CHAPTER III
The Street of Arts. Narrow and winding, lined with the small, cramped shops of skilled craftsmen who wrought wondrous things of wood and leather, glass and metal. Here you could buy the finest filigree of silver... paintings on porcelain or plastic ... figurines carved from djevoda tusks ... fabrics that glinted with threads of Xumarian thril and Odak's orlon.
And here hid Tumek.
Tumek, the statue-caster. Tumek, the sculptor.
Tumek, genius of the Baemae ... the man who had devised the flying disc and harnessed the power that surged through his world's magnetic waves.
Yet even Tumek had cringed before Zenaor's sadistic schemings and pleaded across a million drals of void for Federation aid.
Now, on Bukal's word, he lay in hiding here in the shop of his fellow caster Notal, waiting for the Federation's envoy to arrive.
At least, Craig Nesom hoped so.
Pausing in the shadows across from Notal's shop, he hesitated for a moment, studying the darkened front with its display of busts that peered out, wan and ghost-like, in the blue night-sun Roh's dim light.
Somewhere at the back of the shop, a gleam of yellow flickered.
So there was really someone there. Taut-nerved, Craig started forward.
Only then, off to his right, metal clanged on metal.
Craig froze again.
More sounds crept to him ... sounds of shuffling feet, of men in movement.
Silent as any spectre, he drew back against the building behind him ... slid left along it till he was lost in the pitch-black angle where the next shop joined it.
The shuffling feet drew nearer. Craig caught the hiss of whispering voices. Shapes took form—the shapes of men stalking stealthily, skulking in the shadows.
Warily, Craig edged forward a fraction and peered along the front of the shop to his left.
But here, too, shapes were emerging from the murk. A stray blue beam glinted on what might have been a weapon.
Craig slid back into his angle.
The two groups met in mid-street, scant yards out from him. There was a buzz of whispered consultation. Then, silently, both groups drew back. The men spread out, ranging themselves along the wall on his side of the street.
Craig held his breath.
But already one figure was shuffling towards him, slouching against the wall bare inches from his shoulder. "A curse on the Baemae and their plots!" the intruder muttered. "Night's a time for wine and wenches, not for raiding."
Craig grunted wordless affirmation.
The stranger turned, peered at him. "Who are you, friend? Which company?" And then, in sudden shock: "You! You're not—"
With all his might, Craig slashed a stiff hand-edge across the other's windpipe, his Adam's apple. The man's voice cut off in mid-syllable.
Craig crashed the heel of his hand up under a stubbled chin, thanking the stars that his shoulder was no longer stiff. The intruder's head snapped back against the stonework. Hard.
Then his knees were buckling. He started to fall.
Craig caught him, held him erect.
In the same instant a whistle shrilled. The other shadow-skulkers leaped forward from their hiding places, converging on the shop across the street where Tumek had his refuge. They made no effort at concealment now. There were shouts; a splintering crash as the door burst in.
Icy sweat drenched Craig. Shaking, he eased his unconscious prisoner to the ground in the shadows of the angle and stripped him of the weapon in his belt—one of the pistol-things that blazed green fire.
Inside Notal's shop, another door went down. Craig glimpsed struggling figures silhouetted against a backdrop of yellow light.
All along the street, windows swung wide and doors opened. Lights flared. Voices rang out in a startled babble.
A man appeared in the entrance of the shop before which Craig stood, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What—?"
In three quick steps Craig was beside him—jamming the fire-gun against his fat belly; shoving him back on his own tracks into the building; slamming and bolting the door behind them.
Fear flared in the fat man's button eyes. His blubbery face went slack.
"Quiet!" Craig stabbed the pistol against him harder. "One sound and I kill you!"
The other's mouth worked, but no words came. He tottered backward and slumped down onto a bench.
Craig opened the door a crack and shot a quick glance out.
The raiders were leaving Notal's shop now. They dragged a captive with them, a short, balding man whose face showed the wrinkles of age.
Craig turned back to his own prisoner. "Who is that?"
The fat man's voice shook: "He is called ... Tumek."
Tumek....
A chill shook Craig Nesom.
Across the street, the last of the raiders inside the shop paused by the display window. Deliberately, he picked up one bust after another and smashed it. The last he hurled through the window itself, then swaggered out to join the others. Their laughter echoed raucously.
Then someone barked a command. The laughter ceased. With chill efficiency a group fell in, formed a double rank facing Notal's shop.
Another command. Two of the guardsmen caught the prisoner by the arms and jerked him forward, slamming him back hard against one of the uprights of the shop-front. Then, quickly, they stepped aside.
Again, the harsh voice of command.
The double rank raised weapons.
Inside the shop across the street, Craig went rigid.
Out there, mere feet away, stood the man who'd brought him to this planet, the Baemae genius, Tumek.
Tumek, the one man who could tell him the things he so needed to know—the baron's plans; the dreams and schemes and power of Zenaor.
Only Tumek stood before a firing squad. Ten seconds more and he'd be dead.
Craig acted by instinct, then; not logic.
Quite coolly, he brought up the fire-gun he'd taken from the guardsman ... leveled it with grim precision at the squad's commander.
