She surveyed each of the prisoners in turn.
Complain experienced a strange shiver as her eyes engaged his; and something tense in Fermour's attitude revealed that he, too, felt an attraction to her. That her direct gaze defied a strict Quarters's taboo only made it the more disturbing.
"So you're Gregg's followers," she said finally, but the three men were too distracted by her presence to hear her first words. Now that she had seen them, she was obviously inclined to look at them no more; she tilted her neat head up and studied a patch of wall. "It is good that we have caught some of you at last. You have caused us much unnecessary irritation. Now you will be handed over to the torturers; we have to extract information from you. Or do you wish to surrender it voluntarily?"
Her voice had been cold and detached, using the tone the proud employ to the criminal. Torture, it implied, was natural.
"My name is Inspector Vyann; I investigate all captives brought into Forwards, and those who are coy about talking go on the presses. You in particular deserve nothing better. We need to know how to get to the leader of your band himself."
Marapper spread his hands wide.
"You may take it from me we know nothing," he said. "We three are completely independent; our tribe lies many decks away. As I am a humble priest, I would not lie to you."
"Humble, are you?" she asked, thrusting the little chin out. "What were you doing so near Forwards? Do you not know our perimeters are dangerous?"
"We did not realize we were so near Forwards," said the priest. "The ponics were thick. We have come a long way."
"Where exactly have you come from?"
This was the first question of a series that Inspector Vyann thrust at them. The direction of her interrogation soon made it obvious that she began by believing them to be members of a marauding gang, and ended by doubting it. The gang, it became apparent, had been carrying out raids on Forwards from a nearby base at a time when other —as yet unspecified— problems pressed.
Vyann's natural disappointment at finding the trio less exciting than hoped for chilled her manner still further. The thicker grew the ice, the more voluble grew Marapper. His violent imagination, easily stimulated, pictured for him the ease with which this impervious young woman might snap her fingers and launch him on his Long Journey. At last he stepped forward, placing one hand gently on her desk.
"What you have failed to realize," he said impressively, "is this: that we are no ordinary captives. When your skirmishers waylaid us, we were on our way to Forwards with important news."
"Is that so?" Her raised eyebrows were a triumph. "You were telling me a moment ago you were only a humble priest from an obscure village. These contradictions bore us."
"Knowledge!" Marapper said. "Why question where it comes from? I warn you seriously, I am valuable."
Vyann permitted herself a small, frosty smile.
"So your lives should be spared because you hold some vital information among you. Is that it, priest?"
"I said I had the knowledge," Marapper pointed out. "If you also deign to spare the breath of my poor, ignorant friends here, I should, of course, be everlastingly delighted."
"So?" For the first time, she sat down behind the desk, a hint of humor lurking around her mouth, softening it. She pointed to Complain.
"You," she said. "If you have no knowledge to pour into our ears, what can you offer?"
"I am a hunter," Complain said. "My friend Fermour here is a farmer. If we have no knowledge, we can serve you with our strength."
Vyann folded her quiet hands on the desk, not really bothering to look at him. "Your priest has the right idea, I think: intelligence could bribe us, muscle could not. There is plenty of muscle in Forwards already."
She turned her eyes to Fermour, saying, "And you, you've hardly had a word to say for yourself. What gift do you offer?"
Fermour looked steadily at her before dropping his gaze.
"My silence only covered my disturbed thoughts," he said gently. "In our small tribe we had no ladies who rivaled you in any way."
"That sort of thing is not acceptable as a bribe, either," Vyann said levelly. "Well, priest, I hope your information is interesting. Suppose you tell me what it is?"
It was a small moment of triumph for Marapper. He stuck his hands beneath his tattered cloak and shook his head firmly.
"I will keep it for someone in authority," he said. "I regret that I cannot trust you with it."
She seemed not to be offended. It was a measure, possibly, of her self-assurance that her hands never moved on the desk top.
"I will have my superior brought here at once," she said. One of the guards was sent out; he was away only a short while, returning with a brisk, middle-aged man.
The newcomer was impressive. Deep lines ran down his face, and this eroded appearance was increased by the inroads of gray into his still yellow hair. His eyes were wide-awake, his mouth autocratic. He relaxed his expression to smile at Vyann, and conferred quietly with her in one corner, thrusting occasional glances at Marapper as he listened to what she was saying.
"How about making a dash for it?" Fermour whispered to Complain in a choked voice.
"Don't be a fool," Complain whispered back. "We'd never get out of this room, much less past the barrier guards."
Fermour muttered something inaudible, looking almost as if he might attempt a break on his own. But at that moment the man conferring with Vyann stepped forward and spoke.
"We have certain tests we wish to carry out on the three of you," he said mildly. "You will shortly be called back here, priest. Meanwhile— guards, remove these prisoners to Cell Three, will you?"
The guards were prompt to obey. Despite protests from Fermour, he and Complain and Marapper were hustled out of the room and into another only a few yards down the corridor, where the door was shut on them. Marapper looked embarrassed, realizing that his recent attempt to extricate himself at their expense might have cost him a little goodwill; he began to try to retain his position by cheering them up.
