by Unknown
* * * * *
It was with a feeling of deep depression that Mich'l Ares went to work the next morning. His despair was shared by the technies under him with whom he talked. At the telestereo station he found a bitter young man broadcasting a prepared commentary on the election ordered by Senator Mollon. It was congratulatory in nature, designed to confirm popular opinion that the nation had been saved from a great catastrophe and to glorify the principles of Mollon's party.
"... And so once more this great nation has demonstrated its ability to govern itself, to protect itself against dangerous and unsocial experiments. The voice of the people is the voice of God. The Government claims for itself no credit for this momentous decision. Each citizen has done his share toward the continuation of our safety, our prosperity...."
The young man finished the document, smiled a charming smile, and turned off the switch. Then he grimaced his disgust and lapsed into a glum meditation.
"What say, Kratz?" Mich'l asked.
"Trouble again on the west sector. Had trouble getting power enough. Generators ought to be overhauled." He made a helpless gesture.
"How about conscripting a little labor?"
"Tried it this morning. Most of the people are still in a daze from chewing too much merclite. Those that're sober are too busy preening themselves for voting on the winning side."
Kratz informed Mich'l that Mollon had that morning given up all pretense of constitutional government, had preempted the treasury, and was consolidating his position as avowed dictator.
"He probably wanted to do that a long time," Mich'l commented. "He didn't quite dare till that Referendum yesterday gave him the real measure of the public. Well, I've got to be going."
* * * * *
Mich'l took one of the small mechanical service tunnels back to his office. This latest news had hardly affected him, so keen was his disappointment over the defeat of the Exodus. But he wanted to be alone. He walked through vast halls full of machinery, abandoned and rusting, through dark corridors that had once roared with industrial life. What would happen when the present overloaded machinery should break down; wear out? The remnants of the great technical army could hardly serve what was left. Each passing year these silent, useless hulks became more numerous. The specter of famine was stalking amid the dusty pipes and empty vats of the chemical plants; the horrors of darkness lurked amid the tarnished compression spheres and the long, hooded monstrosities of the power plants, inadequately served by harassed and overworked technies.
In the middle of his office Mich'l found the telucid counterpart of Mila, sister of Nida Mane. She was younger than Nida, hardly more than sixteen. Her eyes were wide with terror as she sought Mich'l. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and her silken brown hair fell in careless disarray.
"Mich'l!" she cried, as soon as she saw him. "Lane Mollon has taken Nida!"
"Taken her!"
"And Father is under arrest. Lane came this morning, crazy with merclite gum. He had four or five soldiers with him. When Nida refused to see him they broke down the door and went to her room. They dragged her out to Lane's car, and he took her to his warren near the Presidential quarters."
"She there now?"
"Yes. Father followed Lane's car. Guards kept him out of Lane's warren, so he went to see Mollon. That devil only laughed at him, offered to call another Referendum. Father had a small pocket needle-ray and--"
"Good! He killed Mollon?"
"No. But he managed to burn a hole through his arm. He was rushed off to one of the cells. And Mollon says he will call a Referendum to decide Father's fate."
"It would be just like that devil's sense of humor to let the people decree their only friend's death."
* * * * *
"They'll do it, too!" Mila exclaimed tragically. "Oh, how I wish Mother were alive!"
"And each one will feel deep within him that he has done a great, commendable and original thing!" Mich'l added, with keen insight.
Mila sank to the floor.
"Go to your room," Mich'l said, gently stern. "Mollon and his gang have reckoned without the technies." A woman's image appeared, stooping commiseratingly over Mila--a friend of the family. Mich'l ordered her to care for Mila. Then, he took a deep breath. Gone was his feeling of helpless sorrow, leaving only an overwhelming, steadying, satisfying anger. He flung the telucid switch, barked cracking orders.
