Eloise

by E. C. Tubb

  When they made their move, he would be ready for them.

  And the move would be made, the message had been plain. Arbush, for reasons of his own had betrayed the captain, reenforcing Dumarest's own suspicions. A wreck of a ship, a man who obviously wanted to hide, the hints they could have picked up on Tynar-the Styast had become a trap.

  A trap which was about to close.

  Dumarest heard the scuff of boots in the passage, a sudden sonorous chord, a muffled curse in Eglantine's voice.

  "Tell that damned minstrel to be quiet!"

  An order to Shalout, perhaps, but Beint would be the better choice. Hampered by his withered hand, he would be of less use in a struggle. Not that Eglantine expected one; as far as he knew Dumarest was locked in quick-time, a helpless prey.

  In which case, why move now?

  The radio, he decided. Eglantine had tried to use it and found it ruined. It would stay ruined, the components had been destroyed; no word could be sent ahead as to his coming.

  Dumarest eased open the door.

  Outside the passage was empty. If Beint had gone to join Arbush in the salon, then Shalout must be towards the right at the end of the passage leading towards the engine room. And Eglantine?

  He caught the scrape of movement, the shift of air; he spun, one hand dropping towards the knife in his boot, the hand freezing as he saw the captain, the laser he held in one pudgy hand.

  "Hold! Move and I fire!"

  The gun was steady, the muzzle aimed low to sear legs and groin, the knuckle white over the trigger. A fraction more pressure and it would vent its searing beam; energy to burn clothes, skin, muscle and bone. To cripple if it did not kill.

  Dumarest said, blankly, "Captain! Is there something wrong?"

  "Shalout! To me!"

  The knuckle had eased a little, no longer white; the captain more certain of his command of the situation. He stood in a cabin, the door barely open; the gap just wide enough to show his face, the weapon he held. As the navigator came running down the passage from the engine room Eglantine said, sharply, "That's close enough. Watch him. Burn his legs if he tries anything."

  Shalout, like the captain, held a laser. He halted, twenty feet from Dumarest.

  He said, puzzled, "He's riding Middle like the rest of us."

  "Yes." Eglantine opened the door wide and stepped into the passage. "Proof of what I suspected, if I needed proof at all. Why should an honest man suffer the tedium of a journey when there is no need?"

  Dumarest said, "Your drugs are old, Captain. They lack effectiveness. I woke and was riding Middle. I was about to obtain more quick-time from the cabinet. Now, perhaps, you will tell me what is wrong."

  "The radio is ruined. You must have done it. Where are the components?"

  "You need guns to ask me that?"

  "They could be in his cabin," said Shalout. "Shall I search?"

  For a moment Eglantine hesitated, then shook his head. He had the advantage and wanted to retain it. With the navigator in the cabin he would be left alone with Dumarest. "No. He will tell us where they are." The laser moved a little, menacing. "You will tell us."

  Dumarest said, "Here?"

  The passage was narrow, with an armed man at front and rear; he would be caught in the cross fire if he tried to attack. In the salon, perhaps, he would stand a better chance, even with Beint present. Arbush would, he hoped, be neutral if not an ally.

  As if the man had caught his thoughts the sudden thrum of a gilyre rose from the compartment to send echoes along the passage; a stirring, demanding sound, hard, imperious.

  A voice rode with it, bland, more than a little mocking.

  "Are we to be left alone, my friend? Were you sent here to keep us out of the way? Does the Styast now carry two crews, when it used to carry one? Are secret deals being made and fortunes promised? If the trap has been sprung, where is the victim?"

  Eglantine shouted, "Arbush! Shut your mouth!"

  As the gilyre fell silent, Beint loomed at the end of the passage.

  "So you've got him," he rumbled. "Good. Bring him in here so we all can listen to what he has to say."

  He backed as they passed, his withered left hand rucked into his belt, his right holding a short club of some heavy wood. It made little slapping sounds as he struck it against his thigh. Arbush sat on the table, the gilyre on his lap, blunt fingers idly stroking the strings; tapping the wood so as to produce a soft thrumming interspersed with the whisper of simulated drums.

