The 35th Golden Age of Science Fiction: Keith Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  “Hey!” I yelled, “listen to me! I’ll die in here. I’m not like the rest of you; I won’t go through a Change. I’ll rot here till I die…!”

  I listened. The silence was absolute.

  “Answer me!” I screamed. “You’re making a mistake…!”

  I gave up when my throat got raw. The people who dropped the bread through the little holes to the prisoners had heard a lot of yelling in their time. They didn’t listen any more. I felt for the other item that had been pushed in to me. It was a water bottle made of tough plastic. I fumbled the cap off, took a swallow. It wasn’t good. I tried the bread; it was tough, tasteless. I lay and chewed, and wondered what I was supposed to do about toilet facilities; it was an interesting problem. I could see it was going to be a great life, while it lasted. I laughed: a weak snort of despair.

  As a world-saver I was a bust. I hadn’t even been able to get around to bailing out my pal Foster after Qohey had booby-trapped him. I wondered where he was now. Sealed up in the next cubby-hole probably. But he hadn’t answered my yells.

  Yeah, mine had been a great idea, but it hadn’t worked out. I had come a long long way and now I was going to die in this reeking hole. I had a sudden vision of steaks uneaten, and life unlived. I would have been good for another few decades anyway—

  And then I had another thought: if I never had them was it going to be because I hadn’t tried? Abruptly I was planning. I would keep calm and use my head. I wouldn’t wear myself out with screams and struggles. I’d figure the angles, use everything I had to make the best try I could.

  First, to explore the tomb-like cell. It hurt to move, but that didn’t matter. I felt over the walls, estimating size. My chamber was three feet wide, two feet high, and seven feet long. The walls were relatively smooth, except for a few mortar joints. The stones were big: eighteen inches or so by a couple of feet. I scratched at the mortar; it was rock hard.

  I wondered how they’d gotten me in. Some of the stones must be newly placed…or else there was a door. I couldn’t feel anything as far as my hands would reach. Maybe at the other end.…

  I tried to twist around: no go. The people who had built the cage knew just how to dimension it to keep the occupant oriented the way they wanted him. He was supposed to just lie quietly and wait for the bread and water to fall through the hole above his chest.

  That was reason enough to change positions. If they wanted me to stay put I’d at least have the pleasure of defying the rules. And there just might be a reason why they didn’t want me moving around.

  I turned on my side, pulled my legs up, hugged them to my chest, worked my way down…and jammed. My skinned knees and shins didn’t help any. I inched them higher, wincing at the pain, then braced my hands against the floor and roof and forced my torso toward my feet.…

  Still no go. The rough stone was shredding my back. I moved my knees apart; that eased the pressure a little. I made another inch.

  I rested, tried to get some air. It wasn’t easy: my chest was crushed between my thighs and the stone wall at my back. I breathed shallowly, wondering whether I should go back or try to push on. I tried to move my legs; they didn’t like the idea. I might as well go on. It would be no fun either way and if I waited I’d stiffen up, while inactivity and no food and loss of blood would weaken me further every moment. I wouldn’t do better next time—not even as well. This was the time. Now.

  I set myself, pushed again. I didn’t move. I pushed harder, scraping my palms raw against the stone. I was stuck—good. I went limp suddenly. Then I panicked, in the grip of claustrophobia. I snarled, rammed my hands hard against the floor and wall, and heaved—and felt my lacerated back slip along the stone, sliding on a lubricating film of blood. I pushed again, my back curved, doubled; my knees were forced up beside my ears. I couldn’t breathe at all now and my spine was breaking. It didn’t matter. I might as well break it, rip off all the hide, bleed to death; I had nothing to lose. I shoved again, felt the back of my head grate; my neck bent, creaking…then I was through, stretching out to flop on my back, gasping, my head where my feet had been. Score one for our side.

