The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “Listen, Zorchi, I said I was sorry. Let’s let it go at that for a moment. I—I admit you shouldn’t be here. The question is, how do you come to be awake?”

  “How not? I am Zorchi, Weels. Cut me and I heal; poison me and I cure myself.” He spat furiously. “Starve me, however, and I no doubt will die, and it is true that you have come very near to starving me down here.” He glowered at the shelves of cocooned bodies in the locked bay. “A pity, with all this pork and beef on the rack, waiting for me, but I find I am not a monster, Weels. It is a weakness; I do not suppose it would stop any Company man for a moment.”

  “Look, Zorchi,” I begged, “take my word for it—I want to help you. You might as well believe me, you know. You can’t be any worse off than you are.”

  He stared at me sullenly for a moment. Then, “True enough,” he admitted. “What then, Weels?”

  I said hesitantly, “Well, I’d like to get you out of here…”

  “Oh, yes. I would like that, too. How shall we do it?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck thoughtfully, staring at him. I had had a sort of half-baked, partly worked out plan for rescuing Benedetto. Wake him up with the needle; find a medical orderly’s whites somewhere; dress him; and walk him out.

  It wasn’t the best of all possible plans, but I had rank enough, particularly with Defoe off in Rome, to take a few liberties or stop questions if it became necessary. And besides, I hadn’t really thought I’d have to do it. I had fully expected—as recently as half an hour ago!—that I would find Benedetto raddled with gamma rays, a certainty for death if revived before the half-life period of the radioelements in his body had brought the level down to safety.

  That plan might work for Benedetto. But Zorchi, to mention only one possible obstacle, couldn’t walk. And Benedetto, once I took off his beard with the razor Rena had insisted I bring for that purpose, would not be likely to be recognized by anyone.

  Zorchi, on the other hand, was very nearly unforgettable.

  I said honestly, “I don’t know.”

  He nodded! “Nor do I, Weels. Take me then to your Defoe.” His face wrinkled in an expression of fury and fear. “Die I can, if I must, but I do not wish to starve. It is good to be able to grow a leg, but do you understand that the leg must come from somewhere? I cannot make it out of air, Weels—I must eat. When I am in my home at Naples, I eat five, six, eight times a day; it is the way my body must have it. So if Defoe wishes to kill me, we will let him, but I must leave here now.”

  I shook my head. “Please understand me, Zorchi—I can’t even do that for you. I can’t have anybody asking me what I was doing down in this level.” I hesitated only briefly; then, realizing that I was already in so deeply that secrecy no longer mattered, I told him about Benedetto dell’Angela, and the riot that failed, and my promise.

  His reaction was incredulity. “You did not know, Weels? The arms and legs of the Company do not know what thoughts pass through its brain? Truly, the Company is a wonderful thing! Even the peasants know this much—the Company will do anything it must.”

  “I admit I never guessed. Now what?”

  “That is up to you, Weels. If you try to take the two of us out, it endangers you. It is for you to decide.”

  So, of course, I could decide only one way.

  I hid the hypodermic behind one of the bodies in Bay 100; it was no longer useful to me. I persuaded Zorchi to lie quietly in one of the tiers near Benedetto, slammed the heavy door to Bay 100, and heard the locks snap. That was the crossing of the Rubicon. You could open that door easily enough from inside—that was to protect any personnel who might be caught in there. But only Defoe and a couple of others could open it from without, and the hypodermic was now as far out of reach as the Moon.

  I opened Benedetto dell’Angela’s face mask and shaved him, then sealed it again. I found another suspendee of about the same build, made sure the man was not radioactive, and transferred them. I switched tags: Benedetto dell’Angela was now Elio Barletteria. Then I walked unsteadily to the ramp, picked up the intercom and ordered the medical officer in charge to come down.

  * * * *

  It was not Dr. Lawton who came, fortunately, but one of his helpers who had seen me before. I pointed to the pseudo-Barletteria. “I want this man revived.”

