Brothers to Dragons

by Charles Sheffield

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Job was stretched out on the bed in an otherwise empty room. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  I've managed to work my way right into the lion's den. Well, clever me. But what now? I feel a bit of energy for the first time in months, but I'm forced to lie here and do nothing . . . unless I can find a way to put my head in the lion's mouth, and get over to the fenced buildings.

  A more sensible man would hurry back to the square and try to rejoin the survey team, hoping that they had not yet left, telling them that he felt fine, that it had been just a minute or two of dizziness. A more inventive man would send a signal aloft to the watching satellites, find a way to reach the Tandy eastern exit at the right time, and then make up some story to satisfy Wilfred Dell.

  Job stood up and went across to the window. It was closed—and barred. The hospital bordered the central clearing, and he could see that the truck had already departed. Apparently he was neither sensible nor inventive enough.

  And now the sky was clouding over. Dell had made it plain that Job could lie outside all day, but if the sky were overcast he would not be seen. There could be no escape from Xanadu tonight. As though to reinforce that conclusion a Tandyman came rolling across the middle of the square. Everyone hurried clear of it, and watched intently until it was far away in the distance.

  Job was still standing at the window when the Oriental woman returned.

  "Well," she said. "Not dead yet, eh?" Her cool manner had gone, and she sounded pleased with herself.

  "I don't feel too bad. In fact, I'm getting hungry."

  "Good sign. We can take care of that easily enough." She smiled. "I'm Frances Chang. You know, you didn't have to go through that little act outside. We already planned that you would not be leaving with the others."

  For the past few weeks the sores on Job's face had encouraged him to show as little expression as possible. That helped now. He walked forward and sat down on the bed. "I don't understand."

  "Of course you don't. That's why I'm here." She held out her hand. "Give me your badge for a moment."

  He handed it to Frances Chang and watched in silence as she turned it over to show the back. "See that?" There was a little green line along the bottom. Job could not remember if it had been there when the badge was issued. "That says you're a candidate to work in Techville. We like to keep to ourselves here, as much as we're allowed to, but we have friends at Headquarters. When someone arrives in Xanadu who might be useful, we like to know about it. Normally nothing happens 'til the training program is finished, so your badge doesn't get marked 'til then. Your case was unusual. You popped up here ahead of schedule."

  "Candidate for what?" Job opted for the least revealing thought in his mind.

  "I told you, to come and work here." She did not seem surprised by the question. "I know you've had no scientific training, and you've been in trouble—we have your full record, we've had it since the day you arrived at Xanadu. But you have excellent aptitude. We try to pick up anyone with potential. You will have to go back to Headquarters and finish the training program, but before you leave we want you to have a feel for us, and what we do." She handed him his badge. "Come on, since you say you're hungry."

  Warning lights were flashing inside Job's head as he followed Chang from the room. While he had been scheming to find a way here, someone had been waiting for him—more than waiting, steering him in this direction. People didn't do favors for nothing, outside Xanadu or inside it. Frances Chang could paint her innocent picture of Techville scientists, impressed by Job's aptitude and wanting to recruit him. But Job could see a far more probable scenario. These people had friends in Headquarters, just as Chang suggested, and one of those friends, the Oriental aide to Gormish, had tagged Job's badge. But the green line didn't say, "Promising recruit, treat him well, sign him up." Far more likely it said, "I don't know what this one is, but he's a late addition to the survey. Keep him around until you find out why he was sent to Techville."

  One thing that Frances Chang had said to Job possessed a ring of truth: "You didn't have to go through that little act outside. We already planned that you would not be leaving with the others."

  Job might be treated as a "guest"; but "prisoner" was a better description of his status. He would leave when, and if, his hosts decided that he should. And if they decided that he was too dangerous to release? Well, that was no problem. He had been left behind in Techville because of radiation sickness. What was more natural than his death here?

  The next few hours confirmed his suspicion. Food was served in a different building, and although Frances Chang left him while he ate, three or four other residents always managed to be at his table throughout the meal.

  They chatted freely among themselves, but to Job's surprise they did not ask him the obvious questions: why was he here, how long had be been in Xanadu, what was it like outside, did the Quiebra Grande still devastate the rest of the world? They must know he was a stranger, to Techville and to Xanadu. Their lack of curiosity was inconsistent with his earlier idea, that they would probe to find out why he had been sent with the survey. He ate in puzzled silence.

  The answer when it came to him was not reassuring. It took the form of another question. Why go through the farce of polite queries when you had the truth drug? One dose of that, and Job would tell everything. And once they knew that he had been sent to Xanadu by the outside government . . .

  Job had learned from the conversation around him that the hatred for the government of the Mall Compound was as strong here as anywhere in the Tandy, maybe stronger. The only "crime" committed by Techville residents was the pursuit of science; but the witch-hunts had grabbed them, declared them guilty, and sent them to Xanadu without even the pretense of a fair hearing.

  Let the punishment fit the crime. Science was officially to blame for the country's worst problems, pollution and toxins; therefore by government policy, captured scientists should be sent to the country's worst Tandy.

