Eloise

by E. C. Tubb

  "Only machines. Machines and the Monitors, of course."

  "And Camolsaer?"

  "Yes, I guess so."

  "Guess?"

  "I'm not certain. No one ever goes into the lower regions. I suppose, after conversion, you'd get a chance; but not before."

  Conversion, the word used instead of death, but conversion into what? Eloise would tell him, but Dumarest knew better than to take what she said at face value.

  He said, "Tell me about Camolsaer."

  "Camolsaer?" Sagen seemed baffled. "It-well-it runs the city."

  "I know that; but the name, where did that come from?"

  "A contraction. Computer Analogue Maintenance Of Life Support And Environmental Resources." Something Eloise hadn't known; Arbush too indifferent to discover. "It controls things. It feeds us, clothes us, keeps us warm. It-it's Camolsaer."

  God spelled with a different name, at least as far as the inhabitants of Instone were concerned. A mysterious, invisible, unknown entity which had governed their lives from the moment of birth. And before. Only with the permission of Camolsaer could children be bred-the special diet devoid of sterility drugs obtained.

  A lifetime of conditioning, in which absolute reliance was placed on the voice coming from the terminals. Absolute dependency achieved by fact and custom.

  Finishing his tisane Sagen said, "You're new here, Earl, and I guess it's natural for you to be curious; but anything you want to know can be learned from Camolsaer. Just ask at one of the terminals. There's plenty of them around."

  "Thank you," said Dumarest. "I will."

  "I'll be getting back to the gymnasium." Sagen rose to his feet. "It's always pretty busy at a time like this. Young bucks wanting to learn tricks and build up some muscle. Whenever a Knelling's due it's the same. Don't forget, now; just ask what you want to know. You can even get a prediction on-" He broke off, looking at Dumarest's expression. "Something wrong?"

  "No. Did you say you can get a prediction?"

  "That's right." The instructor lifted a careless hand. "See you around."

  Alone, Dumarest sat and sipped slowly at his tisane. Any man or machine in possession of all the facts could make a simple prediction; but the word had unpleasant associations. Predictions were the area in which cybers excelled. Was Instone an extension of the Cyclan? An experiment started and later abandoned?

  A girl, young, laughing, walked past him on her way to a terminal, there to ask a question about the whereabouts of her lover. Dumarest ignored her as he ignored the others in the chamber, the brightly dressed men and women, some of whom looked at him with interest. To them he was a novelty, something strange, intriguing.

  Arbush came towards him, his gilyre strung over his shoulders, two girls hanging on his arms.

  "Earl, a message. Eloise expects you at her room tonight." He moved on, a contented man; accepting the surface of things and not bothering about their cause. Indifferent to the clues at hand.

  The name, the city, the thing which ran it.

  Instone-Installation One.

  A scientific project built as a complete unit and set in the midst of a hostile waste, to ensure isolation. And, if it was the first, there could be others placed on remote worlds circling lonely suns.

  Perhaps the Cyclan had built it, perhaps not; many worlds bore the traces of early settlers eager to construct civilizations to their own pattern, to create Utopias which would solve all the ills which plagued Mankind. And, on the face of it, Instone was a Utopia; classless, with an even distribution of available goods, no law but the ubiquitous Monitors, no rule but the dictates of Camolsaer. But to exist for any length of time a Utopia had to be static, and the Cyclan would know that. A thing which went against their creed of progressive domination. A testing ground then, for some long-range purpose? A breeding chamber. A culture which could be directed and controlled by the remorseless pressures of necessity and logic.

  A mystery, and one he couldn't answer; but if the Cyclan had built it he had fallen right into their hands.

  * * * * *

  Eloise had never seemed more beautiful. Watching her from where he sat beneath the window, Adara felt again the jealous hurt which had now become all too familiar. She no longer needed him. Now she had found another on whom to lean.

  He looked on as she handed Dumarest a goblet of wine. Tonight she wore diaphanous veils, her feet bare, ankles adorned with bands holding tiny bells. More bands graced her wrists, small sounds tinkling as she moved. Her hair was loose, a rippling waterfall which caught the light and reflected it as if it had been oil. Her breasts, half-bared, were dusted with motes of gold.

