Technos dot-7

by E. C. Tubb

  Elaine shook her head.

  "Why not? He has to let you out and you can take me with you. Tell him that you have to conduct some special tests or something."

  "It wouldn't work," she said regretfully. "You don't understand. They are afraid of you and there are guards posted beyond each end of the corridor. If we leave together they will incapacitate us both."

  "Incapacitate? Why not kill?"

  She glanced toward the medical trolley. "You seem to be very important and now I've a suspicion why. The samples I took are to confirm tests already made. Your tissues are sympathetic to those of the Technarch." She paused then added, "And Vargas is a very old man."

  Dumarest said tightly, "Get me out of here."

  "I can't. I told you, it's impossible."

  "You've a stack of degrees and a headful of knowledge," he said sharply. "Use that intelligence you're so proud of. Help me or I'll ruin your life."

  She studied his face, the hard set of his mouth, the savage determination of his eyes. "You mean it. You really mean it?"

  "Yes," he said. "You'd better believe that."

  * * *

  The guard came running at her call. He halted beyond the bars, looking to where she stooped over Dumarest as he lay on the bed.

  "Madam? Is anything wrong?"

  "This man is ill," she snapped. "Dying. Summon help immediately. He must be taken to the hospital at once."

  He hesitated. "My orders-"

  "To hell with your orders! This is an emergency! Move!"

  "I'll call a doctor."

  "You stupid fool!" Her eyes blazed with impatient anger. "I am a doctor! I tell you this man is dying. He needs immediate surgery. Now do as I say. Quickly. If you delay and he dies, you will answer for it. Now hurry!"

  Her tone, sharp with fear, spurred him to action. From the end of the corridor came a blur of voices and the sounds of movement. Elaine dropped her hands to Dumarest's chest, thrusting with the heels of her palms in the basic actions of heart massage. Her breath was warm against his cheek as she whispered quick instructions.

  "Remain lax as if you were unconscious. Roll up your eyes in case anyone makes a simple test. Restrain your breathing if anyone comes close or, if you cannot hold your breath, make it ragged and irregular. It would be better if I drugged you. There will be other physicians."

  "No. Have you slow-time?"

  "Not with me. In the hospital, yes. Is that what you want?"

  "Use it if you can. I-" He broke off, falling silent as men streamed down the corridor. They brought a wheeled stretcher, waiting as the door of the cell slid aside, entering to lift Dumarest on the vehicle. Continuing her massage Elaine walked beside him, shielding him with her body, maintaining the pretense, as they passed the guards. One of them busied himself with a phone as they headed toward an elevator, Dumarest catching his tone of frantic urgency.

  Unable to hold his breath any longer he inhaled with a tearing rasp, forcing saliva into his throat to produce a liquid gurgling.

  A man said, "He sounds bad, madam. What's the matter with him?"

  "Syncopic failure coupled with internal seepage of lymphatic fluids into the lungs. Probably internal hemorrhage and a malfunction of involuntary muscular responses aggravated by extreme exhaustion and psychic shock."

  The elevator came to a halt, doors opening, the wheels of the stretcher humming over a smooth floor. More doors, the sound of muted voices and the taint of antiseptics. The hands lifted from his chest and touched his mouth. Something hard and cold was thrust against his tongue.

  Elaine whispered, "Yendhal is coming. I heard them notify him what happened."

  Dumarest groaned and heaved on the stretcher. Through slitted eyes he saw the uniforms of watchful guards. Elaine stooped over him, the spatula hard against his tongue. Her eyes were anxious, afraid.

  "What now?"

  He relaxed, unable to answer, forcing the woman to think for herself. If she had sense she would think of an answer but it would have to be soon. At the moment she was operating on fear, caught in events over which she had little control, her intelligence numbed by the shock of recent disclosures.

  The spatula left his mouth and he felt the touch of something cold on his chest. An electronic stethoscope? It rose and pressed against his throat. He spoke, sub-vocally, only a sighing murmur passing his lips.

