by E. C. Tubb
The cold logic of a machine.
Eloise moved along the bank searching, for want of anything better to do, for signs of rust, blight, infection of any kind. She found none, as she had expected. When next they drew nearer to each other Helen said. "I've made application for nursery duty. It has been approved."
"When?"
"I start tomorrow. I-"
"When did you make the application?" Eloise was curt, careless of her interruption. Anger thinned her lips at Helen's answer. "I applied long ago. Before you did. I'm still waiting."
"I'm sorry." Helen looked into her bag. "Perhaps, well, you did act rather oddly after the Knelling. And it could be that-"
"I'm irrational," snapped Eloise. "I'm emotional. I'm not to be trusted. So your precious Camolsaer is making me pay for it." A plant fell to ruin beneath the grip of her hand. "Damn it, Helen, what can I do?"
But she knew the answer to that. To work hard, be humble, be stable; to forget that she had known a life outside of Instone.
To patiently wait and to die-no-be converted with a smile.
Another plant pulped to ruin, a third, and then the Monitor was at her side; the hateful voice droning above the susurration from the speakers.
"Woman Eloise, you are disturbed-"
"Yes."
"Your reason?"
"I want something. It has been denied me."
"Your application has been noted, as you were told. Is there something else?"
"Yes, I-" She looked around at the gardens, the massed vegetation, the blank faces of those busy at their tasks. "I'm an artist. I dont belong here. I want to do something more creative."
"You are relieved, Woman Eloise. Report to the medical center for tests and examination."
* * * * *
The doctor was a robot, its attendant a man. He read the printout and thoughtfully pursed his lips.
"There is clear evidence of inner conflict, Eloise. Physically you are in perfect condition, but the mental symptoms are disturbing. Of course I realize that you are a stranger; but you have been here long enough to have become assimilated into the culture of Instone. Is there anything I could do to help?"
"I want to be with the children."
"Of course. Natural enough for any woman, and you have a strong survival index which means a highly developed maternal instinct. If it were possible for you to have a child, it is probable that your inner tensions would be resolved."
Quickly, too quickly perhaps, she said, "No. I don't want a child. Not here."
"Then that is one conflict which need not concern us."
He had missed her meaning. "What else is left? The monotony of essential employment? Perhaps something could be done about that. Have you any special preference? The engraving of glass, for example; or, at least, the fabrication of designs for ornamentation? You did say you were an artist."
"Not that kind."
"Well, then, let us probe a little deeper. Clothing is standard for work, of course; but that worn during leisure hours is capable of wide variety. Would you be interested in fashion? Or perhaps…"
His voice droned on, but she wasn't listening. Seated in the chair, the attachments of the robot diagnostician hanging like a skein of hair before the cabinet, she berated herself for having been a fool.
How many times must she remind herself to forswear the luxury of emotion?
A score of times, at least, she thought dully; and now she had done it again. Anger was always futile, a self-indulgence which achieved nothing aside from the alienation of friends. Outside it was bad enough; here in the city it was toying with suicide. Did she want to die?
An escape, she thought bleakly, but the final one. And she couldn't be sure that it was an escape at all. It could be the preliminary to something worse than she had now.
And, while there was life, there was hope.
Where had she heard that? Sitting, her hands lax in her lap, she threw her mind back to the past. A tavern, or a place like it. A man, a little the worse for drink, who had thrown a handful of coins at her feet. A dying man with a seared face and lungs which vented blood when he coughed. But stubborn, fighting to the last, refusing to take the black pill the medics had offered.
"Eloise?" The attendant was looking at her, a frown creasing the smooth skin of his forehead. "Is there anything wrong?"
"No." With an effort she smiled. "I am sorry, but I was thinking. I have acted very foolishly."
"You realize that?" His relief was obvious. "That is good. Once a problem is accepted and faced, then it can be resolved. We are all prone to tension, it is a part of the human condition; but such tension can be negated by an acceptance of reality. Here, in Instone, you are fed, housed and protected. In return, you work at things which have to be done. A fair exchange, as I think you will agree."
"Yes."
"The very act of living is a demand. A universal concept which cannot be denied. Organisms must die to provide your body with sustenance and, as you make demands, so demands are made of you. To grow food, to maintain the city, to cooperate in order to survive."
Repetition which, even when she had first heard it had created a vague disquiet. Life was more than just living. A child born should do more than just grow, live, pass on. That was the destiny of animals, not men.
She said, slowly, "Life is a continual act of violence."
"Yes," he admitted. "I suppose you could put it that way. On the animal level certainly; but we are more than animals."
"Are we?"
A question which disturbed him. Sharply he said, "You doubt it?"
"No." Already she had skimmed too near the edge. Continue and there would be drugs, more tests, observation and discussion. It was time to end her dangerous play. "I feel better now. Talking to you has done me a great deal of good. I was upset, disturbed, my thoughts unclear. The Knelling-you know how it is."
"It disturbed you?"
"There were friends, people who were close; it is foolish, I know, but I was afraid."
"And now?"
"Not now." Was anger, fear? Frustration, terror? "I have made mistakes," she admitted. "I regret them. I shall not bother you again."
