by Andre Norton
Long discipline kept him at attention. Labor gangs for the rest of his life—the closest thing to slavery. But—a fierce, blinding anger uncoiled within him—he was going to answer those frozen-faced devils with a few home truths before they shipped him off. And he was not in the gangs—not yet!
When he spoke it was not to his superior officers but directly to the C.C. Agent.
"I've learned to know you for what you are—you and your kind," he said slowly between set teeth. The ancient blood lust which had once sent his Malay ancestors into battle swinging a bolo might have been thinned by interbreeding with other and more peaceful races but it was still there and rising in him now. "You may be able now to force Terrans to obey your will. But someday you'll pay in kind—"
The Ageratan's white face did not change expression, only now he sat very quiet, his long eyes narrowed into slits, a bird of prey preparing to swoop.
"How long"—Kana's attention was now on his fellow Terrans—"do you think you can cover up such messes? You know from my testimony—whether I gave it drugged or not—what they are doing to us out there. I"—he paused until he was sure his voice was once more under full control—"I gave Grace to Deke Mills after I heard his story. You know—all of you—what he had to tell. We are supposed to be fighting men—if only mercenaries selling our skill to others. Isn't it time we began to fight—against murderers!" He hurled that charge straight at the Ageratan, at the Patrol officer.
Kana was trying hard to pick and choose the proper words, to keep his red rage battened down. Then his mood changed. Why should he stand there mouthing statements which made no impression on their impassivity when he wanted to leap that table between them, to feel the Ageratan's flesh pulp beneath his fist? What was the use in talking—nothing he said—could say—would break through to them—would ruffle the composure of that traitor Matthias.
He brought his hand up in salute and wheeled to fall in with his waiting guard. Would they take him back to the underground cell? Or try to—for it would be a case of trying. He was determined to escape somehow, somewhere along the route.
Hansu— If they had given him life in the labor gangs, they must have executed the Blademaster! How wrong Hansu had been in his belief in Matthias and the new day about to dawn. With Matthias ready to betray them the rebels had never had a ghost of a chance.
They marched back to the lift and whisked down, not to the cells. Instead Kana was escorted to a small room just off the main corridor near some entrance to the building—he was sure of that as he watched the constant stream of Combatants passing in the hall. Except for a sentry left at the door he was alone—to wait— To wait? No, to act!
18 — NO GUARD ON THE STARS!
Kana's mind raced as he assessed the situation. He was in full uniform, except that he lacked arms. If it weren't for the sentry he could simply walk out of this room, join the crowd in the hall, and leave the building, before the alarm was given. Once free in Prime he could find a way out of the city itself. There remained the problem of the sentry.
He watched the man narrowly. The fellow was in the act of suppressing a yawn as Kana first studied him. It was plain that he did not expect trouble from the prisoner. And this was no proper detention room, rather more like a waiting lounge for low-ranking visitors. The bench Kana had been ordered to occupy was cushioned and there was a visa-plate set in the wall to his left, out of sight range of the doorway. The guard's attention was often attracted by those passing without— Kana's eyes flickered to the visa-plate. Was there some way of using that? A little improvising— He waited until the guard's attention was fixed upon something in the corridor and then he jumped to his feet.
"Red alert!" he cried out as if startled.
The guard whirled, took one step in, glancing at the visa-plate.
"I don't see anything—" he began, and then shot a sour look at Kana as if angry at being tricked into speaking to the captive against express orders.
"It was red alert!" Kana insisted, pointing to the screen.
The guard came all the way in, uneasily. If the visa-plate had flashed a red signal—then his duty was clear, he must call back at once for instructions. And he couldn't be sure that it had not.
"Keep me covered with your blaster," urged Kana. "I tell you it was a red alert!"
The guard drew his blaster, aiming it at the recruit's middle. And, with his back to the wall, his eyes on the prisoner, he made a crabwise march along toward the visa-plate.
"You sit down!" he snapped at Kana.
The recruit dropped down on the bench, but his body was tense, his muscles ready—
There would come a single second when the guard had to turn half away from him in order to push the question button below the plate. And if he could move then—
It came, the guard's head turned a fraction. Kana flung himself forward almost at floor level. His shoulders struck just behind the other's knees and there was a dull crack as the man's head struck against the screen, slammed into it by the force of Kana's attack. The recruit twisted on top, ready to carry on the fight. But the body beneath him was limp.
A little startled by such phenomenal luck—the fellow must have been knocked out when his head hit the screen—Kana got to his knees and hurriedly appropriated the guard's sword and blaster. But a moment later he reluctantly abandoned the gun. Only a base guardsman could go so armed and he would be picked up on the street if he were seen carrying that. He sheathed the sword—and hoped that luck would continue to ride with him.
The prostrate guard, bound with his own belts and gagged with a thick strip torn from his undershirt, was rolled back under the bench, well out of range of any casual glance from the door. Then Kana settled his clothing, donned the helmet he had lost during the brief struggle, and taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the door of the waiting room behind him. He might have five minutes—perhaps more—before the hunt would be on. And now that he was again wearing a sword there was nothing to distinguish him from any other of the hundreds of Archs on the streets of Prime.