  "Get the guards out of here or get me somewhere out of sight."

  The instrument left his throat, and he heard the sharpness of the woman's command.

  "This man needs immediate operative surgery. You will leave the room while I have him prepared."

  One of the guards said firmly, "We have our orders. He is not to leave our sight."

  "I cannot work with you watching. For one thing you are medically unclean. If he should become infected because of bacteria carried on your persons I shall not be responsible." Her tone softened a little. "I appreciate your dilemma but he cannot walk let alone escape. You can wait outside. There is no other exit from this room. Now please hurry. Every second lost lessens his chances of recovery."

  The door closed and she said faintly. "All right, Earl. You've had your way so far. Now what?"

  He opened his eyes and rose from the stretcher looking around. The room was small and lined with cabinets containing medical equipment. The bright glitter of operating instruments shone from a tray: forceps, shears, scalpels of various sizes. He picked up the largest.

  "You're a barbarian," she said contemptuously. "A savage. All you know is how to lie and kill."

  "You think I lied?"

  "I don't know. You threw me into a panic and I acted without due consideration. That was unscientific. I should have gathered more data, tested the truth of what you said, made my own judgments. I was a fool."

  "You still are," he said harshly. "A fool and worse. You are a traitor to your own land."

  "Loame-"

  "Means nothing to you," he interrupted. "And it means even less to me. I came here to ask you for help and that is all. The rest simply happened. Now all I want is to get away from here. To take passage to another world. If I have to kill a dozen men to do it, I shall. The alternative isn't pleasant."

  She was in shock, he decided; the even tenor of her life suddenly disrupted, her previous conviction now being replaced by doubt. He remembered the luxury of her apartment and the loneliness she had suffered when young. Here she was respected and her knowledge was valuable. The ability she owned gave a tremendous advantage in the peculiar competition of this culture.

  "You told me that you had slow-time," he said. "Is it here?"

  "A little. Enough for about thirty hours subjective time. You want it?"

  He hesitated, tempted to take advantage of the offer. It would enable him to leave the building and perhaps reach the landing field. Certainly it would remove him from immediate danger. But he owed a duty to the girl.

  "No, you take it. You've used it before?" He continued as she shook her head. "It will speed your metabolism to forty times normal That means you must be very careful how you move and walk. Don't hit anything and remember that, because of inertia, things will weigh forty times as much. Keep eating glucose because you'll be burning up a lot of energy. Use the stairs, not elevators, it will save you time."

  She frowned. "Time for what?"

  "To find Keron. To get him to prove what I say about Mada Grist To bring him back here and to put an end to this corruption. And," he added, "to save my life if I'm still around."

  Chapter Twelve

  IT HAD BEEN a prediction of a high order of probability, and Ruen was not surprised when the acolyte announced Dek Brekla. He came into the room, tense, wary, his eyes glancing from the scarlet figure of the cyber to the package lying on a low table. Ruen remained silent as the acolyte brought the guest a glass of wine. Brekla sipped and nodded.

  "Nice," he said. "A good vintage."

  Ruen wouldn't have known. To him food and drink were fuel for the mechanism of his body, ta
steless substances which kept it operating at an optimum level of efficiency. The wine was kept merely for use by the Technarch and as an offering to guests.

  Brekla finished his wine. "I want to talk to you, cyber. Can I be sure as to your discretion?"

  His voice was strained, hurried, in direct contrast to Ruen's even modulation.

  "You can, my lord."

  "You can predict the course of events. I want you to make such a prediction for me. If Vargas were to die what are the chances of my becoming Technarch?" He frowned as Ruen remained silent. "Well? Why don't you answer?"

  "Such a prediction is not easy to make, my lord. There are factors which must be taken into consideration and of which I have no present knowledge. The council, while sundered, still remains a viable entity and could unite against you. There could be a question as to the loyalty of your men." Ruen paused then added, "And Vargas is not yet dead. Much can happen in the immediate future to alter the present pattern of potential probabilities."

  "Assume the Technarch was to die within the next few hours. What then?"