  It would be pointless for Job to explain to the people around him that he too was a victim, sent here against his will. They would learn that he had entered the Tandy as a spy for Wilfred Dell and that would be enough.

  At the end of the meal Frances Chang appeared from nowhere and conducted Job quietly out of the dining area. They had reached the door of the building when a vanload of new diners came hurrying in. Job, one step in front of Chang, found himself suddenly face to face with a woman.

  It was Hanna Kronberg.

  She looked older and more worried than her pictures. The genial expression had vanished from her eyes, her gray hair was thinning, and she wore rimless glasses, but Job would have known her after far greater changes. He stopped dead, unable to resist staring at her point-blank. Fortunately she gave him only a casual glance, then looked right past his face and stepped around him to talk to Frances Chang.

  Job went outside and stood waiting. His pulse was racing, his heart pounding up in his throat. After months of planning and anticipation, the first meeting had been an anticlimax. He had said nothing to Hanna Kronberg. What could he say—"Ah, Dr. Kronberg, just the person I was looking for. Tell me about the experiments that you are doing inside that fenced-off area"?

  The air was warm, and the heaps of dirty snow were melting into the ground. The pulse in Job's throat slowed and became like a ticking clock. It was the clock of his own time, rapidly running down. The weather felt like early summer, but it was not yet even spring. In another day or two winter would return to set its grip on Xanadu, roads would again be difficult, escape impossible, and long before that, the truth drugs would have squeezed him dry.

  Job did not speak to Frances Chang as she led him back to the hospital, except to say as they entered his room: "I'm sorry, but I'm exhausted. May I just rest here until morning?"

  "You'll miss dinner if you do. The only place to eat is in the dining room, and it will be the last meal of the day."

  "I don't feel u
p to eating again."

  She nodded. "I understand. We'll talk in the morning." Even if talk meant cross-examine, she sounded sympathetic.

  But sympathy had its limits. As she left the room the door closed firmly and Job heard the key turn in the lock. After a few minutes he went across to examine it. The door was solid. Even if the lock were of a simple type, Job had no idea how to pick it.

  In any case, escape into the corridor was no solution. To get out of the building he would have to pass three or four rooms, each one occupied.

  That left only the window. He went across to examine it. The room was on the second floor, and beyond the thick and yellowed glass of the casement were the vertical bars of iron. Job studied them. They were solidly planted in the window frame, each one a quarter of an inch thick. Skip Tolson might bend them; Job was far too feeble. But the bars had been spaced to prevent the escape of a normal adult, not one sickly thin and naturally hollow-chested. Job opened the casement as wide as it would go and pushed his head tentatively into the widest space between the bars. It might go through—just. And then by turning his body sideways, he might be able to slide his shoulders and hips through. At that point he would be hanging head-first above the ground, dangling over a twelve-foot drop onto wet black earth.

  Job closed the window and went back to sit on the bed. Suppose that he worked his way through the bars and did not kill himself in the fall. What then? It would not be dark for another two hours, but the sky was completely cloud-covered and he could not signal the watching satellites. And if, miraculously, the sky were suddenly to clear and he could send his message, he must still travel to the eastern edge of the Tandy. It was at least fifteen miles, more if he avoided the deadly dumps at the center of Xanadu. He might not make it to the exit road before the two A.M. deadline.

  Suppose, instead, that he stayed here until morning? Then he would surely be questioned, and the drug would make sure he told the full truth.

  Problems.

  Job climbed into bed and pulled the sheets over him. He needed sleep, but his mind remained furiously active. As the room darkened around him, he little by little decided what he had to do. He waited, eyes closed. At dusk, a stranger unlocked the door and looked in. When he saw that Job was lying quietly in bed he retreated without speaking. The key turned again in the lock.

  Still Job waited. The roads and many buildings of Techville were not lit at night. By six-thirty the area below Job's window was completely dark. At last he moved his bed across, stood on it, and eased himself feet-first into the widest space between the window bars. The rough-edged metal scraped agonizingly on the sores of his hips and chest, but he kept inching forward. Within a minute he was holding a bar in each hand and turning so that his feet dangled down against the outside wall. His head was all that remained inside, but it stuck at the ears and temples and would not budge. His feet scraped for a hold on the wall of the building, and found nothing. The bars gripped him on each side of his hairless skull, tearing the skin from his ears. He wriggled and shivered and gave a last despairing push.

  And then he was through. He lost his grip on the bars and dropped with a rush of air to sprawl full-length on soft, gluey earth.

  As soon as he could breathe he rolled and scrambled away around the side of the building. Surely someone must have heard his feet, scrabbling away on the outer wall . . . But he saw and heard nothing. He waited thirty seconds, then crept away, around the building and towards the dining hall.

  The street in front was disturbingly well lit. He hadn't noticed those lamps when he had been there in daylight. But lit or not, it was to the front of the dining hall that he had to go.

  He watched while three small trucks drove up to the door, dropped off passengers, and left. At last the little van that he had seen earlier in the day came rolling up to the entrance. Hanna Kronberg and half a dozen others climbed out and went inside.

