by E. C. Tubb
“If you’re looking for a way out,” said Hughen, “forget it. There isn’t one.”
“No,” said Preston. And yet there had to be a way. He couldn’t just sit here like a pig in a slaughterhouse waiting for them to come and empty his mind.
“Why don’t you just sit down and relax?” said Hughen. He coughed. “Listen,” he said apologetically. “From what you told me you haven’t much of a chance. Me, well I’m due to get out. If you want for me to carry a message or something?”
Preston turned from the door and looked at the man.
“A few words to the wife, maybe? Or the girl friend?” Hugen shrugged. “I’m only trying to be helpful,” he said. “You can trust me.”
“In a pig’s eye,” said Preston. He turned, looking through the door as footsteps approached. Two null guards halted outside the cell. One gestured to Preston.
“You. Back against the wall.” He pointed to Hughen. “You! Outside!” He stood back as the door slid open. “Hurry!”
The epsilon obeyed. In the corridor he hesitated, looking at Preston. “Take my advice,” he urged. “Play it smart. Tell them all they want to know and maybe they’ll go easy with you. After all,” he added. “What can you lose?”
“Not much,” admitted Preston. He came close to the door, hoping to catch a fold of his robe between the lock and its jamb. One of the nulls stepped forward, thrusting out his stiffened arm.
“Back!” he snapped. “Right back!”
Preston spat blood from his lacerated mouth.
Alone he gulped water, rinsing his mouth, taking stock of the situation. Aside from the robe he was naked. The robe and the chain. Again he examined it. The cuffs obviously contained the source of electrical energy together with the triggering mechanism. Gently he applied strain, hastily bringing his hands close together as pain stabbed at both wrists. Thoughtfully he stared at the glowing plate in the ceiling. It was just within reach and he ran the tips of his fingers around the edges. Nothing. His fingernails were too short and fragile to serve as screwdrivers. Again he looked at his manacles.
Water, he thought. The cuffs needn’t be waterproof and, if they weren’t, he could probably wreck the mechanisms, short them out in some way. Lifting the hem of his robe he tore at it with his teeth. The fabric, inferior plastic, yielded easily to the strain. Sliding the cuffs up each arm as far as they would go, he wrapped strips of the robe around each wrist, forcing the cuffs back over the crude insulation. Gritting his teeth he jerked. The chain snapped tight but held. Wincing, he closed his wrists together and tried again. The chain still held.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, he crossed to the faucet and looped the chain around the tap. Balancing on one leg, he pressed the other against the wall and thrust with all his strength. The tap bent a little, then the chain snapped with a vicious ping. Smoke rose from both wrists together with the stench of burning insulation. Quickly he turned on the faucet and held the cuffs in the stream of water. The smoke increased, something sparked, snapped, and the cuffs sprang open. Hastily he tore the burning plastic from his seared wrists. The stuff had softened with the heat, spreading and sticking like tar. When he ripped it off, skin tore free, leaving ugly raw patches seeping blood.
Cuffs and chain in hand he stepped towards the door and examined the lock. He fed the chain between the lock and jamb, making sure that it could move. He snapped shut the cuffs about the lock and the opposing bar, then tugged at the chain. It grew red, softened, fell in molten droplets. The cuffs smoked as they released their energy into the lock. Preston jerked at the door. It opened. He stepped from the cell.
Outside, a corridor studded with barred doors and lit by a row of flowing plates in the ceiling ran to either side. The nulls had taken Hughen to the right. There would be a gate of some kind, an officer on duty, perhaps several. If he managed to get to the gate he would get no further. He ran along the corridor in the opposite direction halting when he saw the grill of an air vent. He thrust his fingers into the mesh and pulled. His position was awkward, the leverage all wrong. He gripped harder and swung up his legs, setting his feet to either side of the grill. Quickly, before gravity could overcome his limited strength, he heaved, using the full power of leg and shoulder muscles. The grill bent, cutting into his fingers, suddenly tearing free. He fell heavily. From one of the cells a face peered.
