"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 20 - Web of Sand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

Her goblet fell to join his on the floor as his hands rose,
cupped, rising to her breasts. And this time she did not turn
from the embrace.


Chapter Two

The place was a windowless chamber, the walls, roof and floor
of fused sand, minute flecks of silica glinting in the glare of
overhead lighting. The tables were the same, the benches, even
the plates and pots—fused sand, the cheapest building material
on Harge. Leaning with his back against a wall Dumarest looked
over the tavern. Aside from the material with which it was built
it was the same as countless others he had seen. A room with
tables at which to sit, a bar from which food and drinks were
served, a low dais which could hold a small band of entertainers
if any were available and willing to work for the thrown coins
which would be their sole reward. Some serving girls, vapid
faces, careless as to dress, willing to titivate for the sake of tips
and even to do more if the gain was high enough.
 The clientele was also in the pattern; men killing time, others
whispering as they made plans, many who just sat and watched,
some who tried to drown their desperation in wine, a few who
came for reasons of curiosity, others who found entertainment in
mixing with those of different station. But this held something
most others lacked and which pervaded the atmosphere like a
subtle but disquieting perfume.

"Fear," said Carl Santis. "The place stinks of it." He sat on a
bench next to Kemmer and held his pot in one, scarred hand. His
face above the stained and worn clothing was beaked, the nose
like the thrusting bill of a bird of prey. Scar tissue gleamed in the
light, small patches of glisten against the swarthy complexion.
Patches matched by those on his tunic where the weight of
protective armor had polished the nap. Sure signs of the
mercenary's trade. "Fear," he said again. "It smells like a camp of
raw recruits waiting to engage."

Waiting to fight, to gamble with life and death, but for those
in the room there was no waiting. The battle to survive never
ceased and death could come as a blessing.

"Harge," said Kemmer. "They should have named it Hell." He
lifted his pot and sipped then lowered it to scowl at the wine.
"Frome, the bastard! Dumping us the way he did. One day, with
luck, we'll meet again."

"Armed," mused Santis. "Did he wear a gun when you booked
passage, Earl?"