  Job hurried forward. He had no time to worry about being seen. The engine was still running, and it was odds-on that the driver would be out again almost at once. At the side of the van Job hesitated. If just the driver reappeared, it made sense for Job to climb inside and hide at the back. But suppose that the driver was on his way to collect another group of diners? Then they would enter the van, and be sure to find Job.

  He went around the truck and climbed onto the open iron frame at the rear. It was a primitive and home-made luggage rack, built of welded lengths of reinforcing bar. Even with the van stationary it was uncomfortable. Job crouched stiffly on hands and knees on the bare metal, and wished himself invisible. Despite the shadow of the van's body he felt conspicuous, but he dared not move.

  The driver appeared at last. By the time the van was moving down the road Job's hands and knees were aching so badly that he wanted to scream.

  The journey was mercifully short. When the van came to the fenced area and was waved on through the gate, Job was not sure whether he should be pleased or terrified. Certainly this place, inside yet another fence, should be the last location that anyone would search for him once they found that he was missing; they would first assume that he was making a run for Tandy Headquarters to report to his bosses. But if this seemed safe for the moment, instead of two barriers between him and Outside there were now three: one around this enclosed area, one around Techville, and the final and most lethal one around Xanadu itself.

  He did not wait for the van to stop. While it was still cruising slowly between buildings he waited for an unlit patch and rolled off the luggage rack. The road was made of concrete. It knocked the breath out of him and delivered punishing blows to his left shoulder and hip. It was another minute or two before he recovered enough to crawl off into the darkness. He was scarcely to the side of the road before the van came roaring back with another load of passengers.

  Months ago, Job's inspection of space photographs had shown him three buildings inside the fence. The middle one was three times the size of the others, but it seemed to be devoted to dormitories and recreation. The building next to it, farther to the east, had the most work activity—and it was where Hanna Kronberg had been spotted. Job headed that way, walked up to the building door as though he belonged there, and strode inside. If the staff went to dinner in shifts, rather than all at the same time . . . well, then he would be caught at once and not much worse off.

  He found himself in a long, bare corridor with offices set off on each side. Most of the doors were closed, but as he walked he heard the sound of voices from behind one of them. Apparently at least a few of the staff were skipping dinner. At any moment one of them might have a reason to come out into the corridor.

  He had to find a hiding place, but having come this far he wanted more than that. He stared at the closed doors as he passed. Each one had pinned to it a card bearing a person's name. He walked the length of the corridor to the narrow metal staircase at the end, but saw no card saying "Hanna Kronberg." He went up, treading as lightly as possible on the creaking bare metal, and found himself on a second floor that was all one big room. It was a laboratory of some kind, with computer consoles, electron capture detectors, chromatographs, and NMR equipment along one wall, racks of bottles and jars along another, and a dozen cages at the far end. Each cage was empty. Three of them were big enough to hold a large animal—or a human being.

  In the corner nearest to Job stood another staircase. It led up to the third and highest floor of the building. Job hurried to it, ascended, and found himself in another corridor with a staircase at the far end leading to the roof. Three doors were along the right-hand side. Two bore unfamiliar names—but the middle one carried the painted number 36 and below it, "Hanna Kronberg."

  Job pushed the door open and went in.

  The room was empty. It was a plain twelve-by-sixteen oblong, with no pictures or decorations except a clock on one wall and a man's photograph in a frame over the desk. There were signs of recent occupancy. One of the three file cabinets had a drawer open. The computer in the corner was st
ill switched on, displaying a complicated graphic of a biological organism. Jackets had been thrown carelessly on two of the chairs, and a pipe sat next to a pile of papers on the little metal table in the center of the room. It looked as though a meeting in progress had been interrupted for—or was continuing over—dinner.

  There was one other exit to the room, a connecting door over by the file cabinets to Job's left. He went through it, and found himself in a file storage area filled with racks of cabinets and a dozen free-standing bookcases. He walked along the bookshelves, reading the titles. Predictably, they meant little to him. They were on molecular biology, physiology, genetics, organic chemistry . . . all subjects about which Job knew nothing. He went back to Hanna Kronberg's office and spent the next half hour examining the open file cabinets and the computer. It was the same story, the same words with a few new ones: hybridomas, recombinant DNA, mapping and splicing, commensalism, artificial symbiotes.

  Job realized that real security in this facility was guaranteed not by protective fences and walls, as Wilfred Dell or the Big Three might think, but by the nature of the subject matter. Job could be left in this room all night, undisturbed, and at the end of it he would have only a vague idea what was going on. He had no trouble reading the papers in the files, but to him they were just strings of meaningless words. If he were to understand Hanna Kronberg's work, he would have to be told about it.

  He went back into the storage room and examined it with a new eye. What he needed was a comfortable hideaway, one that would keep him from discovery while allowing him to overhear conversations in the next office.

  Unfortunately, there was no such place. If he remained close enough to the door to hear speech, he would be seen by anyone who came in. Unless—Job looked up—unless he dropped any idea of comfort. The two bookcases next to the door were each six feet tall, three feet wide, and a foot deep. They were wood-framed, substantial and solid. If he climbed onto their shadowed top he could stretch out on them, uncomfortable but invisible unless anyone thought to look directly up to the bookcase tops.