We slipped between the containers, heading for the main entrance. I had assumed that it would be closed and our exploration would be confined to the wharf, but Judith whispered, “I think the tunnel's open. There are containers lined up the whole length of the ramp.”
Her night vision was better than mine and she was right. Dodging from container to container we found ourselves moving through the outer walls and under the inner courtyards. Then we rounded a bend and froze. There was a light ahead.
“See that! I warned you!” I hissed at Barbara.
“It’s the inspection station,” murmured Judith. “Stay here. I’ll go take a look.”
Before I could stop her she had disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel. I reached out to locate Barbara and felt a rifle. The kid had come armed! Foolishness or good sense? I didn’t know, but crouching in the dark I was glad I was not the only one of us with a gun.
Judith came slipping back. “Nobody there. But there was somebody earlier on. Somebody who left gum wrappers. There may be watchmen around.”
“Then we’d better get back to the boat.”
“And lose this chance of seeing what’s inside? We may never get another as good!”
“We can reach the boat faster than anybody who spots us,” urged Barbara.
Some African tyrant had once remarked that nobody can outrun a bullet. I didn’t quote him, but whispered, “No shooting! For God’s sake—no shooting!”
“Then keep moving!” hissed Judith.
There is an Inuit saying to the effect that the woman walks behind the man so she can give him a push when he stops. I was being shoved by two women seized by the exploratory drive. “Okay—but one at a time. Go from cover to cover. Barbara, you guard the rear. I’ll go point.” And I inched forward toward the inspection station.
There was a light burning above the container platform but the glass-fronted inspection booth was dark and empty. I sent a brief flash back to signal Judith it was safe for her to move while I went on up the tunnel, passing one open gate after another, going deeper and deeper into the Pen.
An occasional light was burning—they had either brought in an auxiliary generator or the fusion reactor was still operating. Moving cautiously, I reached the main distribution hall. A single flood hung high above the vast room, now filled with containers. A place of shapes and shadows, but it seemed deserted. I signaled the women to join me and we crouched together between two containers, staring around us.
“They’ve been shipping stuff in here so fast they haven’t had time to stow,” muttered Barbara. “Chock-a-block’s the term!” She studied the doors around the hall. “Where to now?”
“Gavin—do you know your way from here to the Surveillance Center?”
“I think so. Why?”
“If we can reach it, and if the gear’s still operating, we can check out the whole place.”
“Christ—we’d have to get into the guard ring. All the doors are coded. And we don’t know the code.”
“Maybe the one I used to get us out might get us back. There’s no harm in trying.”
No harm unless by trying we’d set off every alarm in the place. “Judy, haven’t we seen enough?”
“Is this really the guy who made the break with you, Doc?” whispered Barbara.
I choked; stung by her derision and startled by the knowledge it implied.
“Quiet, brat!” snapped Judith. “Gavin, which of those doors leads to the ring?”
“That one in the corner—I think. I wasn’t allowed to wander free around here, you know!”
“Let’s try it!” Judith was away into the shadows, as silent as a shade.
“Relax, Mister Gavin!” Barbara squeezed my arm.
Being told to relax by a kid who had just questioned my courage made me reckless. I snapped, “Stay here!” and went after Judith. She was trying various half-remembered combinations on the lock and I was about to haul her off before she tripped an alarm when the door swung open onto a stairwell.
The next instant Barbara arrived. I held her back and stepped through the doorway. Dust lay heavy on the stairs.
Nobody had used them for a long time. “Landing by landing,” I whispered. “And one by one! Yes, I can see that nobody’s been here lately, but somebody might come here tonight.”
The surviving lights had probably been burning ever since the Pen had been abandoned as a prison. I began to get the impression that this surveillance circle, lying between the outer quarters where the guards had lived and the central prison complex, was either unknown or of no interest to whoever was using the place now. The dust was thick everywhere, many of the lights had burned out and never been replaced, and the whole section had a musty disused smell. But there was some positive pressure ventilation. so the fusion generator must still be running; no auxiliary could supply sufficient power to maintain the load of an installation this size.
We reached the top level and started down a corridor along which I had often gone under surveillance during my days as the Pen’s captive tech. By now my hopes that the whole place was unoccupied were rising. The door to the Surveillance Center opened to the same code as the doors behind us, and then we were standing in front of the array of screens and controls I had serviced more than two years before.
Dusty and deserted like everywhere else. The screens were blank. The speakers were silent. Barbara stared around her. “So this is where they watched what you were up to. Quite a rig!”
“Wonder if it’s still working?” Judith stepped forward and, before I could check her, had snapped on the main switch and brought a dozen screens alive.
I stopped in mid-grab. Most of the screens showed empty cells, rooms, and corridors. But five showed living people. On one screen two men and two women were sitting round a table playing cards. On another, one man and one woman were lying on a bed making love. On a third a man and a woman in combat kit were standing in an alcove on the roof, glancing intermittently into the darkness of the Bay but spending most of their time looking at each other. All, except the pair making love, were in the uniform of Federal Marshals.
“Christ!” I breathed. “The place is guarded by Feds!”
“Some guards!” said Barbara, studying the pair on the bed.
