Hunt the Space-Witch! Seven Adventures in Time and Space

  There was hardly a face left.

  The clothes she had worn last night were stacked on the chair. A key lay on the floor near the bed. He picked it up; it was a duplicate of the one she had given him.

  She had come home, then; she had locked the door. And someone had broken in.

  Barsac found his hands quivering. He turned away, shaking his head slowly, and closed what was left of the door behind him.

  There was a public communicator booth in the hall. Barsac entered the booth without bothering to flip the shutter release, and depressed the call stud.

  He said, “Give me the police. I want to report a murder, operator.”

  A moment later a sleepy voice said, “Millyaurr Homicide Detail. Lieutenant Hassliq speaking. What is it?”

  “A murder, Lieutenant. In the Street of Tears, number eighty-one. The dead person is a party girl named Kassa Jidrill. I just found her.”

  The was no increase of animation in Lieutenant Hassliq’s voice as he said, “And who are you, please?”

  “I’m a spacer in town on leave from the ship Dywain. My name is Barsac. I—met the dead girl yesterday afternoon for the first time. I just came back to her room and found her this way.”

  “Describe the condition of the body, please.”

  Barsac did, in detail. When he was finished Hassliq said, “I feared as much. All right, Barsac—we’ll send a morgue truck right over to pick up the body. You don’t need to stick around if you don’t want to.”

  “Won’t you want to question me for the investigation?”

  “What investigation?”

  Barsac blinked. “A girl’s been murdered. Don’t you usually investigate murder cases in Millyaurr?”

  “Not when they’re Cult jobs,” Hassliq said. “What’s the use? That party girl was killed ritualistically, if your description is accurate. Someone in the Cult took a dislike to her. But what can we do? It’s next to impossible to regulate Cult activities; I’d only be begging to have my own face scraped off and a double-barred cross cut into my belly. No, thanks. We’ll send a pickup man out for the body. Thanks for phoning in the information, Mr. Barsac.”

  He heard a click, stared at the receiver a moment, and hung up. They weren’t even interested in finding Kassa’s murderer, he thought. They didn’t care. They were afraid to care.

  He went back to the room and sat by the dead girl until the morgue truck arrived. His quest for Zigmunn was taking on new colors; a robbery, now a murder had been woven into the pattern.

  A ritualistic murder. A Cult murder. On Glaurus the Cult was law, it seemed. His heart felt curiously leaden; he avoided looking at the body on the bed. For Kassa all despair was ended now, suddenly, earlier than she had expected.

  Half an hour passed; forty-five minutes. The rain began again, then stopped. Finally the truck arrived. Barsac heard the commotion on the stairs as the other boarders in the house, their curiosities aroused by the presence of the truck, followed the morgue men upstairs.

  “In here,” Barsac called.

  Two bored-looking men with a stretcher slung between them entered. At the sight of Kassa they winced.

  “We get half a dozen of these a week,” one said. “The Cult keeps a sharp knife.”

  They loaded her on the stretcher as if she were so much slaughtered meat. Barsac stepped forward and said, “What’s going to happen to her body now?”

  “She gets taken down to the morgue and entered. We wait a week for the body to be claimed. Then we send her to the crematorium.”

  “You don’t expect anyone to claim the body?”

  The stretcher-bearer smiled scornfully. “She was a party girl, wasn’t she?”

  “Besides,” said the other one, “even if she was a nun of the Grand Temple. Nobody claims Cult victims’ bodies. It isn’t a healthy thing to do.”

  Barsac scowled. “I’d like to see her get a decent burial. She was, well, a friend of mine.”

  “Burial on Glaurus costs five hundred units, brother. Plus bribes. Was she that much of a friend? Don’t throw your money away; she won’t ever know the difference.”

  They smiled at him ghoulishly and lifted the stretcher. Barsac let them take her away. He was remembering that he had no money at all, and in four days he was due to return to his ship and leave Glaurus probably forever.

  On sudden inspiration he yanked open the drawers of the dead girl’s dresser. Cheap trinkets, souvenirs, cosmetics—ah—ten crumpled five-unit bills. The price for a night, he thought.

