Dumarest looked upwards. The crack narrowed as it rose, to climb it would merely place him in a blind extension of the trap in which he was placed. Behind him reared a jumble of debris, stone precariously balanced which would fall if he attempted to burrow into it. The only way out was the way he had come.
"Lorne, check the area," ordered the deep voice. "And hurry!"
"One dead, Captain. He's the man the one I saw was trying to rob."
"Anything else?"
Boots scrabbled over stone and Dumarest heard the sound of ragged breathing as the young man came to investigate. A dark patch showed against the illuminated sky, light reflected from a pair of eyes, more catching a polished spot on the helmet. A target impossible to miss, but to fire would bring another grenade.
"Lorne?"
"Nothing, Captain." The young voice echoed its disappointment. "But he couldn't have got away. I'm sure I hit him and he couldn't have escaped the blast."
"Then he must be there. Look again."
The dark shape came closer, head bent, gun ready to fire. The finger on the trigger would be tense, a word, a movement and he would shoot without thought or hesitation.
Dumarest rose slowly, taking care not to touch the stone to either side. Lifting his gun he waited until the dark shape had turned away then threw it with the full power of his arm. It landed with a clatter, a sound immediately drowned in the roar of the weapon cradled in the mercenary's arms. A blast of thunder which sent echoes from the buildings and masked the thud of Dumarest's boots as he lunged forward. One hand lifted, weighed with his knife, steel gleaming, it came to a halt as it touched the bare face beneath the helmet. His other hand slammed over a shoulder to clamp over the chest and pull the body of the soldier hard against his own.
"Move and you die!" he snapped. Then, raising his voice, called, "I've got your man, Captain. Fire and you kill us both."
"Lorne?"
The man gulped as he felt the prick of the knife in the soft flesh beneath his chin.
"Answer him," said Dumarest, and dug the blade a little deeper.
"He's got me." The young voice was sullen. "A knife at my throat."
"Kill him and you burn," rasped the captain. "What do you want?"
"To live."
"You're surrendering?" The captain rose, his shape bulky against the sky. Others rose with him, four men all with weapons aimed. "Why didn't you call out before?"
"And be blasted by a trigger-happy fool?" Dumarest eased the pressure on the knife a little. "He gave me no chance. He fired as soon as he saw me-if he was my man I'd have something to say about him missing the way he did."
"He's young," said the captain. "And new-but he'll learn." He stepped forward lifting his helmet, revealing a hard face seamed and puckered with old scars. "Let him go."
"When he drops his gun."
"He won't shoot you." Reaching out the captain took the weapon. "But I may if given cause. Lorne?"
"He was robbing the dead," snapped the young man. As Dumarest released his grip Lorne stepped forward, turning to rub his throat, looking at the blood staining his hand. "A ghoul," he said bitterly. "A damned ghoul."
"He was a comrade," said Dumarest flatly. "And I wasn't robbing him. Stop trying to justify yourself, youngster. And while you're at it you can thank the captain for saving your life. If he hadn't called out you'd be dead now."
"You-"
"That's enough, Lorne!" The captain turned to where one of the others rose from his examination of the dead man. "Sheel?"
"He's got money on him. A wound in the guts and drugs are scattered around. My guess is that he was passed out easy."
"A comrade, eh?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "And a good one. What happens now?"
The captain shrugged. "The engagement's over and you're among the vanquished. The orders were to kill all stragglers, but what the hell? You're worth more to us alive and you've earned your chance. Lorne, escort him to camp." He added, grimly, "And make sure that nothing happens to him on the way."
* * * * *
The room was like many others he had seen before. A bleak place with Spartan furnishings: a desk, a chair behind it, another facing it, set squarely on the floor and fitted with invisible electronic devices to winnow the truth from lies. A place designed to intimidate, holding nothing to distract the attention, as much a cell as the one in which he had been held since his surrender three days ago. Time which Dumarest had spent with the tireless patience of an animal knowing there was nothing else he could do.
Major Kan Lofoten was waiting for him. Like the room, he was the product of functional intent. Neatly uniformed in black and maroon, his face was a hard combination of lines and planes. His eyes, deep-set beneath slanting brows, were shrewdly direct. A man of middle-age, dark hair brushed back from a high forehead, his mouth thin and cruel. When he spoke his voice held an unexpected resonance, a depth of inflection which Dumarest guessed was as cultivated as his exterior.
"Be seated, my friend. Rest your hands on the arms of the chair. Relax, no harm will come to you. To business, but first my apologies for the delay. As you can imagine we have been busy." And then, without change of tone, he said, "You are Earl Dumarest. A mercenary attached to Haiten's Corps. Your first engagement?"
"Yes."
"You joined, where?"
"On Ragould." There was no point in lying and the man would already know the answer to the questions he asked. But he wanted more than bare answers. "I was desperate," added Dumarest. "I'd traveled Low and found no work available. The Corps was recruiting and it seemed a good idea to sign up. We left the next day and came to Hoghan. The rest you know."
"Perhaps." The Major moved some papers. "You have fought as a mercenary before?"
"No."
"But you have fought?"
"When I had to, yes."
Lofoten nodded and leaned back in his chair his eyes studying the figure before him. Tall, hard, the face edging on bleakness. A man who had learned early to rely on no one but himself. Stripped of armor and uniform he wore the clothes he had carried beneath, pants and tunic of dull, neutral grey, boots which rose to just below the knee. The tunic had a high collar and long sleeves falling to mid-thigh. One shoulder was scarred by the impact of a grazing bullet, the glint of protective metal showing beneath the tear. Only one thing was missing from his usual attire-the knife which now rested on the desk before the interrogator.
Lofoten picked it up, turning it so as to allow the light to glimmer along the blade. Nine inches of honed steel, the edge curved, the back sweeping down to form a needlepoint. The guard was scarred and the hilt worn. Striking it on the desk he listened to the clear note from the vibrating metal.
"A good knife," he said casually, "but an unusual weapon for a mercenary to carry. As unusual as the fact that you wore your own clothes beneath the armor. Why did you do that?"
"I didn't like what I was given."
"Cheap stuff, thin, tearing at a touch." Lofoten smiled, a brief nicker of the lips which revealed a flash of white teeth. "And your weapons the same, yes? How many veterans did your contingent hold? What rations did you carry? How were your logistics? How well were you officered?"
"Badly," said Dumarest and added, dryly, "as you must know."
"Yes, I know, as you must have realized by now, that Haiten's Corps was sacrificed. You had no hope of winning and there was no intention that you should. It was nothing more than a show. Sound and fury and some limited destruction, enough to awe the civilians and make them obedient to the new regime."