by E. C. Tubb
"And those who are chosen to fill the tribute quota? What happens to them? Wouldn't they be happier left alone?"
"Their happiness would be that of cattle in a field of succulent corn. Here they are educated. They are taught skills and put to useful work. Their lives are better than they had reason to suspect."
She didn't know, he decided. She was repeating what she had been told, but at least she did know of the tribute. That, apparently, put her in a minority.
"And now," she said, refilling both their cups, "tell me why you wanted to see me." She looked sharply at him as he obeyed. "Are you serious?"
Dumarest met her eyes. "Yes, my lady. Very serious. Can you help me?"
"I don't know." Her eyes were thoughtful. "It was so long ago and there were so many books."
"But you can remember?"
"I can never forget," she said with a trace of bitterness. "My ability is not wholly an advantage. Childhood is not a pleasant time and there is much I would prefer not to remember. But Earth?" She paused, thinking, the steam from her cup rising to wreathe her face with vapor. "Earth," she said again and added, "There is a rhyme I once read in an old book. It was incredibly ancient and I didn't understand it at the time. It was simply something I read to assauge loneliness but, somehow, I think it may have a bearing on what you ask."
Dumarest looked down at his hands. They were tight about his cup. Carefully he set it down. "And the rhyme, my lady?"
"A silly thing." She began to recite in a thin, little girl voice. "The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, and next the Crab the Lion shines the Virgin and the Scales. The Scorpion, Archer and Sea Goat, the Man that holds the Watering Pot, the Fish with shining scales." She blinked and said in her normal voice. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"No, my lady."
"And yet it must have a meaning." Her eyes grew blank, withdrawn and he realized that she was again reading the ancient volume, recalling each word from the chambers of her perfect memory. "The signs of the zodiac!" she said triumphantly. "A mnemonic to put them in correct order."
"The zodiac?"
"Twelve symbols each representing a portion of a band of the sky in a complete circle. Twelve configurations of stars each representing one of the signs. If you can find a planet surrounded by those signs then that world could be the one you seek."
"Earth?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "It could be if such a planet exists but I simply don't know."
Dumarest hid his disappointment. "Thank you, my lady. There were no old charts or navigational tables?"
"None." Her voice softened as she read his eyes. "I'm sorry I haven't been of much help, but it's the best I can do."
He sat thinking. She had been of little help but the journey had not been wholly wasted. The stars would provide the answer, the constellations he had seen as a boy. Hypnosis would bring them to the surface and stellar charts would provide verification. He could hire the use of a planetarium and a computer together with the services of a skilled astronomer. It would only be a matter of time.
And he was positive that Earth must be very close. Certainly in this sector of the galaxy-so much, at least, he had learned.
She caught his arm as he rose to go.
"A moment, you can't leave like this. I must make you some more tisane, a special blend with a unique flavor which I am sure you will enjoy. And you must tell me about Loame. Grower Lemain, how is he?"
"Well, my lady."
"And his son?"
He answered as she made the drink, wondering at her sudden interest, discovering the reason as he sipped the beverage and realized too late that it was drugged.
* * *
A man stood outside the apartment, stocky, in civilian clothes but with the unmistakable stance of the military. He doubled as Dumarest hit him in the stomach, falling, retching, slumping unconscious as he hit him again. As he raced toward the elevators Dumarest tore open the envelope the chemist had given him, spilling the tablets into his hand, thrusting them into his mouth, swallowing the dry fragments. They were a stimulant and might combat the sedative the woman had put in the tisane.
One of the cages was rising. He pressed the button of the other which was descending from two floors above. It arrived and he jumped inside, slamming the doors and hitting the first floor button. A woman, over-dressed and no longer young, glared at him from where she stood at the back of the elevator.
"What are you doing, young man? I wanted the tenth floor."
The beauty shop, the restaurant, the dressmakers, perhaps. It didn't matter. She would have to wait.
"Did you hear me?" Her voice was sharp, acrimonious. "Who are you? A resident? I shall complain to the manager!"
He ignored her, watching the floors as they rose past. The man outside the apartment had been waiting and there would be others below. The drug? Elaine had wanted to render him harmless, but why? To capture him obviously, but he couldn't guess at her motives. To her he was a stranger and she had had no reason to suspect him. And how had she summoned the man in the passage? She had made no call while he was in the apartment.
The elevator halted and he left the cage. A door gave on to a flight of stairs but he passed them, they were wide and carpeted and would be watched. Somewhere there had to be another flight, service stairs for the use of maintenance workers and cleaners. A place like this would want to keep such people out of sight of the residents.
He staggered a little, fighting a sudden nausea, a beelike buzzing in his ears. Sweat dewed his face and body as his metabolism struggled against the diverse effects of the drugs. He reached a corner and ducked around it as someone called out from behind. A door yielded and he stared into a closet filled with cleaning material. Another held a row of meters. The third opened on a flight of narrow stairs.