  Coldly he pocketed the bills. Turning, he saw a thin-faced old man staring at him.

  “Here, you! No robbery, here! That money belongs to me!”

  “Who the devil are you?” Barsac asked.

  “The landlord here. It’s the rule; if a boarder dies intestate, I inherit. Hand over that money, right here and now.”

  “I need it,” Barsac said. “You don’t. The girl doesn’t. Get out of my way.”

  He slammed the landlord against the greasy wall with a contemptuous slap of his flattened hand and made his way down the stairs and out into the Street of Tears, thinking of a dead party girl who would have been alive at this moment had he never come to Millyaurr.

  It was nearly noon when he arrived at the field where the Dywain stood, and he was dizzy with hunger. He showed his identity bracelet to the field guards and trotted out to the great ship.

  Captain Jaspel was supervising the repainting of the stabilizer fins, up on D deck. Barsac waited until the captain had finished his harangue of the painters, then said, “Sir?”

  “Oh—Barsac. Where’s that ace repairman of yours?”

  “I haven’t been able to find him, sir. Not yet, anyway. But there’s still time, isn’t there?”

  “Not much,” the old captain said. “I’ll have to send out the hiring notice tomorrow if I’m to get a man. I can’t wait for your fellow any longer than that. You’ve been robbed, eh, Barsac?”

  Smiling bitterly, Barsac nodded. “Foolishness, Captain. I’m cleaned out.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Three hundred units advance against next voyage, Captain. Is that too much?”

  “Probably. Take a hundred fifty. Then if you get robbed again it won’t be so bad. And be careful, Barsac; I don’t want to have to find a fuelsman as well as a repairman on Glaurus.”

  Barsac pocketed his money and returned to the city. Hope of finding Zigmunn in time for him to get the job aboard the Dywain was dim indeed. But Barsac was no longer mainly interested in getting him the job; he simply wanted to see Zigmunn, if possible to release him from the meshes of the Cult. And there were questions to be answered about his robbery and about the death of Kassa.

  He hopped aboard a crowded airbus with defective air-conditioning and rode it as far as Lord Carnothute’s palace. There he got off, entered the palace, and demanded to see the governor.

  He was conscious that he did not make an imposing figure, in his mud-stained, blood-streaked clothes, with his gaunt bruised face and beard-stubbled cheeks. But he was determined to see Carnothute.

  The governor appeared, a looming elephantine figure in ultramarine cape and sheathlike leggings of cerise trimmed with black. Barsac looked up at him and snapped, “Let me talk to you in private!”

  Carnothute seemed amused. “A private audience is a rare privilege, my friend. My guards will have to be present throughout our conversation. Why do you come back?”

  “To ask you questions. Did that party-girl Kassa return here yesterday after I left?”

  Carnothute shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “She did. Where did you and she go?”

  “My fleshly life is hardly your concern, worthy spacer. Are there any less personal questions you would ask?”

  “This one,” Barsac said. “Some time between last night and this morning Kassa returned to her room and locked herself in. Then someone of unusual strength battered the door down and killed her. The police said it was a ritualistic murder. She was
gutted and mutilated when I found her this morning. Here’s your question: did you kill her?”

  Chuckling, Carnothute said, “Party girls have short lives in Millyaurr. Why should you care whether a teenage slut lives or dies, you who land on Glaurus once a decade?”

  “I care because the Cult killed her, and you’re the only Cult member I know. You killed her. You killed her because she was trying to help me reach my blood-brother on Azonda, and because perhaps last night she extracted a promise from you that you chose not to keep when you reconsidered it in the harsher light of morning. Am I close, Carnothute? It’s always easier to have a party girl murdered than to face the charge that you broke your sacred word.”

  The governor’s smooth-cheeked face darkened abruptly. In a cold, deep voice he said, “Let me give you advice, Barsac: forget the girl Kassa, and forget the Luasparru Zigmunn. The one is dead, the other beyond your reach. Give up your search and return to your ship.”

  “And if I choose not to?”

  “Then you will die sooner than your parents expected. Leave me, Barsac.” He turned to the three silent guards who waited near the door. “Take this man outside the palace and instruct him that he is not to return.”