  Ruen said, "Would you care for more wine, my lord?"

  "More wine?" Brekla looked at his glass and then at the tall figure of the cyber. "You digress. Why won't you reply to my question?"

  "The services of the Cyclan are not given freely to all, my lord. The fees are paid by the Technarch."

  "And if I were he?"

  Ruen bowed. "In such a case I would cooperate to the full, my lord."

  The prediction had materialized just as he'd anticipated and its success brought the only pleasure the cyber could ever know. And yet it had been an elementary problem based on the emotional weakness of greed. Brekla was ambitious and so transparently obvious. He had been given a position of power and wanted more. It could be wise to let him have it. The mounting irrationality of Vargas's behavior was reaching a climax. Already his paranoia had spread to include distrust of the cyber.

  "Of course, my lord," said Ruen, "we could, perhaps, reach a compromise. My aid in return for yours."

  "You have it," said Brekla quickly. "What is it you want?"

  "The man Dumarest."

  "The stranger?" Brekla frowned. "Is that all?"

  "Yes, my lord. Place him into my hands and I will advise you as to the steps you must take to achieve your ambition." It was a request the cyber had already made to the Technarch and Vargas had abruptly refused. Brekla would not.

  "Dumarest," he mused. "He was questioned. You know that?"

  "I know it."

  Then he was placed in a cell. "You know that also?"

  "Yes, my lord. It should not be hard for you to arrange his release. The probability of his attempting to escape is ninety-three percent and so it would be wise to render him unconscious before the cell is opened."

  "Your information is out of date." Brekla enjoyed his momentary triumph. "He did escape."

  "And was recaptured," said Ruen evenly. "That was inevitable if the Technarch had taken elementary precautions."

  "You underestimate the man." Brekla was curious. What possible interest could the cyber have in Dumarest? That he was valuable to the Cyclan was obvious, but why? His restless mind probed the question. Perhaps it would be better for him not to rely on Ruen; if he could act alone he would be free of any obligations.

  "The probability of you becoming the new Technarch is thirty-eight percent," said Ruen, as if he had read the other's mind. "That is if you operate alone. If you take advantage of my services the probability will rise to the order of ninety-one point seven. Now tell me about Dumarest. He was recaptured?"

  "Finally, yes." Brekla recognized the threat and the promise. "He managed to get from the cell into the hospital. An adjoining chamber in which equipment was kept. Yendhal had it filled with anesthetic gas, and when Dumarest was unconscious, he was taken. The woman who must have aided him had vanished."

  "A woman cannot escape from a closed room. It was closed?"

  "Yes."

  "And guarded?"

  "It was watched all the time. Only the man was found." Brekla added, "The door opened once and closed immediately. No one came out. The guards swear to it."

  "They were wrong, my lord. It was then the woman must have escaped. There can be no other explanation for her absence." Ruen did not elaborate. The woman was unimportant and could be ignored. Dumarest was another matter. But with Brekla's help he would no longer be a problem. "Can you bring Dumarest to me now?"

  "No. Vargas has him safe." Brekla anticipated the cyber's question. "He is going to put him through the labyrinth."

  * * *

  Vargas stared fretfully at the screen and demanded impatiently, "Why doesn't he get on with it? What's he waiting for? Did you give him full instructions?"

  Yendhal was soothing. "Of course, sire. But as yet we have not given him the signal to commence."

  "Why not?"

  "I am checking his external responses with electronic scanners, sire. The intensity of sweat, heat and emitted odor. The last is most interesting. As you know, an odor is actually minute particles which are translated into smell by a receptive organ. Emotions have recognizable odors. A dog will attack a man in fear and run from one in anger. Dumarest is experiencing neither."

  Vargas was thoughtful. "He is not afraid?"

