“Don’t try it,” said the woman. “Not yet. You’ll have to learn how to speak, and it takes a little while. And don’t rub your eyes. They’re working normally but things look different here. Now, there are things to be done before you’re ready to talk. That fool Wilmer certainly gave us all a problem, but I guess we’re stuck with it. We can’t kill you now. Command: Bring him a drink. Water will do, but check the ion balances and the blood sugar, and if he needs anything make the necessary additions.”
She held out her hand, and suddenly it was holding a flask of straw-yellow liquid.
“I want you to try to take this from me. Can you do that? Then drink all of it and try to talk to me.”
Peron lifted his arm, and again there was the feeling that the laws of physics had been changed. It took deliberate control to make his hand move in the direction that he wanted. He carefully took the container, brought it back to his mouth, and drank. It was like balm, soothing his throat and making him realize for the first time that he was desperately thirsty. He drank it all. “Good. Command: Take it away.” The flask was gone. The woman looked a little less irritated. “Can you speak? Try a word.”
Peron swallowed, worked his vocal chords, and was rewarded with a grunt and a grating cough. He tried again.
“Yaahh. Y-Yaasss.” His voice sounded alien in his ears.
“Excellent. Give it time. And listen to me. You have to know just a few things, and there’s nothing to be gained by waiting to tell you them. Do you know who the Immortals are?”
“They vissi — vizzit — Pen’coss. Don’ know if ‘uman — or not. Lave — live — f’rever.” “Wish that were true.” The woman gave Peron a sour smile. “I’m an Immortal. And now, so are you. But we won’t live forever. We’ll live about seventeen hundred years, according to our best current estimates — if we don’t get killed somehow along the way. That’s one thing you have to learn. You can be killed just as easily now as you could before. Living in S-space won’t protect you. Understand?”
“Unn-derstand.” The skin on Peron’s face felt as though it had been stretched tight, and it could not show the emotion he was feeling. If he was an Immortal, what had happened to the others? Would he outlive Elissa by sixteen hundred years? No good news could make that thought palatable. He lifted his head — again, that strange feeling — and looked at the woman directly. “What happ’n to others on Whir’gig?”
“I’m not in a position to tell you that. I told you, what Wilmer did for you has made more trouble than he dreamed. Before we are permitted to tell you more, we have to get approval from Sector Headquarters, and that means a long trip. We’ve been on the way for about five hours already, and it will be nearly two days before we get there. Until we do, you’ll have to be patient.
“My patient, as it happens.” She gave him her first real smile. “You can start by resting some. In a few minutes you’ll get a reaction from the historex, and I’m going to give you another sedative and painkiller now. Command: Give this man five c.c.’s of asfanol.”
Nothing visible, but again a surprise ache of something in his thigh. Peron wasn’t at all ready to go to sleep — there were a hundred questions to be answered, and he wasn’t sure where to start.
“Are we going back to The Ship?”
The woman looked startled, then amused. “No. I can’t tell you much, but I can tell you that. We’re on a longer trip — Sector Headquarters is outside the Cass system — nearly a light-year away from Cassay and Pentecost.”
“And we’ll be there in two days. So you do travel faster than light!” Now she was looking very uncomfortable. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything. I’m a doctor, not a damned administrator.” There was an irritation at somebody or something in her tone, and Peron filed it away for future reference. “But we don’t travel faster than light. In S-space, light travels almost two thousand light-years of normal distance in one of our years. We’re travelling at only a fraction of light-speed.”
Peron was overwhelmed by the thought. Could she be telling the truth? If she were, Sol and Earth itself were only a couple of months away. And if they had been on their journey for five hours already, they must be deep into interstellar space. He was beginning to feel drowsy, but suddenly he had a tremendous desire to see Cassay again. And what would the starscape be like, at this tremendous speed?
“What’s wrong?” She had seen his expression.
“Can we look out of here — look at the stars?”
She shook her head. “I sometimes have that wish myself. When you wake up, take a look in the next room. There’s an exterior port there. You’ll find that things look rather different in S-space. But now, I have to go. My name, by the way, is Ferranti; Dr. Olivia Ferranti. I will be seeing a good deal of you until we’re sure that you are stable here. And I’ll be back tomorrow.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “Be patient. Command: Take me to my apartment.”
“But what — “
Peron didn’t bother to finish his sentence. She had gone, vanished instantly into the air. In another thirty seconds the drugs had taken him and he was sound asleep.
* * *
The room where he had first regained consciousness lacked clothing, food, or drink. There was a terminal near the table, which must clearly communicate with other parts of the ship, but when he next awoke Peron resisted his first urge, to call and ask for something to eat. He felt ravenous, and still oddly disoriented, but there were other overriding priorities.
