The man laughed harshly.
“Only a fool would show his own weakness by asking. They would then have a weapon to hold over us. They would withhold it in order to destroy us. We must attack without warning and snatch it from them, destroying them so that they cannot fight back. We must, we must. The machines will do the job for us, we will be invincible.”
Karl glanced down, the man’s fists were clenching and unclenching and the sweat was pouring off his oily pale skin in his rage. Recovering from his own shock at the answers his questions had provoked, Karl moved to quiet the man. Such a spasm as this could not be anything but dangerous to the general health of a man under anaesthetic, and, whatever Karl felt he must add to his knowledge, his first duty was to the ease of Zirpola.
The man went into a total body spasm and Karl leapt forward as his back arched and threatened to throw him off the examination table. After that, it was mainly a question of holding him down in place until the spasm slowly subsided. Then the doctor knew that he would sleep for a few minutes, and would wake with, normally, no memory that he had been put under.
When the man was calm and sleeping, his breathing coming easily, Doctor Karl allowed himself a few moments to recover from his own shock, letting the mechanics of checking out the read-outs from the machines help calm him down, and starting to correlate the information on the read-outs from each machine.
By the time the Lord Zirpola’s eyes flickered open, he was ready to remove the electrodes. He said quietly:
“There. It has only taken a few moments.”
The watery eyes watched him as he unfastened the electrodes.
“You can sit up and get dressed now, if you like.”
The man tried to sit up, lost the fight, then tried again and this time succeeded enough to swing his legs off the bed and sit upright. He was gradually becoming less weak and shaking all the time. The small period of sleep had at least done him that much good, even if, at the same time, it had completely destroyed Doctor Karl’s peace of mind and confidence in the future. For the moment he could not even look at his patient, so disgusted was he. He covered this feeling by turning his back and walking over to his desk, apparently absorbed in his calculations. Zirpola picked up his robe and dressed himself.
By the time Zirpola was prepared to ask the inevitable question, Karl was ready for it.
“Well. If your machines are cleverer than you, have they found out what is afflicting me?”
Karl could do nothing but look grim.
“Do you want the truth?”
This response, at least, had the effect of riveting Zirpola’s full attention—giving a signal as to just how serious his condition might be.
“Is there any other answer?”
Karl felt strangely petulant and it made him brave, giving him a courage that he did not know he possessed.
“I could lie to you, as others do.”
“That is the grossest impertinence,” snarled the Lord of Helix. “Just how serious is it?”
Karl hesitated and the man began to perspire again, his skin pallid and shining in the light. He was obviously frightened and no longer able to fight off his fear, no longer able to convince himself that his headaches, the waves of pain and dizziness, were just a temporary phenomenon. The doctor decided to go the whole way, in spite of the possible consequences to himself.
“You are a dying man.”
If it was possible for the dull, oily skin of the Lord of Helix to become paler, it did so then. He concentrated on doing up the robe at his throat, his breath loud in the silence of the room about him, but, by the time he spoke again, his voice was calm and steady:
“Are you certain?”
Karl nodded sadly.
“As certain as any man may be, My Lord.”
This confirmation produced another silence as the information sank into Zirpola’s ice-cold brain.
“I see.”
A lengthy silence fell between the two men. Doctor Karl would not have been happy to go on unless the man pressed him for more details. At last Zirpola strode forward and banged the desk.
“You must tell me what is wrong with me.”
Karl sighed.
“It is outside my previous knowledge. There is no certain name for it. I am not sure what it may be called. Its cause is most likely related to long-term exposure to radiation.”
Zirpola lifted his hand as a physical signal to cut off the doctor’s speculations on cause.
“The cause is not important. It has happened. What is going to happen to me?”
Now Doctor Karl was brought to the nub of the problem. He took a deep breath, coming, as he was, to the edge of the precipice that was his own moment of greatest danger.
“You have a sort of degenerative brain disease. The neurons in your brain, the thought-transference tissues, are rupturing. Your brain cells seem to be tearing apart and are dying in their millions as every moment passes, thus producing the pain and dizziness, My Lord.”
Shocked by the stark matter-of-factness of the doctor’s revelations, Zirpola groped for the chair that was behind him and sat down heavily. For a moment he was too beside himself with fear to speak. Doctor Karl was anxious to press his advantage now that he had been able to say this much, but not anxious to be the one to break the silence first. With the other man’s mercurial changes of mood, it might prove fatal to him. Already he felt that he was in the greatest of dangers. It was a situation that might even cost him his life—especially if the Lord Zirpola had any suspicion of what he had revealed under the anaesthetic.
Zirpola saved the situation, deflating the silent tension that was growing between the two men. His watery blue eyes fastened on the doctor’s face.
“How long do you think I have?”
Karl shook his head.
“I don’t know. A disease like this is beyond my experience. It could be a while, it could be . . .”
His voice trailed away. If the man survived for any length of time and he was proved a liar, temporarily at least, he had signed his own death warrant.