  * * * *

  It took a long time to get my breath back and sort out my various abrasions. My back was worst, then my legs and hands. There was a messy spot on the back of my head and sharp pains shot down my spine, and I was getting tired of breathing through my mouth instead of my smashed nose. Other than that I’d never felt better in my life. I had plenty of room to relax in, I could breathe. All I had to do was rest, and after a while they’d drop some more nice bread and water in to me.…

  I shook myself awake. There was something about the absolute darkness and silence that made my mind want to curl up and sleep, but there was no time for that. If there had been a stone freshly set in mortar to seal the chamber after I had been stuffed inside, this was the time to find it—before it set too hard. I ran my hands over the wall, found the joints. The mortar was dry and hard in the first; in the next…under my fingernail soft mortar crumbled away. I traced the joint; it ran around a twelve-by-eighteen-inch stone. I raised myself on my elbows, settled down to scratching at it.

  Half an hour later I had ten bloody tips and a half-inch groove dug out around the stone. It was slow work and I couldn’t go much farther without a tool of some sort. I felt for the water bottle, took off the cap, tried to crush it. It wouldn’t crush. There was nothing else in the cell.

  Maybe the stone would move, mortar and all, if I shoved hard enough. I set my feet against the end wall, my hands against the block, and strained until the blood roared in my ears. No use. It was planted as solid as a mother-in-law in the spare bedroom.

  I was lying there, just thinking about it, when I became aware of something. It wasn’t a noise, exactly. It was more like a fourth-dimensional sound heard inside the brain…or the memory of one.

  But my next sensation was perfectly real. I felt four little feet walking gravely up my belly toward my chin.

  It was my cat, Itzenca.

  CHAPTER XVI

  For a while I toyed with the idea of just chalking it up as a miracle. Then I decided it would be a nice problem in probabilities. It had been seven months since we had parted company on the pink terrace at Okk-Hamiloth. Where would I have gone if I had been a cat? And how could I have found me—my old pal from earth?

  Itzenca exhaled a snuffle in my ear.

  “Come to think of it, the stink is pretty strong, isn’t it? I guess there’s nobody on Vallon with quite the same heady fragrance. And what with the close quarters here, the concentration of sweat, blood, and you-name-it must be pretty penetrating.”

  Itz didn’t seem to care. She marched around my head and back again, now and then laid a tentative paw on my nose or chin, and kept up a steady rumbling purr. The feeling of affection I had for that cat right then was close to being one of my life’s grand passions. My hands roamed over her scrawny frame, fingered again the khaffite collar I had whiled away an hour in fashioning for her aboard the lifeboat—

  My head hit the stone wall with a crack I didn’t even notice. In ten seconds I had released the collar clasp, pulled the collar from Itzenca’s neck, thumbed the stiff khaffite out into a blade about ten inches long, and was scraping at the mortar beyond my head at fever heat.

  * * * *

  They had fed me three times by the time the groove was nine inches deep on all sides of the block; and the mortar had hardened. But I was nearly through, I figured. I took a rest, then made another try at loosening the block. I thrust the blade into the slot, levered gently at the stone. If it was only supported on one edge now, as it would be if it were a little less than a foot thick, it should be about ready to go. I couldn’t tell.

  I put down my scraper, got into position, and pushed. I wasn’t as strong as I had been; there wasn’t much force in the push. Again I rested and again I tried. Maybe there was only a thin
crust of mortar still holding; maybe one more ounce of pressure would do it. I took a deep breath, strained…and felt the block shift minutely.

  Now! I heaved again, teeth gritted, drew back my feet, and thrust hard. The stone slid out with a grating sound, dropped half an inch. I paused to listen: all quiet. I shoved again, and the stone dropped with a heavy thud to the floor outside. With no loss of time I pushed through behind it, felt a breath of cooler air, got my shoulders free, pulled my legs through…and stood, for the first time in how many days.…

  I had already figured my next move. As soon as Itzenca had stepped out I reached back in, groped for the water bottle, the dry crusts I had been saving, and the wad of bread paste I had made up. I reached a second time for a handful of the powdered mortar I had produced, then lifted the stone. I settled it in place, using the hard bread as supports, then packed the open joint with gummy bread. I dusted it over with dry mortar, then carefully swept up the debris—as well as I could in the total darkness. The bread-and-water man would have a light and he was due in half an hour or so—as closely as I had been able to estimate the time of his regular round. I didn’t want him to see anything out of the ordinary. I was counting on finding Foster filed away somewhere in the stacks, and I’d need time to try to release him.

