“Could be I’d venture a little fling myself,” said Brannoch. “Couple million solars—and my protection. These are troubled times, Captain. A powerful patron isn’t to be sniffed at.”
“The Society,” remarked Valti, “has extraterritorial rights. It can grant sanctuary, as well as removal from Earth, which is becoming an unsalubrious place. And, of course, monetary rewards: three million solars, as an investment in new knowledge?”
“This is hardly the place to talk business,” said Brannoch. “But as I said, I think you might like Thor. Or we could set you up anywhere else you chose. Three and a half million.”
Valti groaned. “My lord, do you wish to impoverish me? I have a family to support.”
“Yeh. One on each planet,” chuckled Brannoch.
Langley sat very still. He thought he knew why they all wanted Saris Hronna. But what could he do about it?
Chanthavar’s short supple form emerged from the crowd. “Oh, there you are,” he said. He bowed casually to Brannoch and Valti. “Your servant, my lord and good sir.”
“Thanks, Channy,” said Brannoch. “Sit down, why don’t you?
“No. Another person would like to meet the captain. Excuse us.”
When they were safely into the mob, Chanthavar drew Langley aside. “Were those men after you to deliver this alien up to them?” he asked. There was something ugly on his face.
“Yes,” said Langley wearily.
“I thought so. The Solar government’s riddled with their agents. Well, don’t do it.”
A tired, harried anger bristled in Langley. “Look here, son,” he said, straightening till Chanthavar’s eyes were well below his, “I don’t see as how I owe any faction today anything. Why don’t you quit treating me like a child?”
“I’m not going to hold you incommunicado, though I could,” said Chanthavar mildly. “Isn’t worth the trouble, because we’ll probably have that beast before long. I’m just warning you, though, that if he should fall into any hands but mine, it’ll go hard with you.”
“Why not lock me up and be done with it?”
“It wouldn’t make you think, as I’ll want you to think in case my own search fails. And it’s too crude.” Chanthavar paused, then said with a curious intensity: “Do you know why I play out this game of politics and war? Do you think maybe I want power for myself? That’s for fools who want to command other fools. It’s fun to play, though. Life gets so thundering tedious otherwise. What else can I do that I haven’t done a hundred times already? But it’s fun to match wits with Brannoch and that slobbering redbeard. Win, lose, or draw, it’s amusing; but I intend to win.”
“Ever thought of … compromising?”
“Don’t let Brannoch bluff you. He’s one of the coldest and cleverest brains in the galaxy. Fairly decent sort—I’ll be sorry when I finally have to kill him—but—never mind!” Chanthavar turned away. “Come on, let’s get down to the serious business of getting drunk.”
VI
Progress does get made: Langley’s refresher cabinet removed all trace of hangover from him the next morning, and the service robot slid breakfast from a chute onto a table and removed it when he was through. But after that there was a day of nothing to do but sit around and brood.
It would be so easy to give in, cooperate with Chanthavar, and glide with the current. How did he know it wouldn’t be right? The Technate seemed to represent order, civilization, justice of sorts. He had no business setting himself up against twenty billion people and 5000 years of history. Had Peggy been along, he would have surrendered; her neck was not one to risk for a principle he wasn’t even sure of.
But Peggy was dead, and he had little except principle to live for. It was no fun playing God, even on this petty scale, but he had come from a society which laid on each man the obligation to decide things for himself.
Chanthavar called on the group that afternoon. He was still yawning. “What a time to get up!” he complained. “Life isn’t worth the effort before sundown. Well, shall we go?”
As he led them out, half a dozen of his guards closed in around the party. “What’re they for, anyhow?” asked Langley. “Protection against the commons?”
“I’d like to see a commoner even think about making trouble,” said Chanthavar. “If he can think, which I sometimes doubt. No, I need these fellows against my own rivals. Brannoch, for instance, would gladly knock me off just to get an incompetent successor. I’ve ferreted out a lot of his agents. And then I have my competitors within the Technate. Having discovered that bribery and cabals won’t unseat me, they may very well try the direct approach.”