In half an hour every technical man of Subterranea was in a large storeroom near Mich'l's office. They were mostly young, keen and alert, their skins red or brown from the actinic lights, their hair showing more or less bleaching from the same cause. As Mich'l talked they became intent: they listened with a cold, deadly silence that would perhaps have made the smug millions of Subterranea quake with fear.
This affront put upon the only man in the Government who could speak their language, who could comprehend their ideals: the peril of the girl they all knew and loved: these things set their long-repressed resentment flaring to white heat. They were ready for desperate things. A turn of a valve and water would thunder through the maze of galleries; a mishap far, far down toward the earth's hot core, and steam would rush up--
* * * * *
But Mich'l steadied them. After all, Subterranea was their country. Anarchy was far from the technie ideals. He had a plan.
"Nothing is to be done until we have Senator Mane and Nida," Mich'l instructed them. "Remember that! Do nothing until you hear from me. Each of you go to your station. Set all adjustments so that they will not need attention for some weeks, at least. Those of you who have families, tell them to be ready to move to another residence. Say nothing about any trouble--understand?"
There were nods of assent.
"You will proceed to your posts and keep busy. When I come it'll be by telucid. I will say nothing. I will simply wave my hand. That means you are to take your wives, your families, your sweethearts, to Substation No. 37X."
There were audible gasps.
"Not 37X!" exclaimed one of the older men. "Why, that's twenty miles up, near the Frozen Gate!"
"Yes!" Mich'l smiled with tight lips. "You men willing?"
There was an instantaneous shout of approval. Curiously enough, seizure of the Gate by force had not occurred to any of this law-abiding, well-disciplined group. But Mollon's lawless seizure of the Government had removed all inhibitions of that sort. Seizure of the Gate would bring at one stroke the realization of the dream that the technies had tried for generations to win by political means. Surely, when the Gate was open, and they could see the glorious, half-mythical Sun for themselves, the people would consent to the Exodus!
For the technies, even in the bitterness of defeat, were not anti-social. They hoped and worked for the devitalized races of Subterranea, for the betterment of their condition, more than for their own. The technies were the fittest; they had demonstrated their ability to survive unchanged under adverse condition. They would be least helped by the Exodus. Yet they had worked for it all their lives, as had their fathers before them, out of unselfish love for humanity. There have always been such men. Through the murk of history we see their lives as small, steady lights, infrequent and lonely. With the opening of the Frozen Gate suddenly a possibility, the technies forgot their exasperation with the stupid mob.
* * * * *
"The Gate is guarded," said an elderly man dubiously.
"A small guard," Gobet Hanlon remarked quickly, "and probably dazed with merclite. Nothing to fear."
"Stay away from the Gate," Mich'l instructed. "Give no cause for alarm. If an emergency arises while I'm gone, see Gobet."
"Don't go alone, Mich'l," Gobet begged. "A few of us with ray-needles can storm the detention cells. We can clean out Lane's warren."
"We might, but the Senator and Nida would be gone. The alarm would be given. In a few minutes there'd be a mob."
The technies were already dispersing eagerly. Mich'l pressed his friend's hand, saying:
"I'll take my needle
-ray, and I know every way to get around there is. Alone, I'll attract no attention. Till later, Gobet!" And he was gone.
Mich'l's way was through the smaller, less frequented communication passages used principally by the technies. Occasionally he did meet citizens, still light-headed after their election victory celebration, and lost, but he paid them no heed. He came to the ventilation center of that level.
For ages no air had entered Subterranea from the outside. All of the air had to be regularly reconditioned, and so was returned, through a systematic network of air ducts, to a vast, central chemical plant. It was a latter-day Cave of the Winds, where the north, south, east and west winds of that buried empire regularly returned for a brief few minutes of play amid chemical sprays, condensers, humidifiers, oxydisers, to be again dispatched to their drudgery. This hall was truly colossal, filled to the shadowy ceilings, a thousand feet high, with gigantic pipes, tanks, wind-turbines.
