Eloise

by E. C. Tubb

  "Man Adara. You will drop what you are holding."

  A padded foot trod out the flames.

  "Man Adara, explain."

  "I saw fire," he babbled. "I thought-that is I tried-I mean-" He broke off, helpless to lie, to break the conditioning of a lifetime. Numbly he waited for the Monitor to seize him, to carry him to a deserved punishment.

  "Run!" Flame rose before the painted mask, the glowing lenses. Arbush had thrown burning fabric over the bead. "Run, you fool!"

  Run to where? The Monitor had known him, how could there be escape? He felt a hand clamp his wrist; a face, eyes slitted, teeth bared thrust close to his own.

  "Listen," snapped Arbush. "We're fighting for our lives, understand? You've already done enough to be torn apart on some worlds I could name. No matter what you do now, it can't be worse. And remember Earl. He's relying on us. Now, damn you, get to work before I break your stupid neck!"

  A hard man, as Eloise was a hard woman. Animals the both of them, but neither as hard as Dumarest. In the societies from which they came, how could he hope to survive? Adara felt the constriction of his stomach; the familiar, pre-Knelling trepidation, and forcibly squared his shoulders. The minstrel was right. He was committed. Now he had no choice but to continue.

  And, oddly, it became easy.

  It was almost a game; the defiance of the Monitors, the spreading of the fire. He felt a strange superiority over the others who ran, screamed and stood waiting for guidance. They didn't know what was happening to them their safe, ordered world had fallen apart.

  "The tools!" Arbush was at his side. "Don't forget the tools."

  "The fires?"

  "Eloise can continue with those. She's enjoying it." The minstrel grinned. "Feeling better now? I thought so. There's a relief in knowing you've taken the final step and there's no going back." His hand reached out, gripped, pulled Adara into a room. "Be silent!"

  They waited as a Monitor passed, foam spurting from the extinguisher in its hands.

  "Slow," said Arbush. "Earl was right. The Monitors aren't used to anything like this and don't know how to handle it."

  "Would you?"

  "Sure. I'd open the windows and dump the burning fabrics outside. The walls are of stone and can't be burned. The wind would clear the smoke and once that's gone the people would regain their calm. They shouldn't be here, anyway. If those Monitors had sense, they'd have herded them into one of the large rooms long ago. Now, let's get those tools."

  They were hidden under the coverlet in Adara's room, where they had taken them before starting the fires. Two hammers, a pointed bar flat at one end, a wrench used for loosening the caps of small containers of pigment. Arbush pursed his lips as he examined them.

  "The bar's too short, we won't get much leverage; and the hammers are too light. The wrench is useless." He hefted it in his hand. "Damn it. Was there nothing else?"

  "You were with me," reminded Adara. "You saw what there was."

  "Maybe we tried the wrong place. Is there any room fitted out to do heavy repairs?"

  "No. All that's done below."

  "Acid?" Arbush shook his head. "No. Too dangerous. Camolsaer would never supply it. What then? What the hell can we use?" He beat his hands together in agonized frustration. "Damn it! I wish Earl was here!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  He was in a shaft three feet square, inching upwards with painful deliberation. Below him lay the bulk of Camolsaer, apparatus turned into cooling slag; containers ruptured, crystals shattered, severed cables still alive with sparkling energy. A conduit had led him to the foot of the shaft, a ventilator which narrowed as he climbed; blocked with grills which he had burned away while the lastorch held power, discarding it to use his knife when it had failed.

  Now, supported only by the traction of his boots and hands, he climbed up to where a patch of light shone in the darkness.

  Noise came through it; shouts, screams, the scent of burning, wisps of acrid smoke which caught at his lungs. Higher and he saw the grill, crossed bars set in a sturdy frame. He locked his fingers between them, moved his feet up behind him opposite to the grill, his body bent, cramped in the narrow space. He turned, the nape of his neck against the bars, the upper reaches of his shoulders and, with the full strength of his body, thrust his legs against the far wall.