  "Not as far as I can determine, sire. His temperature has risen a little but that is to be expected. The human metabolism being a heat mechanism will ready itself for action by consuming more fuel and thus gaining greater energy. He is not sweating which means that he is conserving that energy for later use. He is not afraid which means that he will be that much more efficient. There is a trace of resentment which is natural in any thinking organism forced to operate according to unwelcome dictates." Yendhal pressed a button and watched a flicker of lights. "The labyrinth is fully prepared. I have kept the programming exactly as before but it can, if necessary, be changed according to need."

  He was too eager, thought Vargas, too quick to propose changing the system. Was he afraid that a deception might be discovered? Had Yendhal set the dangers too high in order to maintain his position, failing all subjects so as to keep him in suspense?

  "There will be no change. I want everything exactly as it has been before."

  "As you wish, sire."

  "I do wish." Vargas leaned toward the screen and operated a control. "Dumarest, listen to what I say. It is the Technarch who speaks." He saw the small figure lift its head to scan the ceiling, turn to stare at the doors facing the small chamber. "At the signal you will pass through the door as you have been told. Within lie various hazards. Pass them all and you will be given a free pardon, money and passage from Technos. Speak if you understand."

  "Go to hell," said Dumarest.

  Vargas was a liar and was a fool to imagine that his lies would be believed. And Dumarest had no reason to pander to the inflated ego of the Technarch. He had been treated like a wild animal. Now, completely naked, he faced unknown dangers with his life the penalty for failure. He was in no mood to be polite.

  Waiting, he scanned the room. Why were there so many doors? For the purpose of the experiment one should be enough. Were they to delude? To confuse? Or was it simply that this compartment had been built at the junction of many passages and that communication between them was still important?

  He dropped, resting his ear against the floor, listening to soft vibrations. A muted thud, a scrape, the dull, repetitious beat of a mechanical heart. The room must be far underground, for the sounds he heard were the pumps of the ventilation system and the movements of attendant guards.

  As he rose the light flashed red.

  "He isn't going through the door," said Vargas. Anger thickened his voice and made it ugly. "If he refuses to obey I will have him flayed alive."

  "He obeys, sire. He is merely being cautious." Yendhal lifted his hand, ready to reset the clock timing the experiment. "Already he is displaying a strong sense of survival. For all he knows danger coul
d threaten from behind."

  All the doors other than the designated panel were locked. Dumarest opened it, flung it wide and sprang aside. After a moment he dropped and thrust his head through the opening. The room was empty, a small compartment tapering in the shape of a wedge, the roof curved as if part of a tunnel. Again he listened to the sound of distant pumps and, faintly, caught the whir of fans.

  The labyrinth, then, must be within the ventilation system, built in the colossal pipes and hidden from all without specialized knowledge. The special laboratories and operating theaters, too; no wonder Elaine hadn't known about them.

  Rising, he turned and headed toward the remaining door.

  It opened on a passage three feet wide, curving away to the right, the left blocked by a wall covered with long, pointed spikes. They were set close together, the entire surface a vicious bristle. Dumarest examined them, touching the points and feeling the burr of tiny barbs, the slight discoloration of the metal. A nerve poison, he guessed, an added inducement to stay away from the wall. Turning, he looked the other way. The passage was eight feet high, floor and walls covered with a tessellated design of red and yellow. The roof was luminous and cast a soft, shadowless glow. The curve swung sharply to the left, as if he stood in the hollow rim of a wheel.

  He sprang forward as something touched his shoulders, stinging with sharp agony. The spiked wall was moving forward, silent, already beyond the edge of the door. It moved faster as he watched so that he had to back, finally turning again to face the empty passage.

  It would contain mechanical traps, snares, devices which would maim or kill. The purpose of the wall was obviously to keep him moving, the spikes to prevent him clinging somehow to the surface. Yet the passage could not be totally impassable, if so there would be no point to the test.

  The wall touched him again.

  Dumarest ran down the passage. He ran at top speed, feet making a soft slapping noise against the floor, his eyes darting from side to side, every sense taut as he sought for danger. A less determined man would have moved as slowly as the wall allowed, trying to discern hidden traps, becoming confused with doubt and mounting fears. Dumarest was gambling the speed of his body against mechanical delay.