  He said, "Captain, you could be making a mistake."

  "No mistake." snapped Eglantine. "The radio proves that. Why should a man want to ruin the instrument?"

  "Why did you want to use it?" Dumarest looked at the round face, the splintered glass of the eyes. "What need did you have for it? And why was I not told? Do you forget that I chartered this ship?"

  "I am the captain!"

  "And a thief. You took my money and reneged on the deal. Why?"

  Eglantine shrugged. He was more relaxed now, the laser hanging loose in his hand, confident of his mastery.

  "A man wanting to charter a ship for a single passage. A man without cargo who is willing to pay highly for the privilege. You could have bought High passage on a score of ships for what you paid. And then your demand we follow a random course. I asked myself why? Are you interested in the answer?"

  "Tell me."

  Let the man talk; while he did so he would relax even more. And his words would hold the attention of the others, reassuring them of their anticipated wealth. And, while he talked, it was possible to plan.

  Dumarest moved a little, so as to rest the weight of his hip against the table. Shalout would have to be saved, his skill would be needed. Beint also; the engines needed constant attention if they were not to drop from phase. Arbush was an unknown factor; as yet he had shown himself to be a friend, but it would be a mistake to rely on him and he was expendable.

  As was Eglantine.

  Any ship was lost without its captain, but emergencies happened and Eglantine was a poor specimen of his kind. The condition of the Styast proved that. Without him it would be possible to reach their destination, and all navigators held a basic skill. Shalout could do what had to be done if Eglantine were to die.

  And the man had to die.

  Dumarest altered his position a little more as the captain talked, proud of himself, his conclusions.

  "Ten thousand ermils," he said. "A healthy sum, but a man worth that could be worth much more. And a man does not run without cause. Then I remembered things I had heard on Tynan. A reward offered-need I say more?"

  Dumarest said, "Why not? Are you afraid the others will know as much as you?"

  "We share! It is agreed!"

  "Share-how much? The little you choose to give them?" Dumarest shrugged, casual as he shifted position once more; edging along the table so as to narrow the distance between himself and the captain. "Or perhaps they trust you. Rely on your word-as I did!"

  "You-?"

  Dumarest moved, muscles exploding in a burst of controlled energy; the knife lifting from his boot as he neared the captain, thrusting as the gun lifted, catching the laser in his left hand to turn as the dead man fell, the hilt of the knife prominent over his heart.

  "Drop the gun! The club! Do it!"

  He fired as they hesitated, wood smoking, the club falling as Beint snatched away his hand.

  "Shalout! Don't, you fool!"

  The navigator dropped his gun at Arbush's shout. He looked dazed, numbed; eyes wide as he looked at the dead captain, the pool of blood in which he lay.

  "Fast!" said the minstrel. He had not moved from where he sat. "I've never seen a man move so fast. Once you had the gun, you could have killed us all. Why didn't you?"

  "I need you," said Dumarest harshly. "Beint, get to the engines. Shalout, you-"

  He broke off as the lights quivered. A shrill hum came from the bulkheads; a thin sound, rising, penetrating, hurting the ears. Abruptly the ship
seemed to twist in on itself; the edges of the compartment turning into curves, the bulkheads into corrugations.

  "Dear God!" screamed Shalout. "We're in a warp!"

  Chapter Five

  Somewhere a sun had died, matter imploding, condensing; torrents of energy hurled into space, agglomerations of incredible forces which distorted the very fabric of the continuum. For eons, perhaps, they had drifted; some to be caught in the gravitational well of other suns, to destroy them in turn or to be absorbed if weak enough. Some had touched planets and left them charred cinders. Others had merged with alternate patches of drifting energies, to conglomerate into areas in which normal laws did not apply.

  The Styast had touched one.

  "A warp!" Shalout screamed again. "We're dead!"

  Dumarest stepped forward, lifted his hand, sent the palm hard against the navigator's cheek. Twice more he struck; stinging slaps which shocked the man from his hysteria.