The streets of Prime—the sooner he got away from those same streets the better. This escape was all pure improvisation and it might work all the more effectively because of that, but he wanted to get away from Prime as quickly as he could. He covered the remainder of the corridor with the brisk strides of a man on an official errand and came out of the building on a 'copter landing some twenty floors above ground level. One of the dragonfly machines had just deposited a veteran and was about to rise when Kana waved. The pilot waited for him impatiently.
"Where to?"
It was a pity he did not know more of the geography of the city. But he was sure that it would do little good to approach the space port or any of the transcontinent air ports—those were well guarded and the alarm would be flashed to them the moment his escape was detected. A little rattled by the pilot's demand he gave as his destination the only place in the city where he had been before.
"The Hiring Hall."
They arose and drifted west while Kana attempted to identify points below. Would escape by water be possible? There were only five surface roads out of Prime and each passed a patrolled barrier where vehicles were searched for smuggled goods.
"Here y'are."
The 'copter came to rest on a Hiring Hall staging. Kana gave curt thanks and took the lift down, heading not to the hall itself nor to any of the levels where the enlistment officers had their cubbys, but straight to the one place he thought would offer not only concealment for a space, but help in planning his next move.
The record room was as quiet as it had been the first time he had stepped within its sound-proof doors. One booth near the entrance displayed the light which signified occupancy, but the rest were dark. Kana punched for four paks in rapid succession, and with them retreated to the booth at the far end of the row. Feeding his paks into the machine he settled back in the reclining chair.
Three-quarters of an hour later the last
pak had spun to its conclusion. So—now he possessed two possible answers to his dilemma. He removed the head piece but did not leave the seat. Well, at least he was given a choice. On impulse he went to the door of the booth to survey the room. The light on the other booth had gone out. But now there were three others in use. Was that suspicious? Did it show an unusual amount of study for one interval? Or was some big expedition being planned?
He could not see any way that they might have traced him here. The logical move for any escape would be to get out of Prime with the least possible delay. Certainly they would not expect to find him using record-paks in the Hiring Hall archives.
Two ways—his mind returned to the problem as he settled down in the booth to stare unseeingly at the ceiling and try to plan. The sea way—he was able to swim though he had not had much practice lately. And the underground ways built by the Old Ones. Would the Combat police believe that having been captured down there he would be reluctant to try the maze of passages for a second time?
He was hungry. The carefully balanced prison diet had not been intended to build up any store of energy. And he didn't quite dare to enter the transient mess here, could not in fact without displaying the armlet which would betray him at once. First things first—let him get out of Prime and then he could worry about food. Out of Prime—the two choices were still before him.
And sitting here was not speeding him on his way. He had absorbed all the information the record-paks held. It was time to go. And in a snap second Kana made his decision.
The oldest building in modern Prime was the Histo-laboratory Museum. Since history was not a subject popular with the general public on Terra, the building was never crowded. But, according to one of the paks Kana had just consulted, it had been erected on the foundations of a prewar structure. And so it might provide an entrance to the ancient underground ways said to feed all buildings of that era—a thousand-to-one chance. But he had been trained to consider such chances.
Kana gathered up the paks and left the booth. Three others were still occupied and he hurried past their doors. He returned the paks and went out, concentrating on presenting an unhurried, casual demeanor. Luckily the building he sought was not more than three blocks away and his uniform would render him anonymous on the streets.
As he went down the four wide steps to the pavement he was aware of a clatter behind him. Someone in a hurry. He quickened his pace and caught his thumb in his belt not too far from the hilt of his sword. If he were cornered now he would fight. Better be cooked at once in a blaster flame than live in a labor camp for life.
A hand clamped hard above his elbow, dragging his fingers away from his weapon before he could draw it. To the right and left grim-faced Archs had fallen into step with him.
"Keep marching—"
Kana did, mechanically, his eyes after one wild glance centered straight ahead. But they were not herding him toward headquarters. No 'copter settled down at their signal to collect guards and prisoners. They were still headed for the Museum.
Unable to guess what was going to happen now, Kana simply kept on between his silent companions. To anyone passing they might have been three friends on a sightseeing tour of Prime.
Just before they reached the entrance to the Museum the man who had kept that paralyzing grip on his arm spoke:
"In here—"
Completely bewildered, Kana turned in, the other two matching him step for step. They met no one in the wide hall lined with cases containing prewar relics unearthed in the vicinity. And no one appeared as they stepped on the down conveyor which lowered them to the depths under the street.
That sudden pick-up when he had believed himself safe had been a stunning blow, but now Kana was recovering, marshaling his energy to try another break at the first opportunity. But why had he been brought here? Could it be that they were under the impression that he was a member of some secret organization—the one Hansu had hinted about—and expected him to lead them to his comrades? Curiosity replaced surprise and he resigned himself to wait until they showed their hand one way or another.
More hallways and exhibit cases, gloomy rooms with displays or ranks of filing cabinets. Once or twice they sighted a man at work at desk or file, but none looked up or appeared aware of Kana and his escort—the three might have been invisible.