  For a moment the grill resisted and then, with a tearing of metal, it yielded; allowing his head and shoulders to pass through, hands to free themselves to grip the edges of the opening before the weight of his legs and hips could pull him back down the shaft.

  A jerk and he was falling to the floor of a corridor, ten feet below.

  A woman screamed at the sight of him, turning to bump into a man, the pair of them running down the passage in sudden panic. To one side a body lay in a pool of blood; the head crushed, splinters of glass from a shattered bottle lying in a carmine pool. The victim of someone who hoped to escape the Knelling, lying ignored, the desired constituents of his body going to waste. A sure sign of the disorganization of the Monitors, the disruption he had caused.

  The pair had run from where smoke billowed at the mouth of a chamber. Dumarest headed towards it, saw a Monitor standing helplessly before a fuming mass of vegetation, caught a glimpse of a wild figure setting more tanks aflame.

  "Eloise!"

  "Earl!" She came running towards him, almost unrecognizable; her gown torn, face, arms and hands dark with soot, hair frizzled from too-near flame. "Earl! Thank God you made it!" Her arms wrapped around him, tight, demanding; the pressure of her body equaling that of her lips.

  "Eloise." With an effort he pushed her away. "Where are the others?"

  "In Adara's room, I guess." She stared at him, her eyes wide. "My God, you look a mess. Your clothes! Your face!" Her hand lifted to touch the spots of burn, the seared patches of skin. "Earl?"

  "I'm all right." He coughed as smoke caught at his lungs. "Did they get the flying units?"

  "I don't know. I've been busy." She gestured at the havoc she had caused. "I guess we've won. The Monitors don't seem to care."

  For now, but not for long. They were self-motivated units capable of independent decisions; disorganized now only because of the lack of direct orders from Camolsaer. And even that wouldn't last. Already repair units must be at work on the machine.

  "Look at them, Earl. Those damned machines don't know which way to turn. And look at the fires. I started them. I did it. This is the finest day of my life."

  "It'll be the last, if you don't hurry."

  "Fire," she said dreamily. "The poor man's friend. I heard someone say that once and didn't know what he was talking about. I know now. It's something I'll remember. Just a spark and everyone's equal. More than equal. A poor man has nothing to lose, nothing to go up in flames."

  She was transported, almost in ecstasy, something cruel and primitive in her nature responding to the destruction. Coldly Dumarest slapped her cheek, streaks appearing on the sooted flesh. "Earl! You-"

  "You're forgetting what this is all about." He gestured at the flames. "We've no time to waste while you gloat. We need food, clothes; a lot of things."

  "Clothes?"

  "You think you can travel like that?" He looked at her torn gown, the naked flesh it revealed. "The cold would kill you within minutes. And you could use a bath."

  "Earl?"

  "A cold bath," he snapped. "Maybe it will shock some sanity into you. Now let's get moving."

  On the way he stopped at a terminal, resting his hand on the plate.

  "Dumarest. What is the external weather?"

  "Cold. Some wind. Snow expected."

  "How soon?"

  "Before dark."

  "Direction of wind?"

  "From the south."

  Bad news; worse was the fact that Camolsaer still seemed to be functioning. At least it was answering questions in a precise manner. Dumarest tested it further.

  "There is a dead man close to this terminal."

  "De
ad… dead… dead…" "Fires are spreading. Compartment 34 is flooded. A Monitor has been crushed in room 812."

  A buzz came from the grill-the section of the mechanical brain dealing with variable factors was obviously inoperative.

  Dumarest said, "Where is Dras?"

  Again the buzz. Satisfied, he turned from the installation.

  "What was that all about?" Eloise was puzzled. "I can understand you wanting to know about the weather, but why all the rest?"

  "A test. The weather report must be on a different circuit. The main thing is that Camolsaer no longer knows what is going on in the city."

  "You wrecked it, Earl."

  "Not wrecked, it was too big for that; but I managed to damage it a little. Let's hope the damage will last long enough."

  "Long enough?"

  "For us to leave the city."

  * * * * *

  Arbush had been busy. He was surrounded by a mass of clothing; soft furs, garments of warm fabric, boots, hats, an assortment which Adara had gathered from a dozen rooms. Now the man stood at the ledge before the serving hatch.