Zirpola struck the desk angrily.
“How long? I demand to know.”
The doctor could only plunge ahead with suggestions.
“I believe that you are slowly losing control over your faculties of reasoning. I am afraid you must face up to the question of turning the leadership of Helix over to someone else, before it becomes impossible for you to take such a decision for yourself.”
Again, a terrible silence fell across the room. Doctor Karl knew that the least he had done was to utter a basic treason against the person of his lord, but Zirpola did not reply violently as might have been expected, but sat quiet, as if weighing the doctor’s words one at a time and carefully. When he spoke, his voice was controlled and steady:
“What you are trying to tell me, Doctor, is that you believe I am going mad?”
As far as Doctor Karl was concerned, it was a situation that had already arrived. But it would not be helpful to either of them to say so. He could only nod in partial agreement.
“As your brain cells die and decay, so madness will overtake you, my Lord.”
Zirpola’s unattractive mouth hardened into a firm, thin line. He had heard more than enough from this man whom he had trusted for so long. Still, for the moment he did not show his true feelings. To tell the truth, he felt a little afraid in this clinical, closed office. So he nodded and sat in his chair, frowning. The doctor finally added:
“I will alleviate your symptoms as much as I can and then make your end as peaceful and as quiet as possible.”
Zirpola nodded. His voice was quiet, even grateful:
“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your offer. I think I will go back to my own quarters now, will you help me at least a part of the way?”
As he rose from his chair, he looked weak and shaky again. The doctor was relieved. It had all been much easier than he had thought it would be. The man put out an arm for his support and he rose quickly
to give it. He walked him out of the office and back to the bank of elevators that went up from the deserted interior of the clinic.
To his surprise, Zirpola shook his head.
“It may seem a silly request, but I would like to go among my own people on my way back. You have given me much to think about and they are a part of my decision.”
Karl relaxed more; he had no suspicion of any treachery. It seemed to him that Zirpola was accepting his verdict gracefully and proving himself more human than he had thought possible. Even the memory of what the Lord of Helix had said under the anaesthetic was pushed to the back of Karl’s mind.
This false sense of security was just the effect that Zirpola wished to produce. It would make his revenge all the sweeter when it came. For he had a particular surprise in mind for the unsuspecting doctor. No man would ever tell him that he was close to madness and get away with it.
They left the main doors of the clinic and walked down the steps. A few of the civilian citizens of Helix were around and they were surprised and frightened to see their lord walking amongst them, without guards and in the company of their doctor. It did not seem natural to them and they shied away. The Lord Zirpola was not that sort of person.
It was a while before Zirpola saw a pair of Obedience Enforcers coming towards them. Only when they came level did he suddenly push the doctor away from him and shriek out:
“Arrest this man. He is a liar and a traitor. I demand that you seize him.”
Startled by this sudden move, Doctor Karl made no attempt to resist. As the two men grabbed him roughly, he could only regret that he had not obeyed his original instinct of fear and self-preservation. If he had only lied, there would have been no punishment. The other man would have been dead before he could have nailed the lie. The two Enforcers held his arms and Zirpola strode forward to slap him around the face.
“I will teach you to try and frighten me with your stupid lies. I know that there is nothing the matter with me. I am the Lord Zirpola, ruler of Helix.”
He hit his prisoner again, even more viciously, then turned to the guards and gave his orders:
“Take him to the cells. Beat him but not too badly. He must be held for the Death Sport.”
With that, he turned on his heel and hurried towards the elevators. He did not feel secure abroad and alone in the City. There were so few of its citizens he could still trust—and they were getting fewer every day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Night had come and had spread its blanket of darkness over the great empty wastelands and the metallic domes of the surviving Cities of the Statemen. Deep in the bowels of the City of Helix, Kaz Oshay knew that the darkness had come, for a Guide always knew such things even if cut off from them, in spite of the brightness of the lights that burned down on him, constant and unwinking. He strained anxiously to keep at least some mental contact with the freedom of the land outside his prison.
Several times during the period of the coming of night outside, the sadistic jailer who was in charge of the cell area had called all the prisoners to stand by their doors in silence, then allowed them to return to the floors of their cells, to sit or squat, waiting and watching, but for what they did not know.
The slightest sign of disobedience from any of them had resulted in his own particular form of punishment to them all. The electric shocks had rammed through the floors and doors of their cells with a monotonous regularity. He was having an unusually good day.
These Guides proved a great deal less submissive than the broken prisoners who were brought to him from the City. He would enjoy the sight hugely if they were ever to be placed in the disorientation chambers.
Now he called them again:
“Stand by the doors of your cells.”
Once more, Kaz Oshay rose and obeyed the booming voice. He hoped that the others were doing the same. He wanted an unbroken space of time to exchange more messages and information with Deneer and each time up till now some infringement of the orders by one of them had snatched the chance away.