  Dumarest noticed his attention.

  He said, quietly, "Your friend is jealous. You should not ignore him."

  "Adara?" She smiled, white teeth flashing between scarlet lips. "He's a friend."

  A friend and more, a lover certainly; and such a man could be dangerous. Dumarest examined him from behind the cover of his wine. A body which was too soft, a face too worn. A man old before his time, lines creasing his cheeks; his eyes shadowed by sleepless rest, haunted. He drank too deep and too often, like a man seeking an anodyne for an inner pain.

  Drink enough and heated emotions would suggest an answer to his problem.

  "Forget him, Earl. Drink your wine. Arbush, give us a tune."

  The minstrel grinned and slapped the rump of one of his attendant girls.

  "My instrument, girl. Hurry!"

  The air throbbed as he touched the strings, musing with the skill of long practice, building anticipation as he strummed a succession of chords.

  "What shall it be? A love song? No, we have too much love. A wistful air of a young girl betrayed by her lover? No, here that particular type of hell does not exist. One of unrequited passion, perhaps? Of adventure? Of bold men venturing into the spaces between the stars?" The strumming grew deep, strong; the pulse of an engine, the empty gulfs, a beat like that of a pounding heart.

  "No." Eloise stood in the center of the room; the others pressed back against the wall, some sitting, others squatted on the carpet. Ten of them; those whom Dumarest had met, friends of Adara and the woman, Arbush's girls.

  "Follow me, minstrel." Lifting her arms her fingers began to touch; thin, high ringings coming from the tiny cymbals she had slipped on her fingers and thumbs. "We are in a tavern," she whispered. "A hot and smoky place, heavy with the scent of wine. You know such places and know what is played there. Play, minstrel. Play as I dance."

  The thrumming of the strings settled, became a repetitious background against which the tap of whispering drums echoed; chords rising to match the swaying undulations of the woman, accompanying the thin ringings of the cymbals, the bells at wrists and ankles.

  It was a dance as old as time, performed with consummate skill; flesh and bone moving in suggestive abandon, naked feet with crimson nails caressing the carpet, the waterfall of hair a shimmering cloud of erotic beauty.

  The lights seemed to fade, the walls to fall away, the watchers to turn into a circle of watching eyes, hands moving, fingers tapping as they followed the rhythm; bodies responding to the invitation explicit in every gesture, the thrust and sway of hips, waist, breasts, thighs. So women had danced in primordial times, offering themselves to a surrogate of the Earth God; a ritual designed to make the ground fertile, the harvest good. Now aimed at one man alone.

  Adara sensed it and gulped down his wine. Arbush knew it and smiled as his spatulate fingers danced over the strings; the tips hitting the sounding board, returning to alter the note, moving with a fluid grace. Dumarest felt it and wondered what lay behind the bribe, the offer of her flesh.

  She wanted something-that had been obvious from the beginning. She had met him too often by apparent chance for it to have been an accident. And there had been hints, barely concealed; suggestions half made, as if she were waiting for him to discover something.

  The dance ended and she came to sit on the floor at his feet. Arbush began to
play again, this time accompanying himself with a song; a ballad more fitted to a spaceman's dive than to any decent company, but no one seemed to find it offensive. The girls who had accompanied him danced in turn; neat, precise little movements, smooth enough but awkward when compared to the previous display.

  "We need more wine," Eloise decided. "Adara, order more wine."

  He rose to his feet and came towards her and Dumarest saw that, despite what he had drunk, he was coldly sober.

  "Eloise, is that wise? Already you have had more than enough."

  "Are you telling me what to do?" He winced at the coldness of her voice.

  "No, but-"

  "Then order it! Damn you, order it or do I have to do it myself?"

  "Eloise, you're mad. Ever since Earl came, you've been acting strange. Don't you realize what you're doing?"

  "I'm living!" she flared. "Don't you understand? Living! For the first time in years I've met a real man, and to hell with you and everything else. Get me some more wine!"