  "Eloise!" He turned as she entered the room, his face brightening, some of the shadows lifting from his eyes. "My dear, I thought you were hurt I wanted to look for you but-"

  "I wouldn't let him," interrupted Arbush. "Not until we had everything ready. It's good to see you, Earl. Success?"

  "Of a kind." Dumarest looked at the clothes, then pushed the woman towards the bathroom. "Strip and get washed. Dirt is a poor insulator against the cold."

  "You'll join me, Earl?"

  He ignored the invitation, turning to stare at the minstrel where he sat, his face hard.

  "Why didn't you get the units?"

  "We tried, Earl. Three times. Once we managed to get a wedge started against the lock, but a Monitor arrived and brushed us away. I tried to distract it with fire, but it was no good. The damned thing was still there when we left." Arbush shrugged, glancing at Adara. "So I thought it best to do what we could."

  "I failed," said Adara. "I did my best, but it wasn't good enough. Arbush is being kind."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Ordering food." The minstrel waved to where bundles stood close to the door. "Meats, pastes, oils, food and things to provide fuel. Some wine; they didn't have brandy."

  "The means to start a fire?"

  Arbush lifted a can tied to a thong, smoke oozing from ragged holes punched in the metal.

  "Burning rag," he explained. "Give it a swing and it will flare to life. A thing I learned on Falfard."

  As Dumarest had learned it long ago; a primitive method of transporting fire, simple, cheap, effective.

  "We'd better carry one each," he said. "And ropes? Did you make some rope?"

  Arbush had been thorough. Strips of fabric had been plaited into tough cords, the cords again plaited to form lengths of rope. Dumarest tested one, frowning. They were too short to give real aid if they had to climb, but they would serve to join one to the other. An essential piece of equipment in case of emergency. And a length of rope had many uses.

  Adara said, wonderingly, "Earl, all these preparations. I thought we were going to fly over the ice, not walk."

  "We may have to do both."

  "But the units-"

  "We haven't got them yet." Dumarest softened his tone a little; the man couldn't help being what he was. "We've traveled over the ice, you haven't. The units could fail, anything; and only a fool doesn't plan for an emergency. Eloise!"

  "Coming, Earl!"

  She was naked, unabashed, her skin dusted with powder, fresh paint on her lips and nails; the upper lids of her eyes thick with a blue shadow flecked with silver. More silver bound her hair.

  Arbush sucked in his breath. "My lady, you are beautiful!"

  She smiled at the compliment, her eyes on Dumarest.

  "You wanted me, darling?"

  "Get dressed." He was curt, seeing the look in Adara's eyes, knowing the danger of a man who could have lost the wish and will to live. "Adara, help her. Plenty of layers, topped with the thickest furs you can find. Never mind about appearance. Just cover her up so as to keep her warm. Yourself also. We must all get ready."

  When finished they looked grotesque; shapes padded and tied almost beyond recognition, faces narrowed beneath enclosing hoods.

  Sweating, Arbush distributed the bundles; tying his own, with the neck of the gilyre protruding, to his belt. They were ready to go, but one thing remained to be done.

  "Adara, listen to me." Dumarest faced the man, holding his eyes. "There's one thing you've got to remember. You can't lose. Always bear that in mind. If you haven't realized it yet, you're as good as dead. No matter what you do now you can't make things worse. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Earl. Arbush has already explained all that."

  "I'm not asking if you know it. I want to know if you accept it. In here." Dumarest rested a finger over the man's heart. "In your guts. You've got to want to survive."

  The instinct which in him was so strong, in others so unaccountably weak. He had seen it on a dozen worlds; men sentenced to execution, waiting patiently while watched by a handful of guards. They could have attacked, snatched weapons, died doing it, perhaps; but at least they would have tried. And they would have lost nothing.

  "Adara?"

  "Yes, Earl. I understand."

  Dumarest wasn't so sure. The eyes were still dull, the face lax, resigned. A man moving because of external influences, not because of internal decision. A weakness which could cost them all their lives.