He ran down them, almost falling, knuckles white as he gripped the rail. He passed the ground floor and descended lower guessing that there had to be an exit from the basement. A door at the foot of the stairs opened into a large area filled with machine sounds, the soft whir of ventilating fans, a quiet hiss of steam from a leaking valve, the regular pound of a pumping mechanism. A man gaped at him, cringing as Dumarest caught his arm.
"The way out. Where is it?"
"Uh?" The man didn't seem to understand.
"The exit, damn you!" Dumarest dug his fingers deeper into the moist flesh. "The way out!"
He followed the pointing arm, running past a humming generator, the pits of elevator shafts, a bank of glowing instruments. He had descended too far. A short flight of stairs took him to a higher level, a maze of pipes and conduits and twisting passages. He fell and rose, shaking his head to clear the dimming mist from his eyes. From ahead came a blur of voices and a busy clatter.
It came from a wide area filled with benches, ovens and cooking smells. The main kitchen supplying the restaurant and individual rooms. A man cutting meat stared at him, blood on his soiled apron, a shining knife in his hand. From one side a voice called an urgent command.
"Hold that man! Hold him!"
The butcher grinned and came forward, the light shining from the blade gripped in his big fist. He was a burly man with muscles toughened by years of hefting carcasses.
"Just stay where you are," he said. "Move and I'll split you open."
Dumarest ran forward. As the blade lifted he kicked, his foot smashing against the man's kneecap, his raised right arm blocking the downward swing of the knife. As the man staggered he struck again, the edge of his left hand slamming against the side of the thick neck. A row of garbage cans stood to one side and he headed toward them, thrusting through the swing doors beyond, feeling cold air blowing from a ramp leading upward.
Five seconds later he had reached the street.
He fell again, slipping on frozen slush, rolling at the feet of startled pedestrians. A man caught his arm, helped him to rise, stared his concern.
"You all right, mister?"
"Yes."
"Yo
u sure?" The man was anxious. "You look bad to me. Are you ill?"
A cab pulled up across the road, a young woman alighting, her face white against the dark fur of her robe. Dumarest pulled free his arm and ran toward it His head swam and the pound of his heart was a hammer beating at his chest. Darkness edged his vision and confused his sense of judgment.
He heard someone cry out, saw a looming shape rushing toward him, tried to spring clear and felt his foot slip on a patch of snow.
The shock of the impact was swallowed in darkness.
Chapter Eight
ALL CHANNELS were alike; organic chemistry, quantum mechanics, binomial theory, applied physics, atomic engineering, astronomy, algebra, basic mathematics, each a nonstop stream of educational matter force-fed into every home. Irritably Mada switched off the television. Had it always been like that, she wondered, and remembered that it had. The scientific approach. If a thing had no educational value then it went into the discard. Dancing was for the study of controlled movement and for physical development. Singing for the exercise of the vocal chords and the illustration of varying harmonics. Stories were lectures, painting an exercise in manual control, verse a mathematical problem.
But why should it bother her now?
Restlessly she wandered about her chamber, touching various items, her hands lingering on soft fabrics and supple leathers. Tactile pleasure, for so long unappreciated and now holding a special charm. How much had they all missed in the past? Was intellectual attainment really the sum total of existence? It wasn't she knew, remembering the lovers on the train, her own past affairs, but there had to be more than bodily satisfaction.
A mistake, she thought, sitting and leaning back in the chair. One built into the system at the very beginning of the colonization. The apparently bright but secretly tarnished concept that education would solve all ills. But it didn't work like that. A man gained degrees or he went to the bottom of the heap. Yet the levels were relative and the end product inevitably one of growing dissatisfaction. A laborer had been taught to recognize the menial nature of his work. A man with a valued degree could be qualified only to clean out sewers.
And so the imported labor from Loame. Let them do the filthy jobs, the dirty but essential tasks, lifting by their presence the egos of those above. Yet it was an uneasy solution, for it would lead directly to a slave culture with all that implied. Better to dispose of them all even though that was wasteful and emotionally unscientific. They were a smoldering bomb which would one day explode.
Subconsciously her hands roved over her body, feeling the firm contours beneath the clinging gown. The touch wakened memories and aroused again the biological reaction she had felt on the train. The reaction brought him vividly to mind.
Impatience drove her to the phone, sent her fingers punching a familiar number. On the screen a face, hygienically clean, looked at her.
"Madam?"
"Please report on the progress of patient nine eighteen."
The face dipped, rose as the woman completed her scanning of a file. "Progress is steady, madam. The injuries were intense and grafts had to be made. The spleen, a kidney and a section of intestine. There were also broken ribs and a punctured lung."
"How long before he is well?"
"The patient is in deep sleep and his progress is satisfactory. He-"
"How long?"
"Another few days, madam."
"Very well. Send him to me when he has fully recovered."
There was no point in being impatient, she thought, breaking the connection. Even the magic of slow-time which increased the speed of the metabolism so that an hour's healing could be compressed into little more than a minute took time.