  A man rose and quietly left the room. Another followed, one of Arbush's girls. Rats, she thought bleakly, getting out while the going was good; not wanting to be contaminated with Eloise's presence, associated with her disregard.

  Two women remained. One of them said, "Earl, I can be found in room 532."

  "Get out!" snapped Eloise. "Do your hunting somewhere else."

  "If you've any sense, Earl, you'll join me." Without further comment she left, her companion close behind.

  Arbush plucked at a string. "The end of the party," he said regretfully. "And I was just beginning to enjoy it. That dance took me back. There was a girl who danced as you did. A vision of delight, who took all I had and left me for another with more. Well, such is life. A man can only be thankful for such pleasures, transient though they may be."

  "A harlot," she sneered. "Is that what you think I am?"

  Again he plucked the string and, as the singing note died, said quietly, "I did not say that you were-but if you are not, then you are unique among all the dancers I have ever known."

  "You fat bastard!" She rose, fingers like claws. "I'll have your eyes for that! Earl, do you believe what he says?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "It matters! Dear God, it matters! I love you! Can't you understand? I love you!"

  * * * * *

  It had come, as he had known it would. Adara looked at his hands and found, to his surprise, that they did not tremble. The inner hurt was gone also, as if emotion had been raised to too high a pitch, to burn itself out and leave only ashes. Would the Knelling be like this? Would he, once his number had been tolled, feel the same cold, detached resignation?

  He stared in surprise at the glass of wine thrust into his hand, the man who had placed it there.

  "Sit down," said Dumarest. "Sit and drink your wine."

  A kindness, the consideration of the victor for the vanquished; would he have been capable of such a gesture? Adara sat and drank and said, "Earl, I think there is something you should know."

  "Adara! You-"

  "Be quiet!" snapped Dumarest, not looking at the woman. To Adara he said, "Why were you so insistent that Eloise should not order more wine?"

  "It is noted. Everything you order is noted. If anyone is considered to be guilty of too great an excess, it tells against them."

  "And?"

  "I can answer that." Eloise stepped forward with a delicate chiming of bells. "Drink too much, use too many drugs, eat like a pig, have too much sex, pick a fight or fail to cooperate-it all tells against you. Do it too often and you'll draw a low number at the Knelling. You know what the Knelling is? Hasn't anyone told you yet? It's when the unfit are culled. The unfit according to Camolsaer, of course; that damned god in a box who rules this jail. And it is a jail, Earl; surely you have discovered that for yourself by now. A prison from which there is only one way out." Her lifted hand made a cutting gesture at her throat. "Curtains. Finish. Food for the worms."

  Arbush said, dryly, "A pleasant prospect. Is there anything else?"

  "When you get too old. When you fall too sick. When you become too anti-social, whatever that means in this godforsaken place. When you don't fit the nice, neat, tidy pattern laid down by God knows who." She glared at him. "You won't last long. You like wine too much, have too many girls. You dodge work and go your own way. And you're too fat."

  "I like my comforts."

  "Sure, and you'll pay for them. With your life."

  As she would also, of that she was certain. Again, she had allowed emotion to ruin the carefully maintained appearance of calm. But now, at least, there was a hope.

  "Earl, please, you've got to get me away from here."

  "Got to? Why?"

  "Because I love you." It wasn't reason enough; she had given him words, nothing else, and how many other women had told him the same? Too many others. Enough for him to have learned that what is said and what is meant are not the same thing. She added, "And, because in a way, I saved your life. If I hadn't been watching and spotted you against the barrier, the Monitors could never have reached you in time."

  "Is that true, Adara?"

  "Yes, Earl. I was with her at the time. I-she reported it to Camolsaer and insisted that aid be sent."

  "Insisted?" If Dumarest had noticed the slip, he gave no indication of it. "Can anyone insist?"

  "No, but you can make a point on the basis of logic. Camolsaer stated that, as you had come from the ice, you had to be Krim and therefore destroyed. I pointed out that the Krim are animals and animals do not use ropes to descend a cliff. Therefore, you had to be men and should be rescued."

  Rescued and healed; but where was the logic in that if he was fated to be selected for death?