  I moved along the corridor, counting my steps, one hand full of breadcrumbs and stone dust, the other feeling the wall. There were narrow side branches every few feet: the access ways to the feeding holes. Forty-one paces from my slot I came to a wooden door. It wasn’t locked, but I didn’t open it. I wasn’t ready to use it yet.

  I went back, passed my hole, continued nine paces to a blank wall. Then I tried the side branches. They were all seven-foot stubs, dead ends; each had the eight-inch holes on either side. I called Foster’s name softly at each hole…but there was no answer. I heard no signs of life, no yells or heavy breathing. Was I the only one here? That wasn’t what I had figured on. Foster had to be in one of these delightful bedrooms. I had come across the universe to see him and I wasn’t going to leave Bar-Ponderone without him.

  It was time to get ready for the bread man. I had a choice of trying to get back into my hole and replacing the block, or of hiding in one of the side branches. I thought it over for a couple of microseconds and decided against getting back in my tomb. If there were as many vacancies here as I guessed, I’d be safe in any one of the side passages but my own.

  I groped my way into a convenient hidey-hole, Itzenca at my heels. With half a year’s experience at dodging humans behind her, she could be trusted not to show at the crucial moment, I figured. I had just jettisoned my handful of trash in the backmost corner of the passage when there was a soft grating sound from the door. I flattened myself against the wall. I’d know in a second or two how observant the keeper was.

  A light splashed on the floor; it must have been dim but seemed to my eyes like the blaze of noon. Soft footsteps sounded. I held my breath. A man in bodyguard’s trappings, basket in hand, moved past the entry of the branch where I stood, went on. I breathed again. Now all I had to do was keep an eye on the feeder, watch where he stopped. I stepped to the corridor, risked a glance, saw him entering a branch far down the corridor. As he disappeared I made it three branches farther along, ducked out of sight.

  I heard him coming back. I flattened myself. He went by me, opened the door. It closed behind him and the darkness and silence settled down once more. I stood where I was, feeling like a guy who’s just showed up for a party…on the wrong day.

  The bread man had stopped at one cell only—mine. Foster wasn’t here.

  * * * *

  It was a long wait for the next feeding but I put the time to use. First I had a good nap; I hadn’t been getting my rest while I scratched my way out of my nest. I woke up feeling better and started thinking about the next move. The bodyguard who brought the food was the first item: I had had to get a set of clothes somewhere and he’d be the easiest source to tap. If my mental clock was right it was about time—

  The door creaked, and I did a fast fade down a side branch. The guard shuffled into view; now was the time. I moved out—quietly, I thought, and he whirled, dropped the load and bottle, and fumbled at his club hilt. I didn’t have a club to slow me down. I went at him, threw a beautiful right, square to the mouth. He went over backwards, with me on top. I heard his head hit with a sound like a length of rubber hose slapping a grapefruit. He didn’t move.

  I pulled the clothes off him, struggled into them. They didn’t fit too well and they probably smelled gamey to anybody who hadn’t spent a week where I had, but details like those didn’t count anymore. I tore his sash into strips and tied him. He wasn’t dead—quite, but I had reason to know that any yelling he did was unlikely to attract much attention. I hoped he’d enjoy the rest and quiet until the next feeding time. By then I expected to be long gone. I lifted the door open and stepped out into a dimly-lit corridor.

  With Itzenca abreast of me I moved along in absolute stillness, passed a side corridor, came to a heavy door: locked. We retraced our steps, went down the side hall, found a flight of worn steps, followed them up two flights, and emerged in a dark room. A line of light showed around a door. I went to it, peered through the crack. Two men in stained kitchen-slave tunics fussed over a boiling cauldron. I pushed through the door.

  The two looked up, startled. I rounded a littered table, grabbed up a heavy soup ladle, and skulled the nearest cook just as he opened up to yell. The other one, a big fellow, went for a cleaver. I caught him in two jumps, laid him out cold beside his pal.

  I found an apron, ripped it up, and tied and gagged the two slaves, then hauled them into a storeroom. I was stacking Vallonians away like a squirrel storing nuts.