  They converged on Barsac. Gripping his arms tightly, they swept him out of Lord Carnothute’s presence, down the interlocking corridors, and outside the palace grounds. There, the tallest of the three spun him around and slapped his face.

  Barsac growled and started for him. Another tripped him, and as he fell sprawling he realized he was in for another beating.

  They worked him over for ten minutes with light-hearted gaiety, while he aimed futile blows at each of them in turn. They were Darjunnans, long-limbed and lithe, and while he managed to bruise their silky violet skins from time to time they inflicted far worse damage on him. Five times he struggled to his feet only to be battered down again; they concentrated their attention on his empty stomach, drumming blows off it with sickening frequency.

  Once he swung wildly and broke a nose; a moment later a kick behind the knee-joints dropped him on his face, gasping, and they devoted some time to his kidneys. They pummelled him efficiently, as if they were well-trained as a team; when Barsac hung to consciousness by only a thread one said, “Enough,” and they left him.

  He walked about ten paces and stumbled. He groped for a bench, found it, clung to its cool stone, and through puffed eyes watched drops of his own blood dripping from his face and puddling against the white flagstone walk. Dimly he realized they had not robbed him, and it surprised him.

  He sat there five minutes, ten, unable to get up. His face throbbed. Every part of him ached. But they had shrewdly stopped while he yet was conscious, devilishly, so he would feel every moment of the pain.

  He sensed the fact that someone stood in front of him, looking down. He tried to open his eyes. “Kassa?” he asked.

  “No. I’m not Kassa. I suppose you found the Street of Tears, spacer. And then the Street of Blood.”

  “Who are you?”

  “We met earlier this day. I offered to help you then. But I think you need it more now.”

  Through pain-hazed eyes Barsac made out the lean wiry figure of Erpad Ystilog, the Exhibitor of Curiosities.

  Chapter Four

  Barsac lay back on the hard, uncomfortable couch and tried to relax. He failed; every nerve seemed wound tightly, almost to the breaking point. He was in number 1123, Street of Liars. Ystilog had brought him home.

  “Awake?” Ystilog asked.

  Barsac looked up at the sallow pock-marked face, the great curved beak of a nose. “More awake than asleep, I guess. What time is it?”

  “Well after noon. Feeling better? Drink this.”

  Forcing himself into a sitting position, Barsac accepted the cup. It contained a warm brownish liquid; he drank without questioning. The taste was faintly sweet.

  “Good. I guess I owe you thanks.”

  Ystilog shrugged deprecatingly. “Never mind that. Rest, now; you’ll need to rebuild your strength.”

  The curio-exhibitor left him. Barsac wanted to protest that he could not stay here any longer, that he had to make a further attempt to find Zigmunn, that time was running short and he would soon have to return to the Dywain. But the pain got the better of him; he slumped back and dropped off into sleep.

  He woke again, some time later, feeling stiff and sore but stronger than he had been. Ystilog stood above him.

  “I feel better now,” Barsac said. “And I must go. I have little time.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “My ship leaves Glaurus at the end of this week. And before then I have things to do.”

  “You’ve had ill luck so far, I’d say. My offer still goes—a job is open for you.”

  “I’m a spacer.”

  “Leave space. It’s a loathsome life. Stay here in my employ. I need a strong-bodied assistant, one who can protect a frail man like myself. I encounter much danger while traveling with my museum. And I can pay you—not well, alas, but enough.”

  Barsac shook his head. “Sorry, Ystilog. You’ve been good to me, but it’s out of the question. The Dywain is a good ship. I don’t want to leave it.”

  Disappointment gleamed briefly on Ystilog’s face. “I could use you, Barsac.”

  “I tell you no. But give me some information, before I leave.”

  “If I can.”

  “My purpose is to find my blood-brother, a Luasparru, Zigmunn by name. At the cost of two beatings and a robbing I’ve found out that he’s been initiated into the Cult of the Witch, and is now on Azonda.”

  The smile left Ystilog’s face. “So?”

  “I want to find him and break him loose from the Cult. But I know nothing about this Cult. Tell me—what is it? From what did it spring? What are its aims?”

