He hugged her to him. “I don’t feel brave when I think about not seeing you again.”
“We’ve got to be. Let me go before I start crying.” Talyra freed herself and resolutely picked up her bundle. “I know you don’t want me to talk about the Mother Star,” she told him, “but I’ll say this anyway: may its spirit guard you. I’ve got to be myself, too, you see, and I couldn’t let a person I love go off without a proper farewell. It’s not so foolish as you think! Someday—well, maybe you’ll find it’s been with you all along.”
Noren stood watching, his own eyes wet, until she vanished around a bend in the road, wondering in confusion how anything that meant so much to Talyra could be wholly false.
Chapter Five
Noren did not retreat into the wilderness that day; the thicket proved hiding place enough, though in order to watch the road he couldn’t avoid exposing himself to view. Occasional farmers passed by and one or two of them looked at him curiously, but showed no signs of suspecting him to be anything but an ordinary Technician. There was no reason why a Technician should not sit quietly in the shade if he wished to, although it wasn’t usual. The weather being suffocatingly hot, he was probably envied. Those farmers would be surprised, Noren thought ruefully, if they knew he was obliged to rest not by the heat, but by hunger.
It was his second day without food, and he was feeling the effects. He had not told Talyra, for there was nothing she could have done and it would only have worried her; but he knew that if he was to walk to the schoolhouse that night, he must reserve his strength. That was why, after much inner debate, he decided to risk waiting out the day where he was. If either villagers or Technicians had launched a full-scale search, he would have had no chance to elude them, but they apparently were convinced by Talyra’s story to hunt elsewhere—either that, or they simply assumed that he would not stay in the area most likely to be combed.
That set him to thinking. He had made no plans as to what he would do once he got rid of the uniform, other than to leave the village far behind. It mattered little where he headed, for the problems of finding work and of avoiding recapture would be the same everywhere. In other localities he would not be recognized; however, since Technicians could talk not only with each other but with all villages by means of Radiophone Machines, they’d undoubtedly alert people to be on the lookout for a stranger of his description. It would be wisest to stick to farms, staying at each only long enough to earn a meal. Yet he could not travel the roads by day lest he be spotted from an aircar. He’d have to walk at night, or else go cross-country, which would be perilous at best. In his heart Noren knew that he could not move from farm to farm indefinitely. Sooner or later he would be caught.
He looked out through the clustered web of bushes toward the mountains. There? Beyond the Tomorrow Mountains, the Prophecy said . . . what did lie beyond? There was little point in wondering. In order to reach the mountains, he would have to go through an endless stretch of total wilderness, and while he’d learned that the water was drinkable, there would be no food. To be sure, the savages lived there, and they must eat something; but he had no way of guessing what it was. The High Law’s prohibition against tasting any plant that grew in unquickened ground was not as absurd as the injunction against “impure” water, for most such plants were indeed poisonous. And a tale he’d once heard about savages eating creatures of the streams was too fantastic to be credited; Noren’s stomach, empty though it was, turned over at the mere thought. The Tomorrow Mountains were tempting, but unattainable.
Moreover, his real aim was not to run but to talk with people, people who might question the Scholars’ supremacy if not openly oppose it. There’d be few opportunities for that if he spent his life in hiding. And might he not last as long—perhaps longer—by using bolder tactics? The Scholars would expect him to hide. They had immeasurable power and would eventually be able to locate him, but their search would be systematic; they would begin where it was most logical for him to go. The last place they would look would be at the walls of the City itself!
Excitement rose in Noren. They’d tried to take him to the City and would therefore expect him to get as far away as possible. Yet the markets outside the walls were the one place where a stranger would be inconspicuous. The markets were unlike a village. There’d be different kinds of people there: not only traders, not only those anxious to attend the religious ceremonies, but men adventurous enough simply to want to see the fabled towers for themselves. Then too, there would perhaps be many Technicians, some of whom might listen to his ideas. His heart raced, and for the first time since his arrest he felt a surge of elation. Despite himself, he still felt drawn to the City. That was where knowledge was. If he hadn’t many days of freedom left, he would take advantage of them! He would follow his original plan and go to the City not as a prisoner, but in his own time, of his own will.
