The Quillian Sector

She stared at him, her eyes searching, then she said slowly, "Yes, I really believe you mean that. You care about that boy. But why, Earl? What is he to you? What does it matter if he should die while we carry him?" Then, understanding, she added, "You. You're thinking of yourself when young. When you were like that boy, perhaps; young and scared and a little desperate. Did someone save you then? Is that it? Are you repaying an old debt?"

He said bluntly, "I was lucky."

With a luck which was still with him. No message could have been received on Vult from Ealius. If the Cyclan were on his trail, they were still one step behind-a distance he hoped to increase.

"Earl?" The woman was watching him, her eyes lambent, understanding. "Earl, you-"

He said, "Drink up and let's get about your business. We don't want Jumoke to get worried."

They had come to shop, which was Allain's work, but he refused to set foot on the world he had reason to hate, and Dilys had volunteered to replenish the ship's store of luxury items and what staples were needed. Dumarest followed her from the tavern into the commercial complex, where thick roofs of translucent crystal softened the glare of the sun, and inset panels of variegated colors threw a multihued swath of rainbow brilliance over the covered walks and promenades, the fronts of shops, the seats on which people lounged, their eyes ever-watchful.

They wore colors as bright as their sun; blouses and tunics set and studded with odd shapes of metal, stones, scraps of quartz, minerals which glowed like fireflies-fabrics either dull or shimmering with chemical sheens, winks and glitters and somber patches. They could have been clowns, but no clown came armed with spines and spikes on shoulders and joints, carried knives and clubs at their belts, sported tomahawks, cutlasses, cleavers, helmets set with slitted visors, trailing plumes. A populace armed and armored, touchily aggressive, watchful and radiating a feral zest.

If nothing else those inhabiting Vult were strongly alive.

Dilys sensed the atmosphere and responded to it as she walked close at Dumarest's side. Colors seemed to grow brighter, the pulse of blood through her veins, stronger, the air itself held a sharp and virile fragrance. The scent of violence, she thought, if violence could be said to have an odor of its own. The scent of physical bodies tense and aware of the possibility of combat. The exudation of people who had to be constantly on their guard, constantly alert.

"Earl!" A man had screamed from an adjoining way, and another had cursed as if with anger rather than pain. A flurry, and they were past the opening, Dumarest not altering his stride, doing no more than glancing down the path dimmed and shadowed with dusty purple light. "Earl, someone is-"

"We mind our own business. Is this the place?"

The store had thick windows meshed with strips of metal, doors which were held fast with electronic devices, a floor which glowed with warning light, displays in which goods could be seen but not touched.

Assistants who were armed.

"Madam, sir, it is my pleasure to serve you!" The man wore a quilted jacket and pants puffed and bright with metal. The helmet winked with polished gems and, as Dumarest lifted his hand, the visor fell to mask the face, the eyes.

"My apologies." A hand lifted the metal screen back into place. "A misunderstanding.. The movement of your hand- I'm sure you understand."

A hand which could have been fitted with a container of acid. A movement which could have sent it into the eyes.

"Your needs?"

Dilys produced a list and read off items, frowning at the prices quoted, altering, taking alternatives which, the man assured her, were every bit as good.

"If they aren't, I'll be back," she warned. "And if I find cause for complaint, you'll lose more than our trade."

"If you are dissatisfied, then full compensation will be made. And for you, sir? Is there any item which arouses your interest? You are a visitor, I know, but it would be prudent to display arms. A short sword, or, a small axe balanced for throwing? A club, or at least a whip which can be worn at the wrist?"

And one which would stir the aggressive natures of all who saw it, inviting challenges and combats and bloody meetings.

Dumarest said, "Have you a gun?"

"A gun?" The man blinked. "Certainly, sir, but are you sure of what you are asking? Had you been carrying one, the charges would have detonated as you entered this store. Had it been a laser, the energy cell would have vented its potential in the form of heat. Outside, on the streets, in taverns, well-you understand?"

A temptation to any who saw the weapon. A greater challenge than a whip and a greater prize. One they would not hesitate to kill to obtain, or kill to prevent being used, or use to prevent others similarly armed from killing. To carry a gun openly displayed on Vult was to invite destruction. To use one, the same. Only in houses could such protection be safely owned.