"Well, well, my children," he said, extending his arms to them, "the Long Journey has always begun, as the scripture puts it. These people of Forwards are more civilized than we, and will certainly have a horrible fate awaiting us. Let me intone some last rite for you."
Complain turned away and sat down in a far corner of the room. Fermour did likewise. The priest followed them, squatting on his massive haunches and resting his arms on his knees.
"Keep away from me, priest!" Complain said. "Leave me in peace!"
"Have you no reverence?" the priest asked him. "Do you think the Teaching allows you peace in your last hours? You must be stirred into Consciousness for the final time. Why should you slump here, despairing? What is your wretched, sordid life to worry over? Where in your mind is anything so precious that it should not be carelessly extinguished? You are sick, Roy Complain, you need my ministrations."
The door opened and a hand followed it, beckoning to the priest. Marapper rose, smoothing his clothes self-consciously.
"I'll put in a word for you, children," he said, and stalked with dignity into the passage behind the guard. A minute later, he was facing the inspector and her superior again. The latter, perched on a corner of the desk, began to speak at once.
"Expansions to you. You are Henry Marapper, a priest, I believe? My name is Scoyt, Master Scoyt, and I am in charge of alien investigation. Anybody brought into Forwards comes before me and Inspector Vyann. If you are what you claim, you will not be harmed— but some strange things emerge from Deadways, and must be guarded against. I understand you came here especially to bring us some information?"
"I have come a long way, through many decks," Marapper said, "and do not appreciate my reception now that I am here."
Master Scoyt inclined his head.
"What is this information you have?" he asked.
"I can divulge it only to the captain."
"Captain? What captain? The captain of the gu
ard? There is no other captain."
This put Marapper in an awkward position, since he did not wish to use the word "ship" before the moment was ripe.
"Who is your superior?" he asked.
"Inspector Vyann and I answer only to the Council of Five," Scoyt said, with anger in his tone. "It is impossible for you to see the Council until we have assessed the importance of your information. Come, priest— other matters are on hand! Patience is an old-fashioned virtue I don't possess. What is this intelligence you set so much store by?"
Marapper hesitated. The moment was not ripe. Scoyt had risen almost as if to go, Vyann looked restless. All the same, he could hedge no more.
"This world," he began impressively, "all Forwards and Deadways to the far regions of Sternstairs is one body, the ship. And the ship is man-made, and moves in a medium called space. Of this I have proof." He paused to take in their expressions. Scoyt's was one of ambiguity. Marapper continued, explaining the ramifications of his theory with eloquence. He finished by saying, "If you will trust me, trust me and give me power, I will set this ship —for such you may be assured it is— at its destination, and we will all be free of it and its oppression forever."
He faltered to a stop. Their faces were full of harsh amusement. They looked at each other and laughed briefly, almost without humor. Marapper rubbed his jowls uneasily.
"You have no faith in me because I come from a small tribe," he muttered.
"No, priest," the girl said. She came and stood before him. "You see— in Forwards we have known of the ship and its journey through space for a long while."
Marapper's jaw dropped.
"Then —the captain of the ship— you have found him?" he managed to say.
"The captain does not exist. He must have made the Long Journey generations ago."
"Then —the Control Room— you have found that?"
"It does not exist either," the girl said. "We have a legend of it, no more."
"Oh?" said Marapper, suddenly wary and excited. "In our tribe even the legend of it had faded— presumably because we were further from its supposed position than you. But it must exist! You have looked for it?"
Again Scoyt and Vyann looked at each other; Scoyt nodded in answer to an unspoken question.
"Since you appear to have stumbled on part of the secret," Vyann told Marapper, "we may as well tell you the whole of it. Understand this is not general knowledge even among the people of Forwards— we keep it to ourselves in case it causes madness and unrest. As the proverb has it, the truth never set anyone free. The ship is a ship, as you rightly say. There is no captain. The ship is plunging on, unguided through space, nonstop. We can only presume it is lost. We presume it will travel forever, till all aboard have made the Long Journey. It cannot be stopped— for though we have searched all Forwards for the Control Room, it does not exist!"
She was silent, looking at Marapper with sympathy as he digested this unpalatable information; it was too horrendous to accept.
". . . some terrible wrong of our forefathers," he murmured, drawing his right index finger superstitiously across his throat. Then he pulled himself together. "But at least the Control Room exists," he said. "Look, I have proof!"
From under his dirty tunic, he drew the book of circuit diagrams and waved it at them.
Now he spread the small book on the inspector's desk; the little bubble of the Control Room was clearly indicated at the front of the ship. As the other two stared, he explained how he had come by the book.
"This book was made by the Giants," he said. "They undoubtedly owned the ship."
"We know that much," Scoyt said. "But this book is valuable. Now we have a definite location to check for the Control Room. Come on, Vyann, my dear, let's go and look at once."