* * * * *
The technie in charge had not yet returned, but Mich'l consulted the distribution plan, and soon located the duct that led to Lane Mollon's warren. In a few minutes he was running, helped along by a strong current of fresh air. The map had shown the warren to be about a mile away. For the benefit of the technies who had to work there, the duct was plainly marked; and the lighting, by infrequent emanation bulbs, was adequate, though dim.
Mich'l had made no plans for a course of action after arriving at his destination. He felt reasonably sure that if he could get into the warren he would have a good chance to escape with Nida. In the confusion he could hide her nearby, and perhaps effect the release of the senator also. He had no doubt about his fate if he were caught. Lane's pose of good sportsmanship having failed to impress Nida, he had adopted simple, brutal coercion. Mich'l's fate, if caught interfering, would be summary execution.
Mich'l found the grating which he sought. It bore the key number of Lane's establishment. The key which would unlock it was of course in the hands of the police; but the bars were badly corroded, and Mich'l managed to bend them enough to permit the passage of his body.
He found himself in a small chamber, from which ducts led to all parts of the warren. These ducts were too small to permit passage of his body, however; it would be necessary to come into the open. A small metal door promised egress. Mich'l climbed out, and faced a surprised cook in the kitchen, engaged in flavoring synthetic food drinks. Mich'l said explanatorily:
"Inspection, air service."
The cook did not know the regulations about keeping the air tunnels locked. Moreover, he, like all other servants of the mighty, worked unwillingly, being conscripted. He only grunted.
* * * * *
Mich'l made a pretense of testing the air currents. Presently he stepped into one of the communicating corridors. The warren was planned something like a house of the Surface Age, with luxuriously furnished rooms, baths, dining halls, and all the appurtenances of wealth. Arriving at a rotunda, in the center of which was a glowing fountain, Mich'l encountered a guard. Boldly he asked him:
"Where is Mr. Mollon? I wish to see him."
The guard looked surprised.
"About Nida Mane, sir? I would hardly dare."
Mich'l looked at the man sharply, but there was no hint of recognition in the stupid, phlegmatic face.
"What about Nida Mane? It is about her I wish to speak."
There was a slight stirring of interest in the soldier's face.
"He will be glad to see you, sir, if you bring news of her."
"Eh, yes? Perhaps what I have to tell will be of no interest to him."
"If you can tell him where she is he will ask no more of you."
"She made good her escape then?"
Slow suspicion was dawning at last.
"For one who brings news you ask a lot of questions," the guard remarked heavily, as his hand slipped to the needle-ray weapon at his side. "Show your pass!"
Like a flash Mich'l was upon him, his hand at the thick throat, the other grasping the wrist. Although the soldier, like the majority of the populace, lacked the intense vitality of the technies, he had stubborn strength, and he fought effectively in the drilled, automatic way of his kind. Mich'l was further handicapped by the necessity of maintaining silence. One shout, and a dozen needle-rays would no doubt perforate his body with holes and slash his flesh with smoldering cuts.
* * * * *
Grunting and sweating, they fought all around the rose-colored curb of the fountain. At last Mich'l succeeded in forcing his adversary over the low stone, and they went over together with a resounding splash. The straining body of the guard suddenly relaxed, and a spreading red cloud in the water disclosed that he had struck his head against the first of the terraces that rose in the fountain's mist-shrouded center.
Up one of the corridors a door opened, and an angry voice shouted:
"Gurka! Gurka! I'll have you in bracelets! Captain of the guard!"
"Sir!" From another of the corridors came a sound of running feet. A command rang out:
"On the double!"
An officer, followed by four soldiers, dashed around the corner and flashed by the fountain. Peering over the curb, Mich'l saw them, some hundred yards away, come to a halt before an opened door. With a thrill of exultation Mich'l recognized the tall figure of Lane Mollon, looking like a slightly damaged satyr of the better class, for his head was bandaged, and he was in bad humor.
"Captain!" he stormed. "I want you to put that damned louse in solitary confinement for a year. Hear?"