The man passed some remark to Tumek. But the oldster only shook his head and stood the straighter, face calm, serene ... almost spiritual.
Craig corrected his aim a fraction.
The firing squad's commander pivoted ... sucked in air to give the final order.
Craig squeezed the fire-gun's trigger.
A green shaft of flame lanced out. It struck the squad chief square in the chest. He slammed backward—face contorted in a death's-head grimace; already toppling.
The squad seemed to freeze in its tracks. Then, as the spell broke, one man started to whirl, whipping round his own weapon.
Craig dropped him where he stood.
Chaos descended on the guardsmen. Frantically, they lunged for cover.
Crouched, shadow-silent, Craig slipped from the shop and moved through the murk towards the spot where the prisoner had stood, trusting to confusion and the dark to shield him. "Tumek...."
Someone roared, "Look out! It's the Earthman!"
The night turned dazzling green with fire-blasts.
Craig dived through the shop's shattered window, skidding across the floor on one shoulder.
A hand clutched his arm. A cracked voice choked, "Craig Nesom—!"
Craig twisted. Tumek's wrinkled face loomed, a dim blur in the gloom.
"Quick! This way—" The old man wormed towards the rear of the building.
Craig followed.
Only then a dark figure was rising and shouting. A fire-gun blazed, close at hand.
Craig shot back. The looming antagonist fell away.
Old Tumek fell with him.
Stumbling to his feet, Craig heaved up the oldster's limp body. With a strength born of sheer desperation, heedless of shouts and fire-blasts, he lunged on, out the rear door of the building.
A guard rose in their path.
Craig shot him down and charged blindly on, deep into the black alley shadows.
A thin whisper from Tumek: "Right ... next crosspath.... Door ... unlocked...."
Craig veered. In seconds he was pushing past a heavy gate ... easing it shut behind him once more.
The sounds of the guards' rage faded. Gently, Craig lowered Tumek to the ground.
An acrid scent rose in his nostrils ... the scent of charred flesh. With a shock, he became aware of the old Baemae's hoarse, labored breathing.
Numbly, he ran cautious fingers over the other's withered body.
The flesh along Tumek's right rib-casing crackled!
Then, slowly, the old eyes opened. The cracked voice spoke, the faintest of whispers: "You ... are the Earthman—the Federation agent?"
Mute sick, Craig nodded.
"Good." The eyes closed again, as if suddenly too heavy.
But only for a moment: "Earthman...."
"Yes."
"Ourobos ... from Xumar—they are Zenaor's weapon."
"Ourobos—?" Craig strained close. "Tumek, what are they?"
"A ... lifeform. Zenaor's daughter can tell you." The voice of the old Baemae grew weaker.
"Zenaor's daughter—!"
"Yes. Narla...."
"But—"
"Only ... one weapon ... against ourobos—crystal."
"Crystal—?"
"Ourobos...." The old man's face was slack now, his words thick and mumbled. It was as if he could no longer hear Craig's questions. "Other planets, too ... not just Lysor. That's ... why I asked help. Zenaor ... dreams of conquest."
"Tumek—!" Craig choked. "Tumek, the crystal—tell me about that!"
But again, he could not know if the other even heard.
"Narla ..." the old man whispered, "see Narla...." And then: "Disc ... on roof ... here...."
The words died in a rattle. Muscles tensed in a small convulsive movement.... The mouth fell open. The old head sagged back.
Tumek died.
For a long, long moment, Craig Nesom slumped beside him.
It was no end for genius. Not here, in a dirt-floored hovel off an alley.
Only that was death's way. It paid no heed to propriety or convenience.
Nor to right, either, nor the needs of men.
Without Tumek, the Baemae cause might go down to disaster. Lord Zenaor could yet live to fulfill his dream of conquest, carve his path across the universe with the ourobos.
Unless the crystal stopped him.
"The crystal"—that was all Tumek had said about it. Not what it was, nor how to use it.
But ... there was still Narla.
Narla, of the cool grey eyes and flaxen hair. Narla, who laughed and tempted—and then went cold with sudden fury.
Narla, Lord Zenaor's own daughter.
Tumek had said to see her.
Slowly, Craig got up. Stiff, shuffling, weary, he made his way to the room's one slot-like window.
The night outside was brighter now, blue with Roh's chill rays. The Kukzubas towers loomed sleek and shining, sheer to the very sky.
And there was the Central Tower, also; the Tower of Zenaor—rising even higher and more starkly than the rest.
How could any man hope to get into that grim crypt to talk to Narla? Every door would be locked, every entrance guarded.
At least, on the lower levels.
But higher, perhaps....
Thoughtfully, Craig appraised the towering structure.
Invading it would be madness, pure and simple.
And yet, with the starship shattered, what did he have to lose?
Besides, Zenaor owed him a debt ... a debt that only blood could cancel.
Blood. The blood of the starship's crew, and of the Baemae. Of Tumek, and a grey-thatched serving-serf without a name.
And on the roof here, Tumek had said, a disc lay ready.
A disc, and a debt of blood, and the Tower of Zenaor.
And Narla.
Why was he hesitating?
Cold-eyed, tight-lipped. Craig Nesom groped towards the stair.…