“What would they stand to gain by … assassinating you?” inquired Blaustein.
“Power, position, maybe some of my estates. Or they may be out and out enemies. I had to kick in a lot of teeth on my own way up.”
They emerged on a bridgeway and let its moving belt carry them along, dizzily high over the city. At this altitude, Langley could see that Lora was built as a single integrated unit. No building stood alone. They were all connected, and there was a solid roof underneath decking over the lower levels.
Chanthavar pointed to the misty horizon, where a single great tower reared. “Weather-control station,” he said. “Most of what you see belongs to the city, Ministerial public park, but over that way is the boundary of an estate belonging to Tarahoe. He raises grain on it, being a back-to-nature crank.”
“Haven’t you any small farms?” asked Langley.
“Space, no!” Chanthavar looked surprised. “They do on the Centaurian planets, but I’d find it hard to imagine a more inefficient system. A lot of our food is synthesized; the rest is grown on Ministerial lands.”
They had lunch at a terrace restaurant, where machines served a gaily dressed, stiff-mannered clientele of aristocrats. Chanthavar paid the bill with a shrug. “I hate to put money into the purse of Minister Agaz—he’s after my head—but you must admit he keeps a good chef.”
The guards did not eat; they were trained to a sparse diet and an untiring watchfulness.
“There’s a lot to see, here in the upper levels,” said Chanthavar. He nodded at the discreet glow-sign of an amusement house. “But it’s more of the same. Come on downside for a change.”
A gravity shaft dropped them two thousand feet, and they stepped into another world.
Here there was no sun, no sky. Walls and ceiling were metal; floors were soft and springy, and a ruler-straight drabness filled Langley’s vision. The air was fresh enough, but it throbbed and rang with a noise that never ended: pumping, hammering, vibrating—the deep steady heartbeat of that great machine which was the city. The corridors—streets—were crowded, restless, alive with motion and shrill talking.
So these were the commoners. Langley stood for a moment in the shaft entrance, watching them. He didn’t know what he had expected—gray-clad zombies, perhaps—but he was surprised. The disorderly mass reminded him of cities he had seen in Asia.
Dress was a cheap version of that of the Ministerial: tunics for men, long dresses for women; it seemed to fall into a number of uniforms, green and blue and red, but was sloppily worn. The men’s heads were shaven; the faces reflected that mixture of races which man on Earth had become. There were incredible numbers of naked children playing under the very feet of the mob; there was not that segregation of the sexes which the upper levels enforced.
Chanthavar offered cigarettes, struck one for himself, and led the way behind a couple of guards. People fell aside, bowing respectfully and then resuming their affairs. “We’ll have to walk,” said the agent. “No slideways down here.”
“What are the uniforms?” asked Blaustein.
“Different trades: metalworker, food producer, and so on. They have a guild system, highly organized, several years’ apprenticeship, and there’s a lot of rivalry between the guilds. As long as the commons do their work and behave themselves, we leave them pretty much alone. The police—city-owned slaves—keep
them in line if real trouble ever starts.” Chanthavar pointed to a burly black-clad man in a steel helmet. “It doesn’t matter much what goes on here. They haven’t the weapons or the education to threaten anything. Such schooling as they get emphasizes how they must fit themselves to the basic system.”
“Who’s that?” Matsumoto gestured to a man in form-fitting scarlet, his face masked, a knife in his belt, who slipped quietly between people indisposed to hinder him.
“Assassins’ guild, though mostly they hire out to do burglaries and beatings. The commons aren’t robots—we encourage free enterprise. They’re not allowed firearms, so it’s safe enough and keeps the others amused.”
After dinner, which was at a spot patronized by the wealthier merchants, Chanthavar smiled. “Near walked my legs off today,” he said. “Now how about some fun? A city is known by its vices.”
“Well, okay,” said Langley. He was a little drunk; the sharp pungent beer of the lower levels buzzed in his head. He didn’t want women, not with memory still a bright pain in him. But there ought to be games and … His purse was full of bills and coins. “Where to?”