She pulled open a deep drawer in her desk, picked out a dazer and belt, and strapped them around her waist. It was the first dazer Marapper had seen here: they were evidently in short supply. He recalled that the Greene tribe was so well armed only because old Bergass's father had stumbled on a supply of them in Deadways, many decks from Forwards.
They were about to leave when the door opened and a tall man entered. He was dressed in a good robe and his hair was worn long and neat. As if respect were due to him, Scoyt and Vyann drew themselves up deferentially.
"Word has come to me that you have prisoners, Master Scoyt," the newcomer said slowly. "Have we caught some of the outlaws at last?"
"I fear not, Councillor Deight," Scoyt said. "They are only three wanderers from Deadways. This is one of them."
The councillor looked hard at Marapper, who looked away.
"The other two?" the councillor prompted.
'They are in Cell Three, Councillor," Scoyt said. "We shall question them later. Inspector Vyann and I are testing this prisoner now."
For a moment, the councillor seemed to hesitate. Then he nodded and quietly withdrew. The priest, impressed, stared after him— and it was rarely the priest was impressed.
"That," Scoyt said for Marapper's benefit, "was Councillor Zac Deight, one of our Council of Five. Watch your manners in front of any of them, and particularly in front of Deight."
Vyann pocketed the priest's circuit book. They left the room in time to see the old councillor disappear around the curve of the corridor. Then began a long march toward the extremity of Forwards, where the diagram indicated the controls to be; it would have taken them several sleep-wakes to make the distance had it been uncharted and overgrown with ponics.
Marapper, engrossed though he was with future plans —for the discovery of the ship's controls would undoubtedly put him in a strong position— kept an interested eye on his surroundings. He soon realized that Forwards was far from being the wonderful place that Deadways' rumor painted, or that he had supposed at first sight. They passed many people, of whom a good proportion were children. Everyone wore less than in Quarters; the few clothes they had looked washed and neat, and the general standard of cleanliness was good, but bodies were lean, running to bone. Food was obviously short. Marapper surmised shrewdly that being less in contact with the tangles, Forwards could count on fewer hunters than Quarters, and those perhaps of inferior quality. He found also, as they progressed, that though all Forwards, from the barriers at Deck 24 to the dead end at Deck 1, was under Forwards' sway, only Decks 22 to 11 were occupied, and they but partially.
As they passed beyond Deck 11, the priest saw part of the explanation for this. For three entire decks, the lighting circuits had failed. Master Scoyt switched on a light at his belt, and the three proceeded in semidarkness. If darkness had been oppressive in Deadways, it was doubly so here, where footsteps rang hollow and nothing stirred. When they circled into Deck 7, and light shone falteringly again, the prospect was no more cheerful. The echo still followed them and devastation lay on all sides.
"Look!" Scoyt exclaimed, pointing to where a section of wall had been cut entirely away and curled back against the bulkheads. "There were once weapons on the ship which could do that! I wish we had something that would cut through a wall. We would soon find our way into space then."
"If only windows had been built somewhere, the original purpose of the ship might not have been forgotten," Vyann said.
"According to the plan," Marapper remarked, "there are large enough windows in the Control Room."
They fell silent. The surroundings were dreary enough to annihilate all conversation. Most doors stood open; the rooms they revealed became increasingly full of machines, silent, broken, smothered under the dust of generations.
"Many strange things of which we have no knowledge happen in this ship," Scoyt said gloomily. "Ghosts are among us, working against us."
"Ghosts?" Marapper asked. "You believe in them, Master Scoyt?"
"What Roger means," Vyann said, "is that we are confronted with two problems here. There is the problem of the ship, where it is going, how it is to be stopped; that is the background problem, always with us. The other problem grows;
it did not face our great-grandfathers: there is a strange race on this ship that was not here before."
The priest stared at her. She was glancing carefully into each doorway as they went by; Scoyt was being as cautious. He felt the hair on his neck bristle uncomfortably,
"You mean— the Outsiders?" he asked.
She nodded. "A supernatural race masquerading as men . . . ," she said. "You know, better than we, that three quarters of the ship is jungle. In the hot muck of the tangles, somewhere, somehow, a new race has been born, masquerading as men. They are not men; they are enemies; they come in from their secret places to spy on us and kill us."
"We have to be always on the lookout," Scoyt said.
From then on, Marapper also looked in every doorway.
Now the layout changed. The three concentric corridors on each deck became two, their curvature sharpened. Deck 2 consisted of one corridor only with one ring of rooms around it, and in the middle the great hatch at the beginning of Main Corridor, sealed forever. Scoyt tapped it lightly.
"If this corridor, the only straight one in the ship, were opened up," he said, "we could walk to Stemstairs at the other end of the ship in less than a wake!"
A closed spiral staircase was now the sole way forward. Heart beating heavily, Marapper led them up it; the Control Room should be at the top if his diagram spoke truth.
At the top, a dim light showed them a small circular room, completely unfurnished, floor bare, walls also bare. Nothing else. Marapper flung himself at the walls, searching for a door. Nothing. He burst into furious tears.
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