  "We've got to escape, Earl." Eloise was insistent. "You've got to find a way." And then, as he remained silent, she added, "Are you wondering why Camolsaer saved you? I'll tell you-for raw materials. The fabric of your brain can be used to build more Monitors. That's what conversion means. Your body reduced to basic elements to be used as fertilizer; your brain trimmed and fitted into a machine. The fools here think they move on up to a higher level of existence, but they're wrong. The ego doesn't remain, it can't. Would you ever take a Monitor for a man?"

  "Eloise!"

  "Shut up, Adara! I've told you this before and I thought you believed me. But you're weak. You know what must happen and yet do nothing about it. Remember the last Knelling? I saw your face and knew what you felt, but afterwards? You did nothing. You just slipped back into the routine. Acting a part, pretending to be a good little boy so as not to be punished. And yet you have the gall to call yourself a man."

  "That's enough!" Dumarest stepped between them as Adara rose, his face flushed at the insult. "Eloise, Adara is your friend. You should remember that."

  "Earl!"

  "A friend," he repeated coldly. "Not a toy to be thrown aside at a whim."

  A rebuke which she deserved and, looking at him, she guessed why Dumarest had made it. Adara was a resident of the city, a source of information and a potential enemy. A rejected lover who could ruin any plan they chose to make. Elementary caution dictated that he be treated with consideration. Why hadn't she thought of that?

  Brooding over his gilyre Arbush said, "I think we are becoming excited without need. Eloise has drunk too much wine. You have done nothing to offend Camolsaer, Earl. You are not old or fat or greedy. You are not, as I am, tempted by the hires of the flesh. There is no reason why you should be chosen." He plucked a string. "I think that the woman is more concerned for herself than for you."

  "Yes," she admitted. "I am concerned for myself. And so would you be, in my place. But you're wrong about Earl not being in danger. Among these people he is a wolf among sheep. A source of contamination. How long will it be before he gains a following? A man who could survive as he has done will never willingly submit to the Knell. He will fight and, if nothing else, set an example of resistance. If I can see it, then so must
Camolsaer."

  "True." Arbush thoughtfully plucked another string. "Earl is a most unusual man."

  "And because of that most likely to be chosen." said Adara. "Eloise is right in what she says. There is every-" He broke off, turning, his face suddenly haggard as a Monitor strode into the room. "What do you want?"

  The thing ignored him, coming to a halt before the little group; the head moving from side to side, a ruby glow behind the elongated planes of crystal which were its eyes. The paint on its metal mask was a parody of a human visage.

  "Man Dumarest, you will take this." It extended an arm, a slip of card held in the hand; an appendage larger than normal, made of overlapping plates, the ends of the fingers tipped with a grey plastic. "Man Adara. Man Arbush." Two other slips. "Woman Eloise."

  The fourth and last. As the Monitor left the room she looked at it; her laughter hard, brittle, taut with incipient hysteria.

  "Number nine. The last time it was number twenty-two. Adara?"

  "Thirteen."

  "I'm number seven," said Arbush. "How about you, Earl?"

  Dumarest looked at the slip. It held an abstract design over which was printed a bold figure one.

  "The prime!" Eloise. sucked in her breath. "I told you, Earl. You'll be the first to go!"

  Chapter Eleven

  For a long moment there was silence and then Arbush rose, crossed to the serving hatch and, placing his hand flat on the plate said, loudly, "Arbush. Wine to room 638. Four decanters."

  He carried them, two in each hand, back to where they sat; Dumarest thoughtful, the woman excited, Adara slumped in resigned despair.

  "Drink," he said. "It is an unusual occasion. Not every day does a man receive official notification of his impending demise." The wine made liquid gurglings as he poured. Handing each a glass, he raised his own. "A toast. To optimism!"

  Dumarest sipped at his wine, knowing that the toast was badly chosen. They needed more than optimism. He said, "How long?"

  "Until the Knelling?" Eloise bit at her lower lip, the bruised flesh a vivid scarlet against the pallor of her cheeks. "Three days. The first is a period of calm, the last a time of waiting. In between, those with high numbers do their best to remain safe; those with low try to alter the odds."