“Dreamhouse, I think,” said Chanthavar, leading them out. “It’s a favorite resort for all levels.”
The entrance was a cloudy blueness opening into many small rooms. They took one, slipping life-masks over their faces: living synthetic flesh which stung briefly as it connected to nerve endings in the skin and then was part of you. “Everybody’s equal here, everybody anonymous,” said Chanthavar. “Refreshing.”
“What is your wish, sirs?” The voice came from nowhere, cool and somehow not human.
“General tour,” said Chanthavar. “The usual. Here, put a hundred solars in this slot, each of you. The place is expensive, but fun.”
They relaxed on what seemed a dry, fluffy cloud, and were carried aloft. The guards formed an impassive huddle some distance behind. Doors opened for them. They hung under a perfumed sky of surrealistic stars and moons, looking down on what appeared to be a deserted landscape not of Earth.
“Part illusion, part real,” said Chanthavar. “You can have any experience you can imagine here, for the right price. Look …”
The cloud drifted through a rain which was blue and red and golden fire, tingling as it licked over their bodies. Great triumphant chords of music welled around them. Through the whirling flames, Langley glimpsed girls of an impossible loveliness, dancing on the air.
Then they were underwater, or so it seemed, with tropical fish swimming through a green translucence, corals and waving fronds underneath. Then they were in a red-lit cavern like Hell, where the music was a hot pulse in the blood. They shot at darting containers which landed to offer a drink when hit. Then they were in a huge and jolly company of people, singing and laughing and dancing and guzzling. A young female giggled and tugged at Langley’s arm. Briefly, he wavered. Then he said harshly: “Scram!”
Whirled over a roaring waterfall, sporting through air which was somehow thick enough to swim in, gliding past grottos and glens full of strange lights, and into a gray swirling mist where you could not see a yard ahead … Here, in a dripping damp quiet which seemed to mask enormousness, they paused.
Chanthavar’s shadowy form gestured, and there was a queer taut note in his muffled voice: “Would you like to play Creator? Let me show you …” A ball of raging flame was in his hands, and from it he molded stars and strewed them through sightless immensity. “Suns, planets, moons, people, civilizations and histories—you can make them here as you please.” Two stars crashed into each other. “You can will yourself to see a world grow—any detail no matter how tiny. A million years in a minute or a minute stretched through a million years; you can smite it with thunder, and watch them cower and worship you.” The sun in Chanthavar’s hands glowed dully through the fog. Tiny sparks which were planets flitted around it. “Let me clear the mist; let there be light.”
Something moved in the wet smoky air. Langley saw a shadow striding between new-born constellations, a thousand light-years tall. A hand gripped his arm, and dimly he saw the pseudo-face beyond.
He writhed free, yelling, as the other hand sought his neck. A wire loop snaked out, tangling his ankles. There were two men now, closing in on him. Wildly, he groped backward. His fist connected with a cheek which bled artificial blood.
“Chanthavar!”
A blaster crashed, startlingly loud and brilliant. Langley hurled a giant red sun into one of the faces wavering near him. Twisting free of an arm about his waist, he kneed the vague form and heard a grunt of pain.
“Light!” bellowed Chanthavar. “Get rid of this mist!”
The fog broke, slowly and raggedly. There was a deep clear blackness, the dark of outer vacuum, with stars swimming in it like fireflies. Then full illumination came on.
A man sprawled dead near Chanthavar, his stomach torn open by an energy bolt. The guards milled uneasily. Otherwise they were alone. The room was bare, coldly lit.
For a long moment, he and the agent stared at each other. Blaustein and Matsumoto were gone.
“Is … this … part of the fun?” asked Langley through his teeth.
“No.” A hunter’s light flickered in Chanthavar’s eyes. He laughed. “Beautiful job! I’d like to have those fellows on my staff. Your friends have been stunned and kidnapped under my own eyes. Come on!”