An hour before noon the regular rain started, and to his amazement, Noren found that the smooth fabric of the Technician’s uniform in some strange way repelled the drops. He did not get wet at all. Often enough he’d been soaked to the skin and had not minded, for the scorching sun of afternoon dried clothes quickly; but it was galling to think that more comfortable ones existed. He would discard them with regret.
Fingering the lantern, he realized that he would discard that with regret, also. It was made mostly of the bonelike material and of glass, but inside the glass globe were metal parts. Metal was sacred; he, a heretic, was certainly the last person who’d be thought worthy to be in possession of any; yet he felt no more guilt than when he had drunk from the stream. He knew he’d committed no sin. All the High Priests in the world couldn’t shake that conviction, no matter what Talyra thought.
Still . . . something was missing. There were pieces that didn’t quite fit. The Technician’s words came back to Noren: It’s not enough just to learn what there isn’t; we need to know what there is. . . .
Holding out cupped hands, Noren let the rain fill them, thinking again how unreasonable it was to suppose that an event as natural and as predictable as sunrise could be controlled by the Scholars. Four days with rain, two without, week after week forever—one might as well believe they determined the hour of dawn! Rain, he mused, was obviously the source of pond and stream water, and could logically have been pronounced impure, as that was. Yet the Scholars could hardly have required people to transport enough City-purified water from village centers to keep the cisterns full, much less to carry cistern water into the grainfields. So they’d conveniently neglected to decree that rainwater was forbidden, and to explain the discrepancy had declared that they themselves made it rain. Why, he wondered, were people so gullible?
The clouds dispersed on schedule; the pungent smell of drying moss hung in the hot, thick air; the sparkling beads of moisture disappeared from the gray-green webbing that joined the stems of nearby shrubs. Slowly the afternoon dragged to its end. Noren watched the moons come up, noticing with illogical surprise that their crescents were not much fuller than on the night of the dance. That had been only three nights ago, yet it seemed a long way back.
When it was dark, he started for the village, pausing by the first bridge he crossed to assuage his thirst at a forbidden stream. His body was stiff and sore from the beating and he was also weak from hunger, but he knew he must inure himself to that; it probably wouldn’t be the last time he would have to go several days without food. The light of his Power-lit lantern, reflected in the dark water, dazzled him as he bent down to drink. He still found it incredible to be carrying such an object; it was the first Machine he’d been permitted to handle since the memorable day on which he had touched the aircar that had landed at his father’s farm.
He dared not walk through the village before the taverns closed, so he waited on the outskirts until a lamp burned in only one building, the radiophonist’s office. That was always open in case there should be need to summon the Technicians in some emergency, although ordinary messages to a
nd from the City were transmitted only by day. Noren strode swiftly past, but to his dismay the radiophonist himself, having caught sight of the brilliant lantern, appeared in the doorway. “Sir!” the man exclaimed. “Sir, may I beg your assistance?”
Noren froze. He was not qualified to perform any task for which a Technician’s help would be asked, and what was more, if he showed his face he might well be recognized, if only by his bruises. Yet neither could he ignore the request, for that too would arouse suspicion.
“My greetings,” he said evenly. “How may I be of service to you?”
“I am pleased by your concern, sir,” said the man, stepping into the street. “The Radiophone Machine has stopped working. I planned to send someone to Prosperity tomorrow to report it by way of their Machine, but if you would grant me a few moments, that would not be necessary.”
In panic, Noren tried to think of some legitimate excuse, but he could not. To refuse would not be appropriate behavior for a Technician; if he did so the radiophonist, who had undoubtedly seen him at one time or another, might look past the uniform to his face. Yet how could he repair a Machine of which he knew nothing?
