him and
found him and brought him in. You know where he lives?”


“In the Drell.”

“With his people?”

“His mother. His father got himself killed last year.” Glover reached into a jar and threw the boy a ball of wrapped candy.
“Here, lad. Can you walk? Try hopping. Good. Off you go now.” As the boy hopped away, sucking his sweet, the basket hung over
one arm, he added, “I bet you didn’t know he could do that.”


“No.”

“But you know he’s a mute?”

Dumarest nodded and looked around the store. It was as he remembered, cluttered with a variety of produce, most of local manufacture.
Baskets of woven reed filled with delicate blooms rested beside pots of sunbaked clay crammed with spices, seeds, sections
of narcotic weed. A bale held furs, another the tanned hides of ferocious lizards, the scales seeming to be made of nacre traced with silver, jet and gold. Products of minor value but still worth collecting by ships content
with small profits. Beneath a window facing the foothills stood a bench, a book lying on its surface together with a pair
of powerful binoculars.


“You’ve been out almost a month,” said Glover. “I was beginning to get anxious. Any luck?”

“None.” The pack had contained a mass of corbinite; thirty pounds of near-pure crystal worth a half-dozen High Passages together
with gear costing most of what he owned. “In the Drell, you say?”


“What? Oh, the boy.” Glover sucked in his cheeks as he reached for a bottle. “Join me? No? Well, here’s to success.” He emptied
the glass at a swallow, the reek of crudely distilled spirit tainting the air as he refilled it. “The nearest thing to Lowtown
you’ll find on Shard. Once it was Lowtown but then the company pulled out and things evened out a little. The poor stayed
poor but the top rich got up and went. So what was left was up for grabs.” He drank again. “If it hadn’t been for my busted
foot I’d have gone too. A good job,” he said bitterly. “That’s what they told me. A good, responsible position. Hell, look
at it! Even a Hausi couldn’t make a living in this dump!”


A lie—but a Hausi wouldn’t have drunk his profits, let his wares rot for lack of attention or wallowed in self-pity.

Dumarest said, patiently, “Where in the Drell?”

“You still on about that boy?” Glover shook his head. “A dumb kid—what’s he to you? Have a drink and forget him.” He reached
for the bottle, halted its movement as he met Dumarest’s eyes. “Fivelane,” he said. “Number eighteen.”


Once it had been smart with clean paint and windows clean and unpatched with paper and sacking. A home with dignity for people
with pride. Now it held smells and decay and a slut who stared at Dumarest with calculating eyes.


“Anton,” she said. “What do you want with him?” Her expression became speculative. “If you’re thinking of—”

“Are you his mother?”

“In a way. His true mother’s ill. I can take care of things.” She sucked in her breath as Dumarest closed his fingers around
her arm. “All right, mister! No harm done! She’s upstairs!”


Dumarest found the woman in a room with a narrow window half-blocked with rags against the cold of night. There was a truckle bed, a table, a chair, a box, a heap of assorted fabrics
piled in an opposite corner. A jupon of frayed scarlet cloth lay on the lap of a woman who had once been young and could have
been beautiful. She coughed and sucked in air to cough again with a betraying liquidity.


“Anton’s a good boy,” she said. “He does what he can. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Dumarest was patient. “I mean him no harm. I just want to know about him. Was he born a mute?”

“A genetic defect but it can be corrected. A new larynx—” Her hands closed on the faded scarlet of the patched jupon. “All
it needs is money.”


The cure for so many ills. Dumarest noted the thinness of the hands, the lankness of the hair. She had met his eyes only at
their first meeting, dropping her own as if ashamed, pretending to be engrossed in her sewing. From below came a sudden shout,
a slap, a following scream.


“Martia,” she said. “Her man has little patience.”

“And yours?”

“Dead.” Her voice was as dull as her eyes. “Over a year ago now. An accident.”

“At work?”

“In the brush. A friend brought the news.” She didn’t want to talk about it and Dumarest watched the movement of her hands
on the jupon. A spare—the garment was edged with gold inste. . .