“Hey! What’s going on out there? Hey, you!”
“Shut your mouth!” snarled Preston. He flung the grill at the cell door and sprang towards the opening. It gave onto a narrow ventilation shaft. He dived down it, tearing his robe on slight projections, choking as he stirred up clouds of accumulated dust. He came to a junction and hesitated. Wetting a finger he held it before his face and felt a slight coldness on one side. Without hesitation he moved towards it, hurrying, clawing forward in the darkness, intent only on gaining as much distance as possible before the nulls commenced their search.
The dust, he knew, would make it a simple race against time.
The guards would have lights. They would spot his tracks. All they would have to do would be to follow them. His only hope lay in getting out of the ventilation system and finding somewhere safe to hide before they caught up with him. He swore as his head crashed against a barrier. Blindly he felt to either side. One shaft led upwards, others to left and right. He forced his head into the one leading upwards, groping with his hands. Without conscious thought he began to climb, wedging himself against the side of the narrow shaft. He froze at the echo of voices.
“This way. Damn! I’ve got blood on my uniform.”
“Makes it easier for us to follow.”
“Get moving there!”
Galvanised, he surged upwards. He felt open space around his head and a slight pressure of air. Twisting from the shaft he turned, keeping the faint wind at his back, diving down an unsloping tube, crawling with elbow and knee motions, unable to lift himself higher. The tube narrowed still more and he felt the scrape of metal on back and stomach. Soon it pressed against his shoulders. He hesitated, wondering whether to retreat, then saw a flash of light ahead. Extending his arms he thrust himself forward with his feet. The light vanished as he touched a grill, replaced by a soft moonglow, barely strong enough to see the barrier. Bracing his feet he pushed, snarling as his bare feet slid on the smooth metal. Hunching his knees he drove himself headfirst against the metal. It yielded a little. Wedging himself in the shaft, he smashed against it with his shoulder. The grill was thin, strictly ornamental. It gave and he fell after it.
He was in a bathroom, the floor thickly carpeted, the furnishings luxurious. A soft glow came from above a wall mirror and he looked at a savage, smeared with dirt and blood, dressed in rags and with burning eyes. He turned and the savage turned with him. The place held a tub, a shower, a toilet, washbasin and bidet. Hunting through a cabinet he found a nailfile ten inches long. He rammed the blunt end into a cake of soap and stepped toward the door. The light in the bathroom had gone on, then off, so it was logical to assume that someone was in the other room. Perhaps more than one, but there was no time to be cautious. Preston jerked open the door and found himself in a bedroom. Someone was in the bed.
“What —?”
He sprang forward, hitting with the edge of his hand, almost killing before he realized it was a woman. Barely in time he softened the blow, turning the vicious chop into a relentless pressure on the carotids. The woman sighed as she slumped into unconsciousness. A door clicked in another room.
Preston waited, crude knife poised as he crouched beside the door. Nothing. The click had signaled a departure not an arrival. Quickly he checked the wardrobe and found it full of feminine garments. A second bedroom opened from the first and this time the clothes belonged to a man. A gamma. Preston shed his rags and struggled into a uniform which was two sizes too small. Sweating with pain he forced his feet into the shoes then hobbled into a second bathroom, a twin of the first. He washed, combed his hair, found a cream which removed his stub
ble. Carefully he wiped himself dry, resisting the impulse to run and run and keep on running. First he had to have a plan. And no plan would be worth anything unless he managed to appear respectable. Somehow he had to get out of the building and away from the hunt.
Just let me keep moving, he told himself, and I’ll be all right. Once they’ve lost the trail they’ll have the hell of a job to find it again. No more mistakes, he promised. No more taking things for granted. And, he thought grimly, no more interrogation. That above all.
Taking a deep breath he left the bedroom. The outer rooms were empty; he made sure of that with a quick inspection. Some bottles stood on the table and he helped himself to brandy. The spirit warmed his stomach and he poured himself a second drink while he stood, thinking.