“I will examine it,” he declared resolutely, and with a sense of helpless despair entered the dimly-lighted room. There were two other men there, friends of the radiophonist on duty; any misstep could mean that an outcry would be raised. And the fact that no real Technicians could be called made it all the more certain that he, having had the unprecedented effrontery to pose as one, would be dealt with by the mob.
The Radiophone Machine rested on a small stone table in one corner. Noren had never seen it before, but he knew what it did: in some wondrous manner it transmitted the voices of faraway Technicians to whoever stood close to its grille, and vice versa. No one was permitted to touch it but the radiophonists; they alone among villagers were entrusted with the sacred task of Machine operation. A position of such prestige could be obtained only by those consecrated to it through appointment to the training center.
But though radiophonists were trained in the operation of the Radiophone Machine and in the rules governing the occasions upon which it could and could not be used, they were told nothing of its inner workings. Knowledge of that sort was, according to common belief, beyond the scope of the ordinary human mind and could be absorbed only by Scholars and Technicians. Noren did not agree, especially since he’d learned that not all Technicians had such knowledge; still he couldn’t deny that he himself possessed none of it. He did not know anything about Machines except that they worked by Power, and that if Power was absent, they could no longer function.
He surveyed the Radiophone Machine thoughtfully. He must do something, he knew, and the maintenance of his disguise depended on doing it with apparent confidence. “Perhaps,” he asserted boldly, “its Power Cell is dead.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the radiophonist. “I think, sir, that it’s past due to be checked.”
Encouraged, Noren recalled that the young Technician had remarked that his usual job was the checking of radiophone equipment. Very likely he would have checked this Machine had he not been taken away in the aircar. In his belt he had carried Power Cells, one of which he had inserted into the lantern, thereby causing the light to burn more brightly; could it be that the same one would make the Machine work again? It was a gamble, but if it failed he’d be no worse off than if he hesitated.
“I do not have any new Power Cells with me,” he said, “but the one in my lantern may serve. I shall see.” He switched off the light and carefully opened the panel in its bottom as he had seen the Technician do, withdrawing the small red cube that contained the mysterious Power. That part was easy. The problem would be to open the Radiophone Machine.
It was not reasonable, Noren decided, that a panel would be placed in its bottom; this did not look like a thing that should be turned upside down. The opening must be in the back. He grasped the Machine with trembling hands and started to turn it around, whereupon it gave forth loud crackling and hissing sounds. It took all his courage not to let go, but since the radiophonist and his friends did not draw back in terror, he concluded that these sounds must be normal.
The Machine’s back did indeed have a panel, but it was evident that it could not be unlatched in the same manner as the one in the lantern. Noren cursed under his breath. If the radiophonist had watched the process of replacing Power Cells before, as he undoubtedly had, he must know perfectly well how to remove the back; yet he would not presume to advise a Technician and would be dumbfounded if his opinion were to be sought. On the other hand, he would be horrified by the sacrilege if the Machine was clumsily handled. Noticing in desperation that its sides curled over the panel whereas its top did not, Noren pressed upward and found that the entire back slid out easily. His relief faded quickly, however, when inside, amid a maze of appallingly complex devices, he saw not one Power Cell, but four.
He scowled, debating as to his next move. If there were four, then obviously four were needed; yet they appeared to be exactly alike. Would all four have died at the same time? Probably not, for if they had, that would mean their death was predictable, and “checking” would be unnecessary. He should therefore need to replace only one; but which? Was it possible to tell by looking? The Power Cell the Technician had removed from the lantern hadn’t looked any different from its replacement, so perhaps it was usual to proceed by trial and error. Noren scrutinized the cube in his hand. One surface, he saw, was unlike the others in that it had a metal button in its center; he must take care to position it exactly as the Machine’s old cubes were positioned.