All the monitors by the table were still working, but now they received telemetered data originating from small sensors attached to his body. They undoubtedly passed on those signals to some central monitoring computer, possibly one that responded only to emergencies. Peron felt that he should have at least a few minutes before his actions were controlled again. He slid off the table, took a moment to collect his balance, and then headed for one of the room’s two doors.
It led to a long windowless corridor. Wrong choice. He backtracked, and found that the other led to a bigger room, with a great transparent port at one end. Peron went to it and stared out.
He had certainly expected something different from the usual starscape seen from within the Cass system; perhaps the familiar constellations, but subtly distorted. But what he was looking at was wholly inexplicable.
Beyond the port, the whole sky was filled with a faint, pearly glow. It seemed to possess no orientation, and everywhere it was of the same uniform brightness. No stars, no nebulae, no dust clouds, no galaxies; the whole universe had disappeared, lost in a diffuse, glowing haze.
Peron felt his head begin to spin. He was in S-space, and it was so far different from anything he had imagined that he had no idea what to do next. If he had been trapped and held prisoner — for that was the way he was beginning to perceive his situation on this ship — in any ordinary environment he could perhaps have gained control and had some say in his own actions. But what could he do here? There was nothing in Pentecost’s science that even hinted at the possibility of this. Sy, far more able scientifically than Peron, had scoffed at the very idea.
Peron felt a moment of annoyance. If only Sy could be here now, to see how far his theories would take him.…
The rest of the room lacked any furnishings or useful sources of information. There was a set of small and mysterious doors or panels in the base of the wall, each only a couple of feet high, but he could not open them. He turned to go back to the corridor, and was reminded of his own hunger and thirst. He remembered Dr. Ferranti’s ability to conjure drink from nothing (And ask Sy to explain that, while he was at it!). Could it possibly work for him, too? There seemed nothing he could lose by trying.
“Command.” Even though he was alone, he felt self-conscious — what he was attempting was impossible! But it had worked, he was convinced of that. “Command. Bring me a drink.”
He waited, feeling foolish. And to confirm his feeling, absolutely nothing happened. He tried once more. “Command. Bring me som
ething to eat.” Nothing. How could anything else be the result? He must have been hallucinating, to be convinced that Ferranti had magical powers to make objects — including herself — appear and disappear instantly.
Peron had scarcely come to that conclusion when everything about him changed in one brief and bewildering flicker of movement. There was a second of total disorientation. Then he was no longer standing at the entrance to the corridor. Instead he was in a room with pale yellow walls, decorated with elaborate murals and amateurish paintings. He was fully clothed, in well-fitting brown shirt and trousers. His own shoes, last seen when he donned a suit before leaving for Whirlygig, were on his feet. He was seated in a hard chair, with his hands resting firmly on its arms. In front of him was a long, polished desk of silvery metal, its upper surface containing a single, orange folder and one pen. And sitting behind that desk, looking at him with a slightly bored and definitely supercilious expression, was a wizened, brown-eyed, hairless man. Peron took an instant and inexplicable dislike to him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I am Captain Rinker, in command of this ship,” said the man. “Dr. Ferranti tells me that you are fully stable and adapted to S-space. Is that so?” “I don’t know. I feel no pain, but I certainly don’t feel normal.” “That will pass. Anything else?”
“Someone seems to want to starve me to death.”
“Your own fault. When you awoke you could have called for food. Instead you chose to pry.” Rinker gestured at a wall display that was showing the room where Peron had returned to consciousness. “You were observed. It would serve you right if we did not feed you for a while. But you are lucky. Regulations would not permit us to starve you. Command: Bring food and drink, suitable for the awakening.”
A tray appeared instantly, resting on Peron’s knees. The clear carafe held the same liquid as he had drunk before, but the plates of food were unfamiliar. There were brown patties with a coarse granular texture, orange-red jelly, and white slabs of smooth creamy consistency. Rinker gestured to them. “Carry on. You may eat while we talk.”
Peron looked around him. There was no other person in the room, and no sign that the door had opened or closed. “How are you able to do that?”
“It is not appropriate that I tell you. Such information will be given to you at Headquarters — if it is given at all.” Rinker waved his hand at the display. “Your efforts to use the service system were already noted. To save you further wasted time, I will point out that any more efforts on your part will be just as unsuccessful. Let me also point out that I am under no official obligation to talk to you, or to deal with you in any way except to provide safe transfer to Headquarters. But I want you to know how much trouble you have caused, you and that fool Wilmer.”