I mustn’t forget anything, he thought. Luck like I’ve had can’t last. Am I dressed right? The whip? The belt? The uniform cap? Do I look right? Indolent. A little bored and more than a little arrogant. What’s my name? Where am I going? Where have I come from? He swallowed the brandy and paused, looking at drawn curtains. A window, he thought. The first I’ve seen. A chance to look at this world of the Kaltich. It could help.
He drew the curtains.
He looked at sky, land and, in the far distance, the incredible bulk of a building rising like a mountain from a featureless plain. A truncated cone wreathed in cloud so vast that he could only guess at the size.
“Kalthis,” said a voice from behind. A smooth, hatefully familiar voice. “That isn’t a window, of course. Did you think it was?”
Preston turned, slowly, the hand holding the crude knife at his side, shielding it from view with his body. Dultar stood a few yards distant. He was armed with a small pistol which he kept levelled in his left hand. His right toyed with his whip.
“Not a window,” repeated the interrogator. “A simulated projection. But look at the ground. Can you appreciate what has been done in so short a time? New soil from a dozen worlds to replace our sterile loam. Soon we shall have trees and grass and flowers blooming where only slag existed before. This interests you?”
“Very much.” Preston turned a little more, slowly, carefully. In his hand the knife slid through his fingers until he gripped the point of the file. “How did you find me?”
“We traced you. Once we had you trapped there was no immediate hurry.” Dultar looked at Preston’s borrowed clothes. “You seem to have a penchant for imposture. What is your real class?”
“Ordinary man.”
“An epsilon?” Dultar raised his eyebrows. “Surely not. How could a common white show such initiative? Such disregard for rank? You interest me,” he mused. “We shall have many sessions together.”
“I don’t think so,” said Preston.
The interrogator shrugged. “You have no choice in the matter. I am rather looking forward to our talks,” he said. “I shall extract every grain of information you carry. In time I will have the entire truth. I misjudged you before,” he admitted. “I allowed you to inflame my temper. Anger is not good in one of my profession. But,” he added meaningfully, “I shall not make the same mistake again. You will not escape so easily. Soon, my enigma, you will be begging me to grant you the release of death.”
Preston threw his weapon.
It was clumsy, but it was pointed and weighted and that was enough. Dultar made a strangled sound as the point of the file ripped into his eye, the weight of the soap driving it through the socket into the brain. He threw up his head, already dead, reflex constricting his finger as he fell.
The pistol flamed into stammering life.
Preston felt a giant hand smash into his chest, heard an idiot hammer shatter the facsimile window, saw an invisible pick gouge at the wall. He fell, rolled, stared at the blood gushing from his chest.
Oddly there was no pain.
I’m dead, he thought. He shot me, smashed my heart, ripped my lungs. He coughed and red sprayed over the green he wore. He looked up and saw running nulls. They seemed to be dwindling, shrinking, falling back even as they ran.
He knew they could never arrive in time.
TEN
It was comfortable to be dead. There was no pain, no fatigue, no hunger or thirst. There was nothing but a blissful sensation as if floating on a cloud. I’m in Heaven, thought Preston. I was shot and killed and now I’m in Heaven. But Heaven was a noisy place. Someone was talking and he wished they wouldn’t.
“Wake up! Please wake up! You must wake up!”
A woman’s voice, he decided. Or rather that of a girl. Somehow it lacked the tonal strength which came with maturity. A young girl, he thought. A frightened young girl. But frightened of what?
“You must wake up!” The voice held a note of desperation. “Please wake up! Please!”
“Why should I?” said Preston. If it was a dream he was enjoying it. “Stop bothering me.”
“You’re awake! Good. Now listen. I know that you can hear me. Pretend to be worse than what you are. It’s very important that you make out you’re really sick. On no account let them move you. I’ll be back.”
Then silence and time for thought, for exploration.