  He sputtered, “You—you can’t just take a suspendee out of his trance, Mr. Wills. It’s a violation of medical ethics! These men are sick. They—”

  “They’ll be sicker still if we don’t get some information from this one,” I said grimly. “Are you going to obey Mr. Defoe’s orders or not?”

  He sputtered some more, but he gave in. His orderlies took Benedetto to the receiving station at the foot of the vault; one of them stood by while the doctor worriedly went through his routine. I sat and smoked, watching the procedure.

  It was simple enough. One injection, a little chafing of the hands and feet by the bored orderly while the doctor glowered and I stonily refused to answer his questions, and a lot of waiting. And then the “casualty” stirred and moaned.

  All the stand-by apparatus was there—the oxygen tent and the pulmotor and the heart stimulator and so on. But none of it was needed.

  I said: “Fine, Doctor. Now send the orderly to have an ambulance standing by at the main entrance, and make out an exit pass for this casualty.”

  “No!” the doctor shouted. “This is against every rule, Mr. Wills. I insist on calling Dr. Lawton—”

  “By all means,” I said. “But there isn’t much time. Make out the pass and get the ambulance, and we’ll clear it with Dr. Lawton on the way out.” He was all ready to say no again when I added: “This is by direct order of Mr. Defoe. Are you questioning his orders?”

  He wasn’t—not as long as I was going to clear it with Dr. Lawton. He did as I asked. One of the advantages of the Company’s rigid regulations was that it was hard to enforce strict security on its personnel. If you didn’t tell the staff that they were working for something needing covering up, you couldn’t expect them to be constantly on guard.

  When the orderly was gone and the doctor had scrawled out the pass, I said cordially, “Thank you, Doctor. Now would you like to know what all the fuss was about?”

  “I certainly would,” he snapped. “If you think—”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Come over here and take a look at this man.”

  I juggled the radiation counter in my hand as he stalked over. “Take a look at his eyes,” I invited.

  “Are you trying to tell me that this is a dangerously radioactive case? I warn you, Mr. Wills—”

  “No, no,” I said. “See for yourself. Look at the right eye, just beside the nose.”

  He bent over the awakening body, searchingly.

  I clonked him with the radiation counter on the back of the head. They must have retired that particular counter from service after that; it wasn’t likely to be very accurate any more.

  The orderly found me bending over the doctor’s body and calling for help. He bent, too, and he got the same treatment. Benedetto by then was awake; he listened to me and didn’t ask questions. The blessings of dealing with conspirators—it was not necessary to explain things more than once.

  And so, with a correctly uniformed orderly, who happened to be Benedetto dell’Angela, pushing the stretcher, and with myself displaying a properly made out pass to the expediter at the door, we rolled the sham-unconscious body of Luigi Zorchi out to a waiting ambulance.

  I felt my pulse hammering as we passed the expediter at the door. I had thrown my coat over the place where legs should have been on “Barletteria,” and Benedetto’s old plastic cocoon, into which we had squeezed Zorchi, concealed most of him.

  * * * *

  I needn’t have worried. The expediter not only wasn’t suspicious, he wasn’t even interested.

  Benedetto and I lifted Zorchi into the ambulance. Benedetto climbed in after him and closed the doors, and I went to the front. “You’re
dismissed,” I told the driver. “I’ll drive.”

  As soon as we were out of sight of the clinic, I found a phone, got Rena at the hotel, told her to meet me under the marquee. In five minutes, she was beside me and we were heading for the roads to the north.

  “You win,” I told her. “Your father’s in back—along with somebody else. Now what? Do we just try to get lost in the hills somewhere?”

  “No, Tom,” she said breathlessly. “I—I have made arrangements.” She giggled. “I walked around the square and around, until someone came up to me. You do not know how many gentlemen came before that! But then one of my—friends showed up, to see if I was all right, and I arranged it. We go up the Rome highway two miles and there will be a truck.”