  And then, seeing the shift of his eyes as the woman moved, Dumarest knew both the reason and the answer.

  "You love her," he said quietly. "You cannot imagine life without her. And you think you have lost her. You haven't. Once we reach safety, she will be yours. I promise that I will not take her with me. She will be yours."

  A lie, perhaps; no one could demand that another subjugate personal desires, but at least a part of it was the truth. He repeated it, watching Adara's eyes.

  "I shall not take her with me. If you live, you will have all you think necessary for happiness."

  Adara brightened, a man in love eager to hear reassurance. "You promise, Earl? You will not take her from me?"

  "I promise."

  It had to be enough, there was no time for more; already they had lingered too long.

  * * * * *

  The air at the north gate was clear; the area deserted, aside from a Monitor which stood close to the store which was their target. Too close to suit Dumarest's plan. He walked towards it, hands behind him, the hammers gripped in his fingers, halting well beyond reach of the arms.

  "Move!" he snapped. "You're wanted on the upper levels."

  "Man Dumarest, you will leave this place." The head turned, glowing lenses registering the presence of the others. "None of you should be here. You will leave immediately."

  "No." Dumarest edged forward, moving sidewise, occupying the thing's attention, "You will obey. Go at once to the upper level."

  Behind the Monitor he caught sight of movement. Arbush creeping close, one end of the length of rope in his hands; the other held by Adara, the strand taut between them. The Monitor had turned, but was still too close to the store, the locked door they had to force open. Barely three feet of space between its shoulder and the wall-it had to be enough.

  "Now!"

  Eloise screamed; a high, nerve-stopping sound, shocking in its raw implication of agony. The Monitor glanced towards her, taking one step in her direction and, as the gap widened, Arbush moved.

  He lunged like a furred ball, the rope in his hands; thrusting his bulk between the Monitor and the wall, past the tall, metallic figure. As the rope tightened Dumarest sprang, taking three steps forward; lifting his feet as he flung himself at the Monitor, his boots slamming with the full weight of his body against the upper torso. Thrown back by the impact the thing hit the rope, blow and drag working in opposite directions, lever
s which sent it off-balance to crash to the ground.

  Then Dumarest was on it, hammers lifting, falling; smashing the lenses, the elbows, the joints of the legs.

  "Quick!" Eloise was at the door, a wedge rammed into the point above the lock. "Hurry, Earl!"

  He was already at work, the hammer a blur as he slammed it down, a tool too light for the job; its lack of mass having to be compensated by the muscles of his arms, back and shoulders. Above the sound of the blows, he heard the minstrel's snarl.

  "Another of the damned things. Remember, Adara; hold the rope tight, catch its legs and pull."

  A plan hastily improvised, depending on shrewd teamwork, the will to survive.

  A crash and another Monitor was down; Arbush yelling as he wielded the other hammer, aiming for the electronic eyes.

  "Earl!"

  "The bar." He threw the hammer into her hands and snatched the strip of metal. The flattened end slipped into the gap he had made with the wedge, now knocked free. Gripping the far end, he heaved.

  "Arbush!" The bar was too short, his strength insufficient. "To me! Eloise, take the rope and work with Adara. Move!"

  Dumarest sucked in his breath as the minstrel joined him, plump hands locking over his own.

  "On the word. Get ready. Now!"

  Again he heaved, legs straddled, back arched, blood darkening his fingernails. Arbush added his strength, pushing, breath rasping, boots clamped against the floor. The bar yielded a little.

  "Earl!"

  Eloise, her voice high, rising above the drone of an approaching Monitor; but there was no time to look.

  "Damn it!" gasped Arbush. "So near-"

  He lunged forward as something broke with a rip of metal; his weight hit Dumarest, sending him staggering back, the bar still in his hand. Beyond the rounded figure he could see the woman and Adara, the rope between them looped around the legs of a Monitor; another was advancing, hands extended.

  The bar left his hand, hurtling across the fifty feet of space between them to slam its length against the painted face, the glowing eyes.