The impatience of youth, she thought, and smiled. The impetuousness, too. It had been simple to order a guard to keep a discreet watch on the stranger, changing him for less conspicuous men when the chance arose. They had followed him: to the chemists, the library and then to the apartment of the woman. Almost they had lost him, but the accident had put him firmly in her power. A private nursing home and he was safe until she should need him.
As a lover?
She faced the question squarely, responding even to the concept, the reaction of her body telling her that it was the basic reason for her actions. He had appealed to her and she wanted him. The fact that he was something of a mystery enhanced his attraction. A whim, she thought. A romantic interlude. But why shouldn't she indulge herself?
She turned as the door chimed. Dek Brekla stood outside. He entered, smiling, glancing at the subdued illumination.
"Sitting in the dark, Mada? But then you have a fondness for shadows, don't you." Lifting one hand he touched her gently on the cheek. "I wonder why?"
"What do you want?"
"To talk." Deliberately he selected a chair, sat, folding his legs and resting his hands on the dark fabric of his thigh. "Did you know that Krell has retired from the council? He considers that his health would be better if he remained away from the capital. Naturally he retains his status and full pension. It simply means that he will no longer have a vote." He paused and then said gently, "I wonder if you also have considered the benefits of retirement?"
"No."
"Perhaps you should," he urged.
She controlled her mounting anger. "I see no reason to do so. Is that all you came to talk about? If so, I suggest you leave. It is not a subject which interests me."
"To be efficient the council must be a viable entity. Surely you can see that? If we are to become static then it will be good-bye to all progress. Tell me, how would you have felt when young if you had known that there would never be an opportunity for you to achieve your ambition?"
She met his eyes. "I wouldn't have liked it."
"Exactly."
"Are you suggesting that each council member retires on reaching a certain term of office?"
"I think it a fair suggestion," he said. "We are entering a period of potential unrest and should have younger minds to deal with the problems which will arise. You are a clever woman, Mada. I think you can see which path is best for you to follow."
To how many had he carried the suggestion? Krell gone and how many more to follow? Frightened by a shadow, terrified by the hint of a suggestion. But the council ruled and Vargas was only one man. If the Technarch sought dictatorial power then she wasn't going to help him get it. Even so it would be wise to be discreet.
"I'll think about it," she said. "There is truth in what you say; the young should be given their chance. But what of those who retire? Will they continue to-"
"As before," he said quickly. "I assure you, my dear, that you won't lose a thing. Just the right to vote. Everything else will be as before." He rose, teeth bright in a smile. "I'm glad we had this talk. I like you, Mada, and I would hate to see you hurt. Be wise. You won't regret it."
"As long as you promise that nothing will change? Aside from the vote, I mean?"
"You have my word on it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I must hurry. There is a council meeting due. Are you joining us?"
"No. I want to think."
"Good for you, Mada." Again he touched her cheek. "Nice," he said. "Very nice."
A dog, she thought as he left. A slavering hound running at the heels of his master and hoping for a share of the feast. More. Doing Vargas's work for him; seeing the members of the council, whispering, setting one against the other. How long before he would turn assassin?
* * *
Yendhal said, "I am sorry, sire, but I am doing the best I can. The tests are stringent but essential if I am to offer more than an eighty percent chance of success."
One chance in five-it wasn't enough. Others had taken it, those more desperate than himself, but the odds were too low. Vargas scowled as he stared at the screen and the miniature figure depicted on it. Even via the electronic transmission he could sense the man's fear.
"Five and a quarter minutes," said the physician. "He has been lucky but it cannot
last."
"Why not?" Vargas turned from the screen. "Isn't luck an essential factor for survival? It could be that you are looking for the wrong attributes. Why can't you test them for luck?"
"If they are lucky they wouldn't be here," said Yendhal flatly. "That is the first thing to consider if we are to seek their relative potential in that area, As for the rest, how do we test them? On the spin of a coin? On their ability to select certain favorable combinations? And, if they test high, wouldn't the sequel invalidate the findings?"
"Doesn't the same objection apply to the labyrinth?"
"No. They do not know what the final outcome will be if they survive. If they did it would affect their performance." Yendhal glanced at the screen. "Six minutes."
Vargas was ironic. "Still lucky?"
"Luck has an important part to play in survival," admitted the physician. "But it is too intangible a factor for us to be able to isolate. If a man lives he is lucky because he has lived. But it takes more than luck to pass through the tests I have devised." He grunted as a red light flashed from the screen. "Six and a quarter minutes. Failure."
Another one, thought Vargas. And one of how many? Would the result always be the same? Had Yendhal made certain that it would be so?
"Perhaps the test is too severe," he said. "Would lessening the dangers show an advantage?"
"It would increase the chance of survival, true, but it would invalidate what we are trying to determine."
Vargas was insistent. "A series of tests then, each harder than the ones before."
"That would prove nothing except the ability of the subject to learn from experience."
"And that is not survival?"