He wasn’t deaf or, if he was, the girl had spoken mind-to-mind. Telepathic? Preston didn’t think so. The voice had been too sharp, too precise for that. So he wasn’t deaf and, apparently, he wasn’t in Heaven.
Perhaps, incredibly, he wasn’t even dead.
Not dead, he thought. Injured, dying maybe, but not dead. Not yet at least, he qualified. But if Dultar has his way I won’t be enjoying life for long. Then he remembered, the gamma, the crude knife shearing into his brain, the wild spray of shots and the running nulls.
Then nothing.
Cautiously he tried to lift his arms and found they wouldn’t obey. His legs the same. His head refused to move. His eyes? He felt terror as he stared at darkness knowing that his eyes were open and that he should be seeing something, anything. He opened his mouth and yelled his panic. His tongue, at least, seemed to be working. He called again, louder. A third time.
“Steady!” Another voice, masculine, hard, sharp, devoid of patience. “There’s no need for that.”
“I’m blind,” said Preston. “I can’t see.”
“Not with the mask on, you can’t,” the voice agreed. Preston felt something fumble at the side of his head and cool air struck his cheeks. Blinking, he looked up at a man dressed in delta blue. “Is that better?”
Preston nodded.
“What’s the matter with your voice?”
“I …” Preston swallowed, feigning huskiness. “It’s all right, I guess.” He rolled his eyes, afraid to turn his head, “What happened? Where am I?”
“You were shot,” said the delta curtly. “The nulls applied emergency treatment and passed you through for medication. I am in charge of you while you are here.”
“You operated on me?”
“No. A local did that. You had a complete heart-lung regraft and have been in accelerated healing. Subjective time,” the delta explained. “Speeded metabolism. A week to you was an hour to us. It’s over now,” he added. “A few hours for orientation and you’ll be fit enough to move.”
Preston took a deep breath. “Not dead?”
The delta shook his head. “Not yet,” he said grimly. “Not until you’ve answered quite a few questions.” He looked sharply at Preston. “Is anything wrong?”
“I … my …” Preston let his mouth gape, rolling his eyes upwards. “Feel faint,” he gasped. “Weak —”
“Scared,” said the delta. “You’ve got a lot to answer for and you know it. You’re scared, not weak.” He moved out of sight. “Scared,” he said again and there was the click of a closing door.
Scared, thought Preston. Maybe so, but I’ve reason to be weak and you just try to prove that I’m not. He remembered the strange, whispering voice. Strapped as he was in a hospital cot, it offered a slender ray of hope. Someone knew about him and cared enough to communicate. And the instruc
tions were simple to follow. He did feel weak. Shaken at the thought of what had happened.
You died, he told himself. The way you were shot you could have done nothing else. But the nulls got to you in time. They did something and sent you here. New heart and lungs, he thought. A major regraft. They hooked your brain to a bypass machine to feed it with oxygenated blood. They opened your chest as if you’d been a suitcase and exchanged the damaged organs as if they had been mechanics switching a set of injectors on a hover car.
He thought of Hilda Thorenson. She could have done it, he told himself. A lot of surgeons on Earth could have done it. It isn’t anything unusual. Just a replacement. Back home it would have cost you a fortune — here you’ve had it done for free.
But, he thought, the payment would come later. And it would be a hell of a price to pay. The condemned man, he mused. You’ve got to cure him before you can kill him and never mind the cockeyed logic. Only here there would be logic and it wouldn’t be a simple matter of killing. He would take a long, long time to die and, even when dead, there would be no guarantee that he would stay that way.
They’ll torture me to death, he decided. And then revive me to torture me again. Over and over until they’ve learned all there is to know. And what then? STAR would be made to suffer and so would Earth. Turned into a charred ruin, perhaps, a ghastly example and a warning to others never to raise their hands against the Kaltich. And he would be a small part of that example. A living, screaming, suffering scrap of humanity used to show others what to expect if they disobeyed.
No, he thought bleakly, this isn’t Heaven.