I jumped forward to bring up the wharf cameras. Only the dark shapes of the containers were visible, even when I went to infrared. Our boat was hidden by the wharf.
“She’ll float up into view when the tide rises,” said Barbara. “But that’ll be -hours yet.”
“We’d better get to hell out of here!” The sight of so many Feds was making me nervous. The whole atmosphere of the Pen was making me nervous.
“No rush. The tide won’t be full for another five hours.” Barbara was prowling round the Surveillance Center, inspecting the gadgetry. “What are those?” She pointed to the banks of controls on the wall.
“For God’s sake—don’t touch! Or you’ll lock every door in the place. And then we’ll really be screwed.” I breathed easier as she moved back to the display console. “There are trick interlocks all over!”
“That pair can’t imagine they’re being watched!” Judith nodded toward the couple on the bed who had started to add imagination to passion.
I switched off the monitor. After all, one of us was a young girl. “I think we’ve seen as much of the setup as we need to see. Let’s talk about it when we’re safely out on the Bay.”
But when we were offshore they would not talk. Most women are talkative; even Barbara had chattered away earlier in the evening. But back on the Bay neither would talk about the Pen.
It was Barbara who finally gave a sort of explanation. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s because you’re outside our group. We need your help. But please don’t say anything about this until we ask you to speak up.”
“Then why the hell did you drag me along?”
Judith smiled and touched my hand. “Barbara said that, besides her father, you were the onl
y man over thirty who had both guts and brains.”
“Barb!” I looked at her. “Did you really say that?”
In the moonlight I could not be sure but I had the impression she blushed again. And I was certain of her quick nod.
XVI
“After that last unfortunate incident we must be especially careful to avoid friction with outsiders. Our fellow-Believers still in government service are urging all Settlements to keep what they call a low ‘profile.’ We must not give Federal or State authorities an excuse for intervening in our affairs.” Chairman Yackle wiped his bald head. “Has anyone got any comments?”
“A low profile didn’t save Cellerton!” objected Martha, a large and resolute woman. Cellerton, a Settlement in Ohio, had been overrun by a mob, looted, and its people dispersed, arrested, or abducted. We had heard its last despairing signals on the radio network. Its fate had gone unmentioned in the media.
“Cellerton was sited too near Akron.” Yackle was continuing to urge upon us our need for a “low profile” (military metaphors were creeping into even the Chairman’s exhortations) when Kitty burst into the room. “What is it, child?” “Joe just called from twelfth click. There’s a stream of autos taking the fork toward us!”
“Who are they?” Yackle was on his feet.
“Joe says they look like a mob on wheels. Some seem drunk. They’re shooting at road signs!”
“Sheriff Zimpfer—call the State Police. And have the planks removed from the bridge across the creek!” Yackle sat down. “That should delay them if they come this far. And if they’re looking for trouble.”
“They’re probably looking for girls!” said Martha.
“We can’t assume that. But in case there are rowdies among them we had better remove temptation.” He stood up again. “Susan, take all the schoolchildren down to the boats. Kitty, signal the boats out fishing to return to the cove as fast as they can. Martha, have all the women with babies and preschool children put aboard Ranula and tell Captain Rideout to stand offshore.” He looked around. “All other young women will gather on the wharf, ready to embark if these people invade the village.”
“You mean—clear out and let them smash up our homes?” demanded Lucy, twenty-two and pregnant.
“Of course not! All of us with essential tasks must remain in the village. If these outsiders do come as far as the Cove we will treat them with courtesy. Use restraint. Don’t tempt them into violence!”
“And if they don’t need tempting?” asked Jehu.
“Then we must use the least force necessary to protect our property. Now—away to your tasks!” He saw me and called, “Mister Gavin, may I have a word with you?” When I went to join him he said in a low voice, “Will you again help us in our hour of need?”
“Any way I can.”
“I know that a clash is inevitable, sooner or later. I explained to you I have been trying to postpone a confrontation between ourselves and outsiders for as long as possible. But if this mob crosses the creek and starts to break into our houses, if violence follows insults, then those of us still here must resist. Please go and offer your services to Sheriff Zimpfer. Tell him I want you made a deputy. Then you will have a legal right to help maintain law and order.”
There was a hardness in Yackle’s voice and expression. If he was cornered he would fight; most of the Believers would fight if cornered. But the most important aspect of any fight is to avoid being driven into a comer before it starts. I went to find Sheriff Zimpfer.
Zimpfer, a fat pleasant man, had served in the Army—as an office-equipment technician. The Council had made him Sheriff because he was the only Believer with any kind of military experience. His five Deputies were the five largest men in the Settlement and, like most large men, they were five of the most inoffensive. Three of them were out fishing, the two in the Sheriff’s office when I arrived looked as though they wished they were.
Zimpfer had been trying to raise the State Police on the radio. When I came in he gave up, took off his hat, wiped his forehead, and shook my hand. “Glad to have you, Mister Gavin. From what I hear you know more about this policing business than I do!” He pinned a star on my windbreaker and gave me an ancient revolver in an open holster. “I hope you don’t have to use this.”