VII
There was a time of roaring confusion as Chanthavar snapped orders into a visiphone, organizing a chase. Then he swung around to Langley. “I’ll have this warren searched, of course,” he said. “But I don’t imagine the kidnappers are still in it. The robots aren’t set to notice who goes out in what condition, so that’s no help. Nor do I expect to find the employee of this place who helped fix matters up for the snatch. But I’ve got the organization alerted. There’ll be a major investigation hereabouts inside half an hour. And Brannoch’s quarters are being watched already.”
“Brannoch?” repeated Langley stupidly. His brain felt remote, like a stranger’s. He couldn’t throw off the airborne drugs as fast as the agent.
“To be sure! Who else? Never thought he had this efficient a gang on Earth. They won’t take your friends directly to him, of course. There’ll be a hideout somewhere in the lower levels. Not too much chance of finding it among fifteen million commoners, but well try. We’ll try!”
A policeman hurried up with a small, metal-cased object which Chanthavar took. “Peel off that mask. This is an electronic scent-tracer. We’ll try to follow the trail of the pseudo-faces. Distinctive odor, so don’t you confuse it. I don’t think the kidnappers took the masks off in Dreamhouse; then someone might notice who they were carrying. Stick with us. We may need you. Let’s go!”
A score of men, black-clad, armed and silent, surrounded them. Chanthavar cast about the main exit. There was something of the questing hound over him. The esthete, the hedonist, the casual philosopher were blotted up in the hunter of men. A light glowed on the machine. “A trail, all right,” he muttered. “If only it doesn’t get cold too fast. Damn it, why must they ventilate the lowers so well?” He set off at a rapid jog trot, his men keeping an easy pace. The milling crowds shrank away.
Langley was too bewildered to think. This was happening faster than he could follow, and the drugs of Dreamhouse were still in his blood, making the world unreal. Bob, Jim … now the great darkness had snatched them too. Would he ever see them again?
Down a drop-shaft, falling like autumn leaves, Chanthavar testing each exit as he passed it. The unceasing roar of machines grew louder, more frantic. Langley shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to master himself. It was like a dream. He was carried willlessly along between phantoms in black.
He had to get away. He had to get off by himself, think in peace. It was an obsession now, driving everything else out of his head. He was in a nightmare and he wanted to wake up. Sweat was clammy on his skin.
The light flashed, feebly. “This way!” Chanthavar s
wung out of a portal. “Trail’s weakening, but maybe—”
The guards pressed after him. Langley hung back, dropped further, and stepped out at the next level down.
It was an evil section, dim-lit and dingy. The streets were almost deserted. Closed doors lined the walls, litter blew about under his feet, the stamping and grinding of machines filled his universe. He walked fast, turning several corners and trying to hide.
Slowly his brain cleared. An old man in dirty garments sat cross-legged beside a door and watched him out of filmy eyes. A sleazy woman slunk close to him, flashing bad teeth in a mechanical smile, and fell behind. A tall young man, ragged and unshaven, leaned against the wall and followed his movements with listless eyes. This was the slum, the oldest section, poor and neglected—the last refuge of failure. This was where those whom the fierce life of the upper tiers had broken fled, to drag out lives of no importance to the Technon.
Langley stopped, breathing hard. A furtive hand groped from a narrow passage, feeling after the purse at his belt. He slapped, and the child’s bare feet pattered away into darkness.
Damn fool thing to do, he thought. I could be murdered for my cash. Let’s find us a cop and get out of here, son.
He walked on down the street. A legless beggar whined at him, but he didn’t dare show his money. New legs could have been grown, but that was a costly thing. Well behind, a tattered pair followed him. Where the hell was a policeman? Didn’t anyone care what happened down here?
A huge shape came around a corner. It had four legs, a torso with arms, a nonhuman head. Langley hailed it. “Which is the way out? Where’s the nearest shaft going up? I’m lost.”
The alien looked blankly at him and went on. No spikka da Inglees. Etie Town, the section reserved for visitors of other races, was somewhere around here. That might be safe, though most of the compartments would be sealed off, their interiors poisonous to him. Langley went the way the stranger had come. His followers shortened the distance between.
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