One by one, Noren removed the Power Cells, putting his own in each successive place while the men watched reverently. Each time he held his breath; if it did not work anywhere, his ignorance would surely be exposed. But on the third try it did work. “There, sir!” exclaimed someone. “That’s done it.” Leaning over, Noren saw that a red light had appeared on the front of the Machine and was deeply grateful for the comment; he would not have known how to tell whether he’d succeeded.
“Thank you, sir,” said the radiophonist. “It’s fortunate that you passed by tonight.”
“It is indeed,” Noren replied, as he replaced the Machine’s back panel.
“Will you not take the dead Power Cell away?” the man inquired anxiously, indicating the discarded red cube. “It cannot, of course, be left unprotected, and it would be irreverent for me to lay hands upon it.”
“Certainly I shall,” said Noren, suppressing a laugh, and thrust the thing casually into his pocket. “Goodnight, citizen.”
He walked down the moonlit street, his now-useless lantern swinging from his hand, exhilarated by his triumph. There was nothing so awesome about Power! Surely anyone intelligent enough to be appointed a radiophonist ought to be able to replace Power Cells without the aid of a Technician . . . or was intelligence necessarily the basis upon which radiophonists were chosen?
Of course it wasn’t, Noren perceived suddenly. A radiophonist’s job, he saw, was not at all difficult. It demanded not skill, but willingness to follow instructions without overstepping certain prescribed bounds. Those who did the job were admired because they operated Machines, which most citizens viewed with awe and veneration; but far from being superior to others, the radiophonists were equally awed by the Power Cells. And that, no doubt, was the way the Scholars wanted them to be.
No wonder he hadn’t been offered an appointment to the training center! No wonder the craftsworkers and traders he knew, most of whom were much shrewder than that radiophonist, had not been appointed either! The few people who disappeared from the place must be the ones who’d shown more initiative than the Scholars had anticipated. They must be the ones who had begun to learn too much.
He had no need to worry about Talyra’s safety there, he realized with relief. Talyra was intelligent, but she would not ask for information beyond what she was given; furthermore, though a nurse-midwife’s work was more demandin
g than a radiophonist’s, it in no way infringed upon the Technicians’ sole right to the Power and the Machines.
At the schoolhouse all was quiet. Noren made his way cautiously around the building, glad that the moons were up and yet fearful of being observed. The spot where he and Talyra had liked to sit was at the far edge of the schoolyard, half-hidden by a clump of shrubby growth. In the hollow there he found a neat pile of things: trousers, a tunic, and between the two garments, a carrying-jug of pure water plus a knotted kerchief. The latter was heavy; as he untied it, he saw the white gleam of coins—far more coins than could have been acquired in any way but by the sale of the treasured wristband. She had given him all she had. He paused a short while, staring at the flattened moss where they had spent happy moments together, and then firmly closed the door on a part of himself that could never be regained.
* * *
Smoke rose from the chimney of a sturdily-built farmhouse and warm lamplight shone out through the dusk. The work-beast in the fodder patch raised its head as Noren approached, giving a warning bellow; he paid no attention. He could not go on without eating, and the only way to get a meal was to ask for it. Stumbling across the dusty yard, he called at the door in as firm a tone as he could muster.
The night before, after changing into the clothes Talyra had obtained for him and ditching the Technician’s things in the depths of a pond, he had gone on until dawn, forcing himself despite his hunger to cover as much distance as he could. He’d passed straight through Prosperity, afraid that if he waited there to buy food, someone would remember him from his recent trip in pursuit of the trader. When morning came, he’d ventured to get breakfast at the first farm he had reached; but though he’d offered to pay, the farmer’s wife had been surly and had given him only a stale chunk of bread. Noren had taken it to a depleted clay pit nearby, where he’d gulped it down ravenously and then, too exhausted to try another place, had slept through the day’s heat, sheltered by sedges that grew out of coarse purple moss. Now it was evening again, and if he could not get supper, he would be unable to walk much farther. He had no choice but to make the attempt, dangerous though it might prove.
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