  As the rheumed eyes cleared a little he snapped, "To the controls. Fast!"

  He led the way, the ship jerking again as he ran down the passage: the walls seeming to close in, so that he looked down an edged tunnel which seemed to extend to infinity. He ran on, not looking down at his legs, his feet, the soft squashiness of the floor. And then it had passed and the passage was normal again; the instruments in the control room were a flashing, clicking mass of confusion.

  The screens showed madness.

  The stars were gone, the sheets and curtains of luminescence, the sombre patches of dust and the glowing nimbus of distant nebulae. Now there was a riot of color; swathes of green, red, yellow, savage blue, all twisting in dimensions impossible to follow, changing even as the eye caught them to adopt new, more baffling configurations.

  "We can only barely have touched," said Dumarest.

  "Shalout, check to see where the core lies. Change course to avoid it."

  The room changed before the other could answer, the walls expanding, filled with eye-bright luminescence; the instruments changing into cones, cubes, tesseracts of brilliant crystal, rods of lambent hue. The mind and eye baffled by the impact of wild radiation, trying to make sense from distorted stimuli. Or an actual, physical change in which familiar items altered to fit new laws of perspective and construction.

  No man had ever lived to determine the truth.

  Dumarest dropped into the control chair as the room returned to normality. Beside him Shalout muttered as he checked his instruments, reading dials he no longer trusted, readings which carried little sense.

  "There, I think, Earl. No, there!"

  "Make up your mind!"

  "I can't! The sensors are all gone to hell. Earl!"

  Dumarest was not a captain, yet he knew something about ships. He had ridden in too many, worked in more, not to have learned something of what needed to be done. Seated in the chair, he gripped the controls. To turn the Styast needed delicate manipulation of the field. Lights blazed on the panel as he adjusted the levers and a dial flashed an angry red.

  "The engines. They're losing phase. Damn Beint for a drunken fool. Arbush, see what you can do!"

  The minstrel had followed them. He turned at the command and headed towards the engine room. Dumarest didn't see him go. Every nerve, every particle of his concentration was aimed at the controls.

  Again he adjusted the levers. The screens flared, changed, showed the familiar universe.

  "You did it!" Shalout babbled his relief. "Earl, you did it!"

  "Maybe." Dumarest wasn't so sure. "We could have barely touched an extension of the warp. We must have, or we could never have pulled out of it."

  And they weren't clear yet. Other ships had suffered narrow escapes, still more were lost after reaching apparent safety. Dumarest looked at the instruments, the scanners and sensors which should have guided them safely through space. Would have done, had Eglantine been at his post in order to read their warnings. Yet, perhaps, he could not wholly be blamed. A warp distorted all space in its immediate region. Instruments would have been delivering false information, and yet, a trained and skilled man might have been able to avoid the trap.

  "Shalout?"

  The man remained silent, shaking his head, a thin line of spittle running from the corner of his mouth.

  "Shalout, damn you! Give me a course!"

  The man changed. His arms vanished, his legs, his head became a truncated pyramid of gleaming facets; his body a mass of divergent angles glowing with red and blue and emerald. Beyond him the metal of the hull sprouted frosted icicles, the instruments soft and pouting faces.

  Again the screens showed nothing but a Lambent confusion of writhing brilliance.

  And then, again, things returned to normal.

  "Dear God!" The navigator had found his voice. "We're trapped! We can't escape! We're dead!"

  Ship and men, the vessel caught in a maelstrom of irresistible forces, swept like a chip of wood caught in a tumultuous stream; to be ripped and torn and crushed to individual molecules.

  If the force was resisted.

  It was natural to resist, to use the relatively minor power of their engines to pull away, to escape if there was a chance. But the engines of the Styast were almost useless, hovering on the edge of becoming lifeless lumps of metal and wire; ready to collapse and take with them the Erhaft field which was their life.

  Dumarest said, tightly, "Get hold of yourself, Shalout We've still got a chance. See if you can determine the flow of the warp, its node."