"It is no bother, Eloise. I am here to help. Call on me at any time. And now, I suggest that you take up some therapeutic activity for a while."
"Thank you."
"A moment." He stepped back beyond her range of vision and she heard a soft hum, the murmur of voices. Returning he said, "Corridor 53. Continue the refurbishing."
* * * * *
Adara stretched, feeling the muscles tighten across back and shoulders, dropping his hands in time to catch the heavy ball thrown at him by one of the others in the ring. Bikel was spiteful, hurling the hard mass of plastic with savage force, smiling a little as Adara fumbled the catch.
"You're getting old," he said. "Maybe you should give all this up?"
Old, perhaps; but not so old that he couldn't hold his own in the gymnasium. Adara hefted the ball, feinted, sent it with the full force of his arms and shoulders to where the man stood. He heard the grunt as the hands slipped, the meaty smack as the ball hit the other's stomach, and felt a warm satisfaction.
"Not bad," said Sagen. The instructor had smooth skin, unbulged by overdeveloped muscle. He lifted his hand as Bikel poised the ball, the throw. "That's enough for now."
"Let's continue."
"No. Exercise as much as you want, but not with the ball." He had sensed the rising antagonism. "Into the pool now, all of you."
The water was deep, green, ringed by naked figures. Adara dived, swam underwater until his lungs felt like bursting, then surfaced with a mist of spray. The exercise had stimulated him and he reveled in the joy of the moment. A couple to one side dived, swam and rose laughing, the girl lifted on the man's hands; water dripping from her hair, the uptilt of her breasts.
Vivien and Dras, selected for breeding, soon to have a child.
The thought ruined his pleasure and he swam to the side, to hea
ve himself up from the pool.
Rhun called to him as he dressed.
"We're having a challenge match tonight, care to join in?"
"I don't think so."
"Two teams at multiple chess. The losers to pay forfeit."
"No." Adara had no interest in the movements of pieces on a board, the pitting of his intellectual skill against that of others. Still less in the ridiculous penalties demanded of the losers. "Some other time, maybe."
"Think again, Adara. Bring Eloise with you. She could enjoy it."
Mention of the name brought a touch of guilt. He had been avoiding her, he realized; not consciously, but with an instinctive caution. Impulsively, he strode to a terminal.
"Adara. Where is Eloise?"
Without hesitation came the answer. "In her room."
She was wearing a dress of orange laced with streaks of brown; green paint on lips and nails, her hair a rippling waterfall over the smooth roundness of her shoulders. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
"Adara! How did you know I was thinking about you?"
"Were you?"
"Of course, my friend. Who else in this place is as close? Some wine?"
A decanter stood on a low table, next to the deep chair which had been turned so as to face the window. The curtains were withdrawn, the darkening blue of the sky already showing the cold points of stars. She had, he guessed, been sitting, brooding; and he felt a momentary shame.
"Eloise, I'm sorry."
"For what, being careful?" Shrugging she lifted a glass half full of wine. Green wine, he noted, chosen, perhaps, to match her lips. "I'm dangerous, Adara. Bad company. Others know it, so why not you?"
"No!"
"Yes," she corrected. "At times I go too far. Today, I was sent to the medics."
"And?"
"Nothing. I realized that I was wrong and said so. Camolsaer gave me a job refurbishing a corridor."
To revive old paint with new. To set fresh pigment on faded designs; work which required no skill, but did need concentration.
She said, "There was a place on my home world where they did things like that. Set people to make mats or weave tapestries on a loom. Insane people. Adara, am I insane?"
"No!" His protest was almost a shout. "No," he said again, more quietly. "You are not insane and never think that you are. Your values are different from ours and that is all."
"All?" She shrugged. "What else is insanity but a different set of values? An inability to accept what the majority regard as the norm? Tell me, my friend, when I use the words 'breaking point,' do you know what I mean?"
"The point at which any material, under stress, can no longer resist the pressure."
"Or the pull of opposing forces."
"Yes. You are precise, my dear."
"I'm a fool." She poured him wine and handed him the glass, refilling her own and gulping it down. As she again tilted the decanter she said, "I'm drinking too much, but what the hell? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."
"Your analogy escapes me."
"As do so many other things."
He said, to change the subject, "I saw Vivien and Dras in the pool. They're going to have a child."
"I know."
"And Rhun asked me to bring you to the chess match. He made a point of it."
"So?"
"You still have friends, Eloise. You're not alone."
"That is a matter of opinion." Immediately she softened. "I'm sorry, Adara, I know you and the others mean well, but-why the hell can't you understand?"
A question he had asked himself many times in the years he had known her. He had tried and, at times, imagined that he had succeeded. Then, as now, she would change into something almost alien.
He reached towards her where she stood, turned away from him, her face towards the window, Her hair was soft with a delicate sheen: yielding tactile pleasure to his questing hand, his stroking fingers.
"Adara!"
His hand fell from the tresses, a coldness at his heart, but she hadn't rejected him.
It was something else.
High in the sky something glowed; a cloud of vivid blue, bright against the darkening night. A lambency which flickered, died, flared again as it swept across the heavens.