  “Fine,” I said, stepping on the gas. “Now do you want to climb back and tell your father—”

  I stopped in the middle of the word. Rena peered at me. “Tom,” she asked anxiously, “is something wrong?”

  I swallowed, staring after a disappearing limousine in the rearview mirror. “I—hope not,” I said. “But your friends had better be there, because we don’t have much time. I saw Defoe in the back of that limousine.”

  CHAPTER X

  Rena craned her neck around the door and peered into the nave of the church. “He’s kissing the Book,” she reported. “It will be perhaps twenty minutes yet.”

  Her father said mildly, “I am in no hurry. It is good to rest here. Though truthfully, Mr. Wills, I thought I had been rested sufficiently by your Company.”

  I think we were all grateful for the rest. It had been a hectic drive up from Anzio. Even though Rena’s “friends” were thoughtful people, they had not anticipated that we would have a legless man with us.

  They had passports for Rena and myself and Benedetto; for Zorchi they had none. It had been necessary for him to hide under a dirty tarpaulin in the trunk of the ancient charcoal-burning car, while Rena charmed the Swiss Guards at the border. And it was risky. But the Guards charmed easily, and we got through.

  Zorchi did not much appreciate it. He swore a ragged blue streak when we stopped in the shade of an olive grove and lugged him to the front seat again, and he didn’t stop swearing until we hit the Appian Way. When the old gas-generator limped up a hill, he swore at its slowness; when it whizzed along the downgrades and level stretches, he swore at the way he was being bounced around.

  I didn’t regret rescuing Zorchi from the clinic—it was a matter of simple justice since I had helped trick him into it. But I did wish that it had been some more companionable personality that I had been obligated to.

  Benedetto, on the other hand, shook my hand and said: “For God, I thank you,” and I felt well repaid. But he was in the back seat being brought up to date by his daughter; I had the honor of Zorchi’s company next to me…

  There was a long Latin period from the church, a response from the altar boy, and then the final Ite, missa est. We heard the worshipers moving out of the church.

  The priest came through the room we were waiting in, his robes swirling. He didn’t look around, or give any sign that he knew we were there, though he almost stepped on Zorchi, sitting propped against a wall.

  A moment later, another man in vaguely clerical robes entered and nodded to us. “Now we go below,” he ordered.

  Benedetto and I flanked Zorchi and carried him, an arm around each of our necks. We followed the sexton, or whatever he was, back into the church, before the altar—Benedetto automatically genuflected with the others, nearly making me spill Zorchi onto the floor—to a tapestry-hung door. He pushed aside the tapestry, and a cool, musty draft came up from darkness.

  The sexton lit a taper with a pocket cigarette lighter and led us down winding, rickety steps. There was no one left in the church to notice us; if anyone had walked in, we were tourists, doing as countless millions of tourists had done before us over the centuries.

  We were visiting the Catacombs.

  Around us were the bones of the Christians of a very different Rome. Rena had told me about them: How they rambled under the modern city, the only entrances where churches had been built over them. How they had been nearly untouched for two thousand years. I even felt a little as though I really were a tourist as we descended, she had made me that curious to see them.

  But I was disappointed. We lugged the muttering Zorchi through the narrow, musty corridors, with the bones of martyrs at our elbows, in the flickering light of the taper, and I had the curious feeling that I had been there before.

  As, in a way, I had: I had been in the vaults of the Company’s clinic at Anzio, in some ways very closely resembling these Catacombs—

  Even to the bones of the martyrs.

  I was almost expecting to see plastic sacks.

  We picked our way through the warrens for several minutes, turning this way and that. I was lost in the first minute. Then the sexton stopped before a flat stone that had a crude, faded sketch of a fish on it; he leaned on it, and the stone discovered itself to be a door. We followed him through it into a metal-walled, high-ceilinged tunnel, utterly unlike the meandering Catacombs. I began to hear sounds; we went through another door, and light struck at our eyes.