He waited at the door, holding his breath in anticipation of a new shock, but nothing happened. This time, the jailer must have been very disappointed. Doubtless he would finally suspect the two of them of passing messages, then the shocks would come. But he hoped that he would have a little time before that.
He stared out through the narrow slit in the cell door and once more the eyes of the two Guides locked together as the waves of their power passed between them. Kaz waited for a moment before braving communication. Then he said in his softest tones, below the hearing of the normal human ear, but with enough sound for a fellow Guide to pick up:
“I know you.”
“From where?”
“We travelled once.”
Deneer’s brow furrowed in thought and memory for a moment, then she remembered:
“Yes. It was a long time ago. I know you too. We journeyed together to Triton with a caravan. You are Kaz Oshay.”
Kaz smiled that she had remembered his name. They had both been very young Guides then:
“And you are the Lady Deneer.”
Even as he spoke her eyes clouded over with a great sadness. She had remembered something and wondered whether Kaz knew of it. The only way to find out was to tell him, however cruel it might be:
“I knew Oshay, your mother.”
“She is well?”
So he did not know. Her brow furrowed again as she knew that she must tell him, however much it would hurt. For no Guide ever lies to another of his kind, however troubled the circumstances that have brought them together:
“I was with her, close to her, last year, when she died. She fought well, she was truly powerful.”
On the surface of his face and eyes, Kaz Oshay showed no sign of emotion as the news of his mother’s death was relayed to him. A Guide is his own master, but the ties of mother love are never completely broken, even under the rigid rules of the code. Inside, he seethed with an emotional pain at the bereavement, and anger welled up in him again. He wished to rove across the wastelands and find and avenge himself against whomsoever or whatsoever had killed her, and his confinement seemed unjust and ill-timed. Now it would be impossible.
With a supreme effort, he controlled himself. To show emotion was to succumb to weakness and a Guide should never do that, particularly to another of his kind. His voice came flat, without inflection:
“I had no knowledge of her passing—each of us is alone when death comes for us.”
Deneer’s eyes flickered with a message of sympathy. She had seen with ease through the mask he had created to cover his true feelings. He spoke again, this time his voice a shade louder, as if wiping out of his mind the news she had brought to him:
“If you have knowledge of it, Deneer, can you tell me why we have been brought here?”
The girl raised an eyebrow. She had heard the guards talking but had not entirely understood what they had said:
“We are to fight in the Death Sport. I have no knowledge of what this is to be.”
Kaz frowned in surprise. He had heard of this barbaric ritual of the Statemen. It was a game that only they played, only the Statemen of Helix City. It was a strange ritual, but then many of the ways of the Statemen were strange.
They lived their protected lives in their enclosed Cities, hardly ever even seeking out the open plain and the burning natural light of the sun. Kaz was unable to fathom them. Of course there were dangers on the outside of the great domes. Dangers from the plain itself with the tremendous heat that sometimes built up, danger from the marauding bands of the Mutants and from the great Flash Winds with their rolling clouds of atomic death, but they were just natural hazards that had to be accepted and overcome. They took nothing away from the delights of freedom. For people who were totally protected from such things to bring the possibility of death amongst themselves, or to get pleasure from watching it come to others of their number, these were things that could not be understood.
&nb
sp; Aloud, he said:
“The Death Sport, but that is a Stateman game. Why do they want us for it?”
“I do not know.”
Kaz uttered one of the formalities of the code:
“We have Union. We will break together.”
“Yes, Kaz Oshay.”
She made the formal nod that is the answer to the ritual and this time there was enough movement in her for the jailer to pick it up on the video screen and know that two of his prisoners were once more engaging in forbidden communication.
His hand, which had been hovering over the punishment levers, flashed down and a bolt of electricity knocked all the confined Guides from their feet, half-conscious on the floor of their cells.
His sadistic laugh came over the loudspeakers:
“I warned you to keep quiet in there. You know that any communication between the cells is forbidden. You had better listen to me and learn your lesson—unless you are enjoying this treatment and would like some more of the same.”
In spite of the pain that Kaz Oshay knew another shock would bring to him, he felt his impotent anger rising to snapping point. In a sudden movement, he threw himself up from the floor, leaping high enough for his arms to reach the ceiling as he tore the video eye from it.
At once, one of the video screens on the main console flashed bright, then went blank. The jailer stared at it, then, realising what had happened, he roared angrily:
“You bastard. Now you’re really going to know what punishment is.”
He adjusted the lever, then pulled it down. The bolt of electricity that was released knocked Kaz Oshay to the floor and put a greater level of pain through him than he had felt before. It hardly had time to recede from him before the treatment was repeated, and, even with the rules of the code to support him, he could not help but cry out. The sound was as manna to the ears of the jailer and he pressed the lever down yet again. So concentrated was he on the pleasure he got from this procedure that he was oblivious to the blipping sound and the light pattern playing out in the door panel that signalled the imminent opening of the main door to the cell area.
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