"A meteor," he said. "A big one, by the look of it. It should land fairly close."
"A meteor?" Her voice rang high, excited. "Hell, that's no meteor! It's a ship!"
Chapter Six
There were clicks, sighs, the rasp of yielding metal; a host of tiny sounds which had replaced the grating roar, the crush and fury of destruction. Dumarest heard them all around, a whispering threnody which echoed in his ears; fading even as he listened, to die with solemn murmurs. The dirge of a dying ship.
He tried to move and felt clamping restrictions. Opening his eyes he stared at the black faces of the screens, the material scarred and splintered in a cobweb of lines. Weight dragged him sideways and he realized the control room was tilted; what had been the deck was now a wall to which the chair was fastened.
For the moment it was enough.
He sagged, breathing deeply, conscious of the ache in his chest; ribs bruised or broken by the straps which held him. His lips and chin were wet and sticky with blood which had come from burst capillaries, the vulnerable cells of his nose. His head throbbed and he felt as if he had been beaten all over with clubs.
But he was alive.
Incredibly, he was alive!
After a while he moved, one hand lifting to hit the release; the straps opening to spill him onto the side of the hull which was now the deck. A short fall but one which sent spears of agony through his chest; which caused bright flashes to fill his vision. The corner of some broken instrument had dug into his temple, and fresh blood ran down his face to join the rest.
And it was cold. Cold!
The sting of it was like fire, the metal under his hands burning with frigidity. The air itself stung as he breathed it, the sharpness acting as a spur. Again he moved, turning, rising to his knees, to slip and fall with one hand outstretched.
It landed on something soft; a ball with contours and convexities. A face.
Shalout was dead.
He lay, a crumpled heap against the instruments which had once been his charge. His mouth was open, saliva thick on his chin; the eyes open and filled with the consuming terror he had known. The head lolled at a peculiar angle, the neck broken, death reenforced by the impact which had crushed the lower side of his skull.
Rising, Dumarest caught the tilted shape of the chair to steady himself. Crystal grated beneath his boots as he made his way to the door, the passage beyond. That too was tilted, frost gleaming on the soiled metal, the vapor of his breath a plume carried before him.
Stumbling, slipping, he crawled towards the steward's room, to the medical cabinet it contained. By a miracle the door had not sprung open; instead it was jammed. He tore at it with his bare hands, then, remembering, made his way to the salon.
Something had ripped open the side admitting frigid air, and a pale luminescence which accentuated the weak glow of the indestructible emergency bulbs. In it, the body of Eglantine looked like a discarded bundle of rags tossed into a corner; rags stained with blood and internal liquids among which he found his knife.
Back at the cabinet, he thrust the blade into the crack of the jammed door and heaved. Sweat dewed his face, metabolic heat combating the cold as he strained against the hilt, fighting the waves of pain which threatened to engulf him. A snap and the door was open, the knife falling as he searched what it contained. Vials of drugs, a hypogun, old and with poor calibration; antibiotics, some instruments, plastic sprays, hormone-enriched dressings, and a small box containing what he wanted.
With numbed fingers he loaded the hypogun and fired it three times, into his neck.
Relief was almost instantaneous. Dumarest straightened, taking a deep breath, careless of the damage shattered ribs might be doing to internal tissues. It was enoug
h for now that the drugs had killed his pain. With the reflex of old habit, he picked up the knife and slipped it into his boot.
Then it was time to examine the ship.
The Styast was ruined, that he had known. Somehow the impact of landing had twisted the foremost part in a ninety degree angle, breaking the structure just beyond the salon to leave the rest upright. At the point of strain the hull had ripped open to reveal a dully shining wall of ice, a jagged prominence thrusting its way into the vessel, a heap of splintered fragments almost reaching to the roof at the far side of the break. Brushing them aside, Dumarest jerked open the door and made his way to the engine room.
Like the rest of the ship, it was a ruin.
Globules of metal made bright sparkles on the floor, the inner components of the generators which had failed just before impact; released energies fusing the interior and venting it through the ripped casings in showers of molten rain.
Beint was dead, his face plastered on the panel, his withered hand outflung in a mutely appealing gesture.
Arbush was still alive.
He lay at one side of the room, his bulk trapped beneath a clutter of metal, a beam nipping his rotund bulk. His eyes were closed, a thin rim of ice crusted on the fabric of his blouse, the jagged edge of torn metal inches from his face.
As Dumarest touched his cheek he opened his eyes.
"Earl!" he whispered. "Thank God-I thought I was alone."
"Can you move?"
"No. I've tried. The crash knocked me out, I guess, but I wasn't out for long. At least I don't think so."
"Try again."
Arbush tensed, the effort mottling his face; then relaxing he said, "It's no good, Earl. It feels as if my back's broken. If it is-"
"You'll die easy," promised Dumarest. "But let's make sure."
Rising from where he knelt he threw aside scraps and sheets of metal, pipes and the essentials of the life-support apparatus, the bulk of a ventilator. The beam was a main stanchion, thick and heavy, creasing the body where it held the minstrel. Dumarest gripped it at the upper end and strained.
"Move!" he panted. "Use your arms to crawl, if that's all you can do."