  I blinked and focused on a long room, half a dozen yards wide, almost as tall, at least fifty yards long. It appeared to be a section of an enormous tunnel; it appeared to be, and it was. Benedetto and I set Zorchi—still cursing—down on the floor and stared around.

  There were people in the tunnel, dozens of them. There were desks and tables and file cabinets; it looked almost like any branch of the Company, with whirring mimeographs and clattering typewriters.

  The sexton pinched out the taper and dropped it on the floor, as people came toward us.

  “So now you are in our headquarters in Rome,” said the man dressed as a sexton. “It is good to see you again, Benedetto.”

  “And it is much better to see you, Slovetski,” the old man answered warmly.

  * * * *

  This man Slovetski—I do not think I can say what he looked like.

  He was, I found, the very leader of the “friends,” the monarch of this underground headquarters. But he was a far cry from the image I had formed of a bearded agitator. There was a hint of something bright and fearful in his eyes, but his voice was warm and deep, his manner was reassuring, his face was friendly. Still—there was that cat-spark in his eyes.

  Slovetski, that first day, gave me an hour of his time. He answered some of my questions—not all. The ones he smiled at, and shook his head, were about numbers and people. The ones he answered were about principles and things.

  He would tell me, for instance, what he thought of the Company—endlessly. But he wouldn’t say how many persons in the world were his followers. He wouldn’t name any of the persons who were all around us. But he gladly told me about the place itself.

  “History, Mr. Wills,” he said politely. “History tells a man everything he needs to know. You look in the books, and you will learn of Mussolini, when this peninsula was all one state; he lived in Rome, and he started a subway. The archives even have maps. It is almost all abandoned now. Most of it was never finished. But the shafts are here, and the wiring that lights us still comes from the electric mains.”

  “And the only entrance is through the Catacombs?”

  The spark gleamed bright in his eye for a second. Then he shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I tell you? No. There are several others, but they are not all convenient.” He chuckled. “For instance, one goes through a station on the part of the subway that is still in operation. But it would not have done for you, you see; Rena could not have used it. It goes through the gentlemen’s washroom.”

  We chuckled, Slovetski and I. I liked him. He looked like what he once had been: a history teacher in a Company school, somewhere in Europe. We talked about History, and Civilization, and Mankind, and all the other capitalized subjects. He was very didactic and positive in what he said, just like a history teacher. But
he was understanding. He made allowances for my background; he did not call me a fool. He was a patient monk instructing a novice in the mysteries of the order, and I was at ease with him.

  But there was still that spark in his eye.

  Rena disappeared almost as soon as we were safely in the tunnels. Benedetto was around, but he was as busy as Slovetski, and just as mysterious about what occupied him. So I had for company Zorchi.

  We had lunch. “Food!” he said, and the word was an epithet. “They offer this to me for food! For pigs, Weels. Not for Zorchi!” He pushed the plate away from him and stared morosely at the table.

  We were given a room to share, and one of Slovetski’s men fixed up a rope-and-pulley affair so Zorchi could climb into his bed unaided. He was used to the help of a valet; the first time he tried it, he slipped and fell on the stumps of his legs. It must have hurt.

  He shrieked, “Assassins! All of them! They put me in a kennel with the apprentice assassin, and the other assassins make a guillotine for me to kill myself on!”

  We had a long talk with Slovetski, on the ideals and principles of his movement. Zorchi stared mutinously at the wall. I found the whole thing very interesting—shocking, but interesting. But Zorchi was immune to shock—“Perhaps it is news to you, Weels, that the Company is a big beast?”—and he was interested in nothing in all the world but Zorchi.

  By the end of the second day I stopped talking to him entirely. It wasn’t kind. He disliked me, but he hated everyone else in the tunnel, so he had no one to talk to. But it was either that or hit him in the face, and—although many of my mores had changed overnight—I still did not think I could strike a man without legs.

  And besides, the less I saw of Zorchi, the more time I had to think about Rena.

  * * * *