They marched on until they reached the end of that maze, a single large room crowded with machinery which probably was a heating or air-conditioning unit. Then the guard at his left took several paces ahead, threading through the machinery to an inconspicuous door which gave on a flight of stairs leading down into a dimly lit area where several small track-running trucks were pulled up at a platform.
There were men loading bulky packages on these, but they, too, gave the three no heed.
"In." A pointing finger emphasized the order and Kana climbed into an unloaded truck, hunkering down on a small seat. One of his companions took his place on an even smaller rest in front and the other crowded in beside him. The vehicle started away from the platform, gathering speed as it spun along the rails, and then whipped into the semi-darkness of a tunnel opening.
Were they on their way to Headquarters? But why travel underground when it would have been much easier to bundle him into a 'copter and make the short trip in the open? As the minutes of their swift journey began to pile up Kana guessed that now they were not only beyond Headquarters, but that they must be fast approaching the limits of Prime itself. He was completely confused over direction. They might have been out under the floor of the bay, or far inland, when the car came to a stop beside a second platform and his guards ordered him out of it.
This time they did not ascend but walked along a lighted side corridor into a place of regulated activity. Here, too, were series of file-filled rooms, and some laboratories with busy workers.
"In here—"
Again Kana obeyed that command, entered a room and—stopped short.
"Three hours, ten minutes." Hansu was consulting his watch. Now he turned to the man beside him, the man wearing a deputy-commander's uniform. "Pay me that half credit, Matt. I told you he could do it. Only a fraction slow—but entirely sure. I know my candidate!"
The other drew a coin from his belt pouch and solemnly passed it over. Kana shut his mouth. For the High Brass who had just dropped that metal token in the Blademaster's waiting palm had, not long before, sat granite-faced to sentence him to a labor camp for life.
Now Hansu's attention came back to him and Kana found himself measured with a critical stare.
"Rather lively for a dead man," was the Blademaster's strange comment. "You"—he pointed an accusing finger—"were blasted an hour ago when you tried to force your way on board a transport to the Islands."
For the second time Kana opened his mouth and this time he was able to get out words.
"Interesting—if true—sir—"
Hansu was grinning with an open light-heartedness Kana had never seen him display before.
"Amusing dramatics." Still his explanation made little sense. "Welcome to Prime—the real Prime. And meet its governor—Commander Matthias."
"You pick up your cues well, son." The Commander nodded at Kana approvingly. "Made that escape as smoothly as if you had had a chance to rehearse it."
"I told you," Hansu broke in. "He's good enough to make it worthwhile enlisting him."
Kana began to understand why he had been left in that corridor waiting room at Headquarters, how he had been able to trick the guard so easily.
"You set up that break for me," he said, half accusingly. "Did you have me tailed?"
"No. Your escape had to look natural. We just supplied the time, place, and opportunity—the raw materials as it were. The rest was up to you," Hansu replied.
"Then how did your men find me?"
"Through those paks you dialed out of the archives. That combination was a give-away—History of Prime, Ancient Remains in the Prime District, The Sea Coast, Map of Prime—all asked
for at the same time by one person. So we just sent the boys along to pick you up."
Kana dropped down on a bench without having been invited to such relaxation. This was moving a little too fast for him. Easy—logical— But everything Hansu said spoke of a city-wide net of surveillance, of a tight and well-functioning organization. What kind and for what purpose?
"And the labor camp?" He asked the first question of the many in his mind at that moment.
"Oh, there are labor camps right enough—supposedly established for criminals and malcontents of all kinds," the Commander returned cheerfully. "Only we differ somewhat from the C.C. Agents in our definition of both `labor camp' and `crime against the Galactic peace.' And those Agents would be quite surprised if they visited any camps except the two or three we maintain for official display purposes. Right now you're in what might be termed `Camp Number One.' And we can introduce you to a lot of hardened offenders against the status quo if you wish. So you're going to serve the sentence which was imposed on you this morning—there's no getting around that. However, I don't believe you will offer any objections to your fate. Hansu hasn't. Or do you harbor some deep, dark reservations, Trig?"
The Blademaster's grin grew even broader. "Not that you can see, Matt. I'll toil under your whips just as long as you'll persuade the powers that be to let me. I only wish that I had been let into the whole secret a lot earlier in life—there're a lot of things I could have done—" He ended on a wistful note.
"What about Kosti and Larsen, sir? And the rest of the Horde on Fronn?"
"Kosti and Larsen earthed in the far south and have been picked up by our men—the C.C. Agents won't ever know about them. As for the Horde—well, that will take some arranging here and there. For the present they're safe with the Venturi—and I think we can make a deal with those traders. They're the sort we want to contact. We'll lift the Horde out of that pinch before those renegades and the C.C. get to them. On the other hand we can't slap Device down or spill all we have discovered about his backers. But the Venturi will be allowed in on part of the secret so that they will know you have not gone back on your word. Here in Prime Two we have a rather odd idea that promises should be kept—if it is humanly possible."