  Quietly Ystilog said, “I can tell you little—the little that every non-initiated Glauran knows. The Cult is a thousand years old—more, perhaps. Its headquarters are on Azonda. A dead planet, as you may know. Heart of the Cult is the so-called Witch of Azonda.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “There is nothing to tell. Only members may see her. She is supposedly lovely, immortal-and faceless. Cult members spend a year on Azonda worshipping her. Perhaps one Glauran in a thousand is a member. They practice certain dark rites, and the law ignores them. People think that most of our high officials are Cult members. If your blood-brother’s gone to Azonda, forget him. He’s lost to you forever.”

  Barsac scowled. “I refuse to believe that. I still have three days to find him.”

  “You’ll find nothing but more pain,” Ystilog said. “But if you’re determined, I suppose I can’t hold you back. You’ll find your clothes in that closet. And don’t try to pay me for what I’ve done; it was simple common courtesy.”

  Barsac dressed in silence. When he had donned the last of his garments, Ystilog reappeared, smiling. He carried a mug of wine.

  “Have a drink as a parting toast,” Ystilog said. He handed the mug to Barsac. “Go to your quest. And success.”

  Barsac drank. Tightening his cloak around him, he headed for the door—but before he passed the threshold his legs wobbled and refused to hold him. He sagged crazily; Ystilog caught him and eased him to the couch.

  Bitterly he realized he had once again played the fool. A roaring tide of unconsciousness swept down over him, and he knew he had accepted a drink that was drugged.

  Church bells woke him. He suffered at the first echoing peal, stirred, sat up in bed. His eyes were pasted together; he had to work to get them open. He felt rusty at the joints, stiff, flabby.

  Church bells. The end of the week. The Dywain was leaving!

  He jerked off the covers, climbed from the bed, slipped, stumbled, fell headlong. His legs and feet were numb from inactivity. He hoisted himself erect, alarm giving him strength.

  “Ystilog! Damn you, where are you?”

  “Here I am,” said a quiet voice.

&
nbsp; Barsac whirled unsteadily. Ystilog stood behind him, smiling pleasantly. He wore a black watered silk lounging robe and a blue morning wig. In his hand was a wedge-shaped blade, eight inches long, glittering.

  “You drugged me,” Barsac accused. “How long did I sleep? What day is it? What time is it?”

  “Your ship left Glaurus half an hour ago,” Ystilog said smoothly. “I was at the spaceport. I watched it depart; it was quite lovely to see it climb high and wink into overdrive, vanishing in the blue.”

  Rage surged through Barsac. He took two hesitant steps forward.

  “Why did you do this?”

  “I needed an assistant. A good man is hard to find. And you have muscles, Barsac, if no brains. The pay is eleven units a week plus food and board.”

  “Eleven units!” Barsac clenched his fists and advanced. The smaller man waited, unafraid.

  “Put that knife away, Ystilog, and—”

  Ystilog sheathed the knife. “Yes? You’ll what?” He waved his empty hands in the air.

  “I’ll—I’ll what have you done to me?” Barsac growled.

  “Conditioned you against doing me harm,” Ystilog said. “I would be as big a fool as you to do otherwise. If you were in my place and I in yours, I would not hesitate to kill you as brutally as possible … if I were able. So you are not able. See?”

  Barsac looked at his impotent hands. He longed to wring Ystilog’s fragile neck, but it would have been easier to strangle himself to death. An unbreakable geas lay upon him, keeping him from action.

  He sank down numbly on the couch where he had slept so long. A quiver of suppressed anger and frustration rippled through him. “Is my ship really gone?”

  “Yes,” Ystilog said.

  Barsac moistened his lips. This had been Zigmunn’s fate, and now a decade later it was his. Like brother, like brother. Naturally Captain Jaspell would not have held up departure for the sake of an overdue fuelsman; starship schedules were as inflexible as the solar precessions.

  “All right,” Barsac said quietly. “I’ve been beaten and robbed and drugged, and now I’ve lost my ship as well. This trip to Glaurus has been grand. Just grand. Suppose you tell me what I’m supposed to do.”