  I came back into the kitchen. It was silent now. The room reeked of sour soup. A stack of unpleasantly familiar loaves stood by the oven. I gave them a kick that collapsed the pile as I passed to pick up a knife. I hacked tough slices from a cold haunch of Vallonian mutton, threw one to Itzenca across the table, and sat and gnawed the meat while I tried to think through my plans.

  Owner Qohey was a big man to tackle but he was the one with the answers. If I could make my way to his apartment and if I wasn’t stopped before I’d forced the truth out of him, then I might get to Foster and tell him that if he had the memory playback machine I had the memory, if it hadn’t been filched from the bottom of a knapsack aboard a lifeboat parked at Okk-Hamiloth.

  Four ‘if’s’ and a ‘might’—but it was something to shoot at. My first move would be to locate Qohey’s quarters, somewhere here in the Palace, and get inside. My bodyguard’s outfit was as good a disguise as any for the attempt.

  I finished off my share of the meat and got to my feet. I’d have to find a place to clean myself up, shave—

  The rear door banged open and two bodyguards came through it, talking loudly, laughing.

  “Hey, cook! Set out meat for—”

  The heavy in the lead stopped short, gaping at me. I gaped back. It was Torbu.

  “Drgon! How did you…?” He trailed off.

  The other bodyguard came past him, looked me over. “You’re no Brother of the Guard—” he started.

  I reached for the cleaver the kitchen-slave had left on the table, backed against a tall wall cupboard. The bodyguard unlimbered his club.

  “Hold it, Blon,” said Torbu. “Drgon’s okay.” He looked at me. “I kind of figured you for done for, Drgon. The boys worked you over pretty good.”

  “Yeah,” I returned, “and thanks for your help in stopping it.”

  “This is the miscreant we immured!” Blon burst out. “Take him!”

  Torbu shifted. “Hold it a minute,” he said. He looked uncomfortable.

  “Listen, you two!” I said. “You claim to believe in the system around here. You think it’s a great life, all fair play and no holds barred and plenty of goodi
es for the winner. I know, it was tough about Cagu, but that’s life, isn’t it? But what about the business I saw in that Audience Hall? You guys try not to think about that angle, is that it?”

  “The noble Owner’s gotta right—” Blon started.

  “I didn’t like the caper with the wires, Blon,” said Torbu. “You didn’t either; neither did most of the boys—”

  “And I don’t remember getting much of a show myself,” I said. “There are a couple of your buddies I plan to look up when I have some free time—”

  “I didn’t lay a hand on you, Drgon,” said Torbu. “I didn’t want no part of that.”

  “It was the Owner’s orders,” said Blon. “What was I gonna go, tell him—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll tell him myself. That’s all I want: just a short interview with the Owner—minus the wire nets.”

  “Wow…” drawled Torbu, “yeah, that’d be a bout.” He turned to Blon. “This guy’s got a punch, Blon. He don’t look so hot but he could swap buffets with the Fire Drgon he’s named after. If he’s that good with a long blade—”

  “Just lend me one,” I said, “and show me the way to his apartment.”

  “The noble Owner’ll cut this clown to ribbons in two minutes flat,” said Blon.

  “Let’s get the boys.”

  “How could we explain it afterwards to the noble Owner?” said Blon. “He ain’t gonna think much of guys he thought was immured nice and safe turnin’ up in his bedchamber…armed.”

  “We’re Brothers of the Guard,” said Torbu. “We ain’t got much but we got our Code. It don’t say nothing about wires. If we don’t back up our oath to the Brotherhood we ain’t no better than slaves.” He turned to me. “Come on, Drgon. We’ll take you to the Guardroom so you can clean up and put on a good blade. If you’re gonna lose all your lives at once, you wanna do it right.”

  * * * *

  Torbu watched as the boys belted and strapped me into a guardsman’s fighting outfit. I had made him uneasy, maybe even started him thinking. If I could last—just those ‘two minutes flat’—before Owner Qohey killed me, then he’d collect his bet, I’d be out of his hair, and he could go back to being Torbu, a plain tough guy with a Code he could still believe in. And if I won.…