  "But-"

  "Do it!"

  For a moment the man hesitated, a victim of his terror, then he remembered the dead man lying in the salon, the blood, the knife which had reached his heart. Saw the hard, set line of Dumarest's features, the cruel line of the mouth.

  Death would come, of that he was certain; but death delayed was better than death received at this very moment.

  He studied his instruments, checking, noting; hard-won skills diminishing a little of his fear.

  "Up and to the left," he said. "If these things can be trusted that is the direction of flow. Not that it means anything. Who can tell what happens in a warp? But you asked and that's the answer."

  "And the node?"

  "Anywhere. Directions don't mean anything."

  "Try harder."

  "Ahead, maybe. How can I tell?"

  With instruments which could lie and eyes which couldn't be trusted-no way at all. Yet his instinct remained. That and luck.

  As the screen flared again with the alien brilliance, Dumarest sent the vessel up and to the left. Towards the line of flow, riding with it instead of resisting it; sending the ship which was the Styast moving inward closer to the heart of the warp, the node it must contain.

  * * * * *

  At the sound of the bell Eloise woke to face yet another day. They were all the same, days and nights; segments of time divided by a bell, different only in the external light. Hours which brightened to fade, to brighten again. A sun which rose and set; the steady, relentless passage of time. The inescapable end-but it was best not to think of that.

  Rising she bathed and dressed, a serviceable garment of dull green, more like a sack than a dress; but in the gardens, frills had no place.

  For a moment she hesitated and then decided to eat alone; the canteen would be full of the usual vacuous faces, the empty chatter. Here, in her room, at least she could maintain the illusion of privacy.

  Of the three choices she chose toast, fruit and a compote of pungent flavor together with a sweet tisane. The fruit was genuine, the compote a blend of mutated yeasts; the tisane a synthetic combination balanced as to essential vitamins and trace elements.

  A meal containing the three essentials of any diet; bulk, variety and flavor. Camolsaer looked after them well.

  A Monitor stood at its usual place, at the entrance to the gardens.

  "Woman Eloise, you are three minutes late."

  "So what?"

  "It is noted. Proceed to bank 73. Remove all dead ma
tter and observe for infection."

  Yesterday it had been bank 395 to harvest the fruit, or to overseer, rather; machines did the work. And the day before that, it had been to replant bank 83. And last week she had worked in the kitchens. And the week before that at the laundry. Simple tasks all, any of which could have been done by an idiot.

  She said, "My application to the nursery. Has it been approved?"

  "It has been noted."

  "I said approved."

  "It has been noted," droned the Monitor again. "You are now six minutes late. Proceed at once to bank 73."

  It was a wide, long, shallow tray filled with grit to hold the roots, nutrients to feed the plants. From above fell light rich in ultra-violet, and from speakers came a jumble of sound, vibrations designed to promote optimum growth.

  Eloise walked along the edge, picking wilted leaves, dropped particles; fragments of vegetation from where they broke the symmetry of the growths. God working in his garden, she thought bitterly. But it was not a real garden; the work was trivial and she certainly was not God.

  A woman lower down moved slowly towards her. As she came into earshot Eloise said, "Doesn't all this get you?"

  The woman frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "All this." Her gesture took in the tank, the wide expanse of the gardens. "We don't need it. The yeast and algae vats can supply all we eat. Flavor and shape can be added, so why all this?"

  "It's for Camolsaer."

  The answer she had expected and wondered why she had bothered. It was always the same. A lifetime of conditioning couldn't be negated by a few conversations. With an effort, she remembered the woman's name.

  "Haven't you ever thought about it, Helen? I mean, all this wasted effort. We aren't really needed here."

  "That isn't for us to decide, Eloise." The woman carefully plucked a leaf and dropped it into the bag she carried for later disposal. "But one thing is clear. I like to eat fruit, nuts and vegetables, so they have to be grown. If they have to be grown, then someone has to grow them. Who else but ourselves?"