ANDRE NORTON – NIGHT OF MASKS (1964)
CONTENTS:
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter I
OUTSIDE, THE DAY was as gray as the wall behind Nik Kolherne, where he hunched under the arch of roof well above his head. The steady drizzle of rain was as depressing as those thoughts he could not push out of his mind, even by the most determined effort. His thin-fingered hands moved restlessly, smoothing the front of the worn and colorless jump coat that hung in folds about his thin chest and shoulders. The damp had him shivering, but he made no move to seek shelter through the door immediately behind him.
There was shelter inside but nothing else in the big barracks of the Dipple. Those without family ties held no more rights than the tentative possession of a bunk, and that only as long as they could defend it, should one of their fellows in misfortune take a liking to it.
Nik’s right hand came up in a gesture now so much a part of him that he was no longer aware when he made it. Without actually touching his face, his palm covered chin and nose, masking all that lay below his large, penetratingly brilliant blue-green eyes. He hugged the wall of the entranceway, giving good room to two men splashing in from the yard. Neither noticed him as they pushed into the barracks.
Moke Yarn and Brin Peake. In the world of the Dipple, they were solid citizens of a sort. Or should one correct that? Nik, his hand mask still upheld, searched for a proper term to cover the activities and standing of Moke Yarn and Brin Peake.
Maybe not solid citizens in the sense used by the free world beyond the Dipple gates. But at least they had power, and their standing within these walls was firmly based. And since it was undoubtedly true that the Dipple would continue to be Nik’s complete world, its terms of reference must be the ones used in evaluating his fellow unfortunates – not that either Moke or Brin considered himself unfortunate.
Once there had been no Dipple; once there had been no war. Once – once a little boy had been someone different, very different. His blue-green eyes held a shadow as Nik stared dully into the slanting lines of rain. But there had been the war, and all the dispossessed flotsam had been swept up and thrown into the refuse heaps of the Dipples on many planets – to rot forgotten, as if they were not people at all but statistics and footnotes in some, little-read history book of a time the free worlds were now working hard to forget. The war had ended in an exhausted tie, but hate lingered, smoldering under the surface of the here and now, a hate that –
This time Nik’s fingers closed tight against his face. His stomach heaved in a retching spasm. The furrows of scarred skin were harsh under his touch. He had a mask all right, one out of nightmares and one he could never put aside. Ten years ago a freighter spacer had been temporarily turned into an escape ship for a small colony on a frontier world lying within enemy-patrolled territory. That freighter had been pursued by the enemy and had crashed on a barren moon.
How in the name of the Spirit had Nik survived that disaster anyway? Why had a child with a torn and burned face continued to live when all those about him had mercifully died? Then – out of nowhere – had come rescue, men in space armor tramping into the small area of the ship where Nik had cowered almost witless. After their coming, there was a jumble of impressions cloaked with delirium and pain, the terror of the unknown. Finally, there had been the hospital here at the Dipple on Korwar. Then – just the Dipple in which he was always alone.
He dreamed – yes, sometimes he dreamed of a country under another sky with a different tint and a warmer sun. But was that a real memory or just a dream? He could remember only such small bits after the crash. His sole link with that other world was the identity disk they had found on him – Nik Kolherne, a name combined with symbols that had not made sense to any authority here. At first, he had asked questions of his fellow internees until their reaction to his gargoyle face had driven him into a solitary life and to the reading tapes.
To a tape, it did not matter that Nik was only human-seeming from eye level to the top of his head with its tight curls of wiry hair the color of burnished jet. So he had fled into the world of the mind, soaking up materials upon which his imagination fed, so that he was able to lead another life – one he could summon up at need, perhaps as vivid as that a haluce drinker knew.
Sometimes nowadays Nik was more aware of that other life than he was of the Dipple, though a ripple of disquiet came like a half-heard warning now and then to disturb his dreaming. But he pressed that down, strove to rout it utterly. He had his dream world, and in it he was free! He clung to it passionately.
The need to return to his fantasy now drove him forth into the rain, and he scuttled from the barracks to the next building, the supply warehouse. The bored guard at the door did not see Nik flit by – he was an expert at finding hiding places. Seconds later he reached his latest one, a tiny opening through which he could squeeze, to wriggle up on some crates and lie on a ragged bit of blanket.
Nik stretched out. The layer of stuff beneath his sharp shoulder blades was not thick, but he was oblivious to the discomfort. The drum of rain on the roof not too far above him was soothing, and he closed his eyes, ready to plunge into his dream.
“- has to be right – all a one-time blast-off.”
Those words had no part in the fantasy Nik was creating in themselves, they were only a minor disturbance, but something in the voice brought Nik’s eyes open, made him listen.
“No move until we are sure.”
“And while we’re sittin’ on our fins waitin’ for a take-off, the whole deal can turn sour – into a real bad burn-off.”
Nik hitched around on his pad and began a worm’s progress to the end of the box from which he should be able to view the speakers. There was no light in the gloom below. The meeting had all the aspects of a private one. Of course, there were a good many undercurrents in the Dipple. This was not the first time Nik had been on the fringe of secrets or learned what could prove dangerous should his knowledge be discovered by others.
“I repeat – in this there can be no chances – not in the groundwork. It’s too big to allow any off-course work. Do you understand that?”
Stowar! Nik could see the two figures below only as shadows among other shadows, but that one voice he knew. Stowar was big here in the Dipple – a king shark to such small predators as Moke and Brin. If a man could raise the price to buy into the Thieves’ Guild and so open a door out of this rat hole, Stowar was the negotiator who carried out the deal. Stowar had things to sell, too – haluce and other drugs. He had contacts, they said clear up the Veeps of the half world on Korwar and even off-world, too.
Nik shivered. To eavesdrop on one of Stowar’s little deals could be very dangerous. He dug his nails into the surface of the box on which he lay and tried to still his breathing, not daring to withdraw for fear they could hear his movements.
“All right – so no chances.” The other sounded impatient and not a bit overawed by Stowar. “But that course’s been plotted twice – an’ each time it cost us a fistful. If we have to go to Margan again, he’ll up the price on us. He’s no fool, and he’ll do a little thinking on his own.”
“There are ways of dealing with Margan.”
“Yeah, and those wouldn’t be healthy either. Meddle with Margan and you’ll have the Brethren down with blasters out, ready to do some cookin’! Don’t you planet crawlers ever forget that Margan is our man, and we’ll cut in for him. We need Margan; he’s the best course man in the business. This trick of yours is just one trip as far as the Brethren see it.”