“So do I!” I glanced at my colleagues and prayed they wouldn’t try to use theirs. My Luger was already strapped on under my windbreaker. “I’ll take my bike up to the bridge, if that’s all right with you?”
He nodded. “Mister Gavin, the kids are watching the bridge and the road. You talk to ’em. They’ll listen to you. Don’t let ’em start shooting. Leastwise, not unless they’re directly attacked.”
“I’ll hold ’em back if I can,” I promised and rode out of the village. I parked my bike round the bend and went scrambling up the hillside to what was, in effect, Barbara’s command post.
She and Sam seemed pleased at my arrival. “Thank the Light that Yackle’s had the sense to make you legal!”
“No shooting, Barbara! Not unless I say.”
“We won’t. And I doubt we’ll be attacked.” She pointed to the woods and undergrowth fringing the bank above the road and on the far side of the creek. “We’re all along that ridge. And on this side too.”
“Glenda’s just called,” said Midge, appearing out of nowhere. “Those goons are at fifth. Almost a hundred cars. Every jerk in Standish must have come hunting. And Kitty says the cops aren’t answering.”
‘They won’t. Not even Sergeant Carver’ll come and face that kind of a mob.”
“The bridge isn’t going to stop ’em!” Only guns or gas would stop the drunken crowd coming toward us. And we hadn’t got any gas. I began to assemble my Luger. If I kept the creek crossing covered, if I could pick off the leaders, if the mob lacked guts—then there was a chance—
Barbara touched my arm. “Put your hardware together if you want to, Mister Gavin. But I don’t think you’ll be needing it. We knew that something like this was going to happen, sooner or later. And we know what to do.”
Alarmed by the cold anticipation in her voice, I asked, “What’s that?”
Before she could answer there was a rumble of motors from farther up the road and the first automobile appeared round the bend. It skidded to a halt when the driver saw there was no roadway on the bridge.
The five occupants, all with rifles, tumbled out, stared at the banks and woods, saw nothing and walked to examine the bridge. Then they walked back to discuss the problem with the second group to arrive. None of them seemed worried about what might be in the woods.
“They can’t have heard about our shoot-out with the Brinks,” whispered Sam. “Which means that that hijack, and the killings, have been kept quiet. Guess who by?”
I was in no mood for guessing games and didn’t care who’d been behind the attempt to jump us. Our present troubles were enough for now. But it was apparent from the behavior of the men and women arriving in the cars that they had no hint of any Believer reacting to violence with violence.
“They’ve come to loot us, and they don’t expect the loot to shoot!” There was an undertone of pleasure in Barbara’s voice. More and more cars were arriving. She spoke on her com. “Let ’em all come. The more the better! Hold it until they’re all here!”
“For Christ’s sake!” I saw her expression and had a sudden vision of the men and women crowding the creekside below us going down under a volley from the kids above them. It would be a massacre! “If you start shooting you’ll kill half that mob and bring the National Guard down on us!”
She glanced at me. “And you don’t want that?”
“God no! The Settlement would be wiped out.”
“Perhaps.” She laughed without humor. “Don’t worry, Mister Gavin. We’re not planning to kill anybody—not yet!” “Then what the hell are you planning to do?”
“Discourage ’em.” She again called on her com. “Is that the lot?”
“Road’s clear back to t
he fork. Except for five autos in the ditch. Drunks!” came Joe’s voice from the com.
“Any sign of the cops?”
“Not a cruiser or chopper in sight.”
Below us cars and pickups were parking on the shoulders of the road. Men and a few women were getting out, most armed with rifles or shotguns, most of them still drinking. A typical old-fashioned lynch mob. I tried to identify the leaders, but if there were any they were not making themselves conspicuous.
A group detached itself from the crowd and began to ford the creek. “This is it!” hissed Barbara on her com.' “Let go!” “Let go what?” I demanded. Then I saw. Some twenty Molotov cocktails arced from the trees and bushes above the road to smash among the cars below and burst into flames.
“You little idiot!” I turned on her furiously. “You’ll roast some of them with those things!”
“I doubt it.” Barbara was watching the confusion below with relish. “There’s only enough gasoline in each bottle to fire the parapitch. Lots of smoke. Not much flame.” She licked her lips. “But those clods down there don’t realize that yet!”
They obviously didn’t. The sudden arrival of flaming missiles had sent the mob into a turmoil. Some were bolting for cover. Some were running back to their cars. A few were clambering up the bank to where the Molotov throwers were hiding. Acrid smoke swirled around the cars and across the creek.
The lead car tried to turn and crashed into the car behind it, which had been attempting to do the same. There were more crashes and curses from drivers trying to extricate themselves from what they assumed was a general conflagration. Cars and pickups were backing into each other, drivers were shouting at each other, several fist fights had started. Women were screaming. Men were yelling. And some were too busy coughing the smoke from the parapitch out of their lungs to do anything.
The men who had climbed the bank after the Molotov throwers were searching through the underbrush and finding nobody. In their frustration they started to shoot at shadows under the trees. Somebody fired back, and the searchers went tumbling and sliding down the bank, to add to the general confusion.
Edward Llewellyn Page 23