"Yes, sir." Like a megaphone the long corridor carried the low, respectful words to Mich'l's ears.
Lane continued to storm:
"And if you put another damned merclite-crazy blunker[1] on guard in this place I'll have your commission. Hear?"
"Yes, sir."
[Footnote 1: Blunker--a blunderer, an oaf. Mechanical recording had preserved the language in much of its original form, but new words did creep in.]
* * * * *
A quick decision was necessary, and Mich'l acted without hesitation. The guard had rolled over on his back, so that his face was out of the water, and he was breathing with quick, painful gasps. Mich'l dragged him up under the concealing shelter of the fountain spray, and there changed clothes with him. In the meantime the flowing water washed away the red stain of blood. When the captain returned with his guard, Mich'l was lying realistically in the pool, apparently deep in drugged sleep, the little kepi tilted rakishly over his face.
He was roughly seized and dragged out of the water to the accompaniment of much cursing. A fist crashed into his face.
Suddenly the soldiers felt the supine figure under their hands explode into energy. Elbows and fists seemed to fly from all directions at once. A needle-ray appeared, and before they could draw their own weapons they were howling with pain as searing welts drew over their bodies. With one accord they plunged into the pool. Only the officer remained, and he fell to the mosaic floor, his weapon half raised, the small black hole in his chest giving off a burnt odor.
Mich'l appropriated the officer's brassard of rank, and, menacing the cowed guards, forced them to herd into a nearby room, carrying the body of the officer with them. Mich'l locked the door and looked around. He saw no one observing him, and could count on carrying a pretty good bluff in his uniform, which was rapidly shedding its water. With a firm step Mich'l walked to Lane Mollon's door, threw it open, and entered.
* * * * *
Lane sat up on his couch, his feet striking the floor with an angry thump. But when he recognized Mich'l he paled slightly.
"Where is she?" Mich'l demanded roughly, "before I burn you down!"
"You said once," Lane began sneeringly, "that you wanted to fight me. Now, if you'll just put down that--"
"Not now," Mich'l dissented with deadly coldness. "Where is Nida? Speak fast."
Lane did so.
"She isn't here. The little short[2] crowned me with a chair, and slipped out. How did I--"
[Footnote 2: Short--trouble-maker, spitfire. A colloquialism probably growing out of the once frequently used electrical term "short-circuit."]
"When? Hurry up!"
"Hardly an hour ago. She walked down the corridor, showed a thick-witted guard my own executive pass, and got away. But I got that guard--"
"Never mind what you did to the guard--"
Suddenly the image of an officer strange to Mich'l stood in the room and saluted smartly.
"Has Captain Ilgen Mr. Lane Mollon's leave to stay?" he asked.
Mollon started forward, but before he could disclose his predicament Mich'l had sidled over to him and thrown one arm affectionately over his shoulder. In his hand, concealed by the rich folds of Lane's robe, Mich'l held his needle-ray, and it was pressed firmly against Lane's ribs.
"Mr. Mollon will be glad to hear you," Mich'l said smoothly.
* * * * *
He fancied that the eyes of the officer's image dilated slightly, but it lost none of its military rigor. But some explanation of his presence there in his still damp uniform must be given Ilgen, so he growled, in a voice that he tried to make a bit thick, as if he had chewed too much merclite:
"At ease, Captain. At ease! Damn it man, you don't have to be so damned military. You're among friends!" And he towseled Lane's dark hair affectionately.
Captain Ilgen looked his disgust.
"Sir," he said to Lane, "we recaptured Nida Mane as she tried to board a public car near the Executive Mansion."
The black lens at the end of Mich'l's needle-ray pressed hard, and Lane said naturally:
"You have her in custody?"
"Sir, we have." And to Mich'l's dismay, Nida, defiant, her lovely form half revealed by rents in her garments, seemed to materialize beside the officer. Her wrathful eyes were fixed on Lane, and then she saw Mich'l.