Peron could not resist the food in front of him. His body insisted that it had been weeks since it had received nourishment. He ate ravenously. The patties had a reasonable resemblance to bread, and although the white material tasted nothing like the cheese that Peron had expected, it tasted good. He stared across the desk at Captain Rinker, swallowed, and spoke.
“I can’t speak for Wilmer, but any trouble I caused was not my doing. I would have died on Whirlygig without his help. I don’t see why you assign blame to me.”
Rinker gave an impatient wave of his hand. “You were marked as a troublemaker before you left the planet. So were your companions on Whirlygig. You were all scheduled for special indoctrination on the ship Eleanora, to be kept apart from the other contestants. As for Wilmer, he was supposed to be there as an observer — not as a participant. I have warned several times of the danger of using local recruits as observers. They have too many ties to your planet and its people. But my advice was ignored.”
“Is Wilmer an Immortal?”
Rinker leaned back in his chair, frowning. His voice rose in pitch. “That stupid term! It is one I never use. Wilmer was recruited to our group, yes. And he shares our extended life span. But he has never left the Cass system, and he certainly knows nothing of our larger mission. Now I must suffer the consequences of his dabbling. For three hundred and sixty of your years, I have visited Pentecost and the Cass system. This is my nineteenth trip. And never has anything gone wrong. I have developed a perfect record in my work. Success is expected of me, and I demand it of myself. But now, thanks to what Wilmer did on Whirlygig, all that has gone. This visit has turned into a disaster. The materials I should be carrying back from the group on Eleanora have been left behind; final selection and indoctrination of recruits has been delayed; and I am carrying six additional and unwanted passengers with me to Headquarters, all of whom are tagged as potential trouble. Do you think I should be happy?” As Peron’s hunger and thirst lessened, he felt an increasing curiosity at his surroundings. It was also matched by a growing annoyance. He had done nothing to justify Rinker’s tirade. What did the foolish man expect him to do? Ask to be taken back to die on Whirlygig?
He lifted the tray and placed it on the desk on front of him. “I don’t say you should be happy. But you shouldn’t blame me for what happened. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on here?”
“So you can cause more trouble?”
“I’m not going to cause trouble. But naturally I have many questions. I don’t ask for your time, but let me at least have access to a terminal and the data banks. And you say that some of the other contestants are here on this ship. I would certainly like to see them.”
Rinker stared angrily at the messy tray lying on his clean and polished desk. He gave Peron an unpleasant smile. “I cannot allow you access to the data banks. As I told you, this situation is unprecedented. No one has ever joined our group here without indoctrination. What happens to you can be decided only after we reach Headquarters, and until we arrive there you must do exactly as you are told. You want to see your companions? Very well. Command: Remove this tray.” It vanished instantly.
“Command: Take us both to the suspense room.” This time Peron had a dizzying image of a long corridor and gray walls.
It lasted for a fraction of a second. Then the world steadied, and he and Rinker were standing together in front of a bank of waist-high metal doors. Each one formed the entrance to a long, deep container like an outsize coffin. Monitors sat on the transparent top of each box, and all the outputs were collected into a thick optic bundle that ran to a computer terminal. The room was freezingly cold.
“Perhaps this will give you an idea of how seriously I regard this situation.” Rinker stepped forward to one of the boxes. “Your companions are here.” “What have you done to them?” Peron felt a sense of horror. Was Rinker telling him that Elissa and the others were imprisoned in those black, icy caskets? “They are in cold sleep, and will remain there.” Rinker’s voice was as chilly as the room. It offered no possibility of discussion. “They are of course in no danger. I run a well-regulated ship, and all the equipment is checked constantly. They will be awakened — a simple procedure — when we reach Headquarters. Then this matter will move to other hands than mine. I will be very glad to see the last of it.”
Peron stepped forward to peer in through the top of the nearest chest. Kallen lay inside, swathed up to his neck in soft white material. He looked dead. His eyes were deep-set in his head, his face gray and drained of all color. Peron stepped to the next container. That one held Elissa. He shuddered to see what she had become. Without its usual animation, her face was like a wax model. “Are you sure that they are all right?” Peron had to ask. “They look — “ “I have no time to waste in repeating myself. They are all right. I have already told you and shown you more than I intended. You will eat your meals with the rest of us, and I will see you then. If you need food before that, use the terminal. Command: Take him to his living quarters.”
There was no chance to protest. Rinker and the room with Elissa and the others suddenly vanished. Peron found himself alone with his worry, perplexity and frustration, in a room that held only a bed, a desk, and a terminal. * * *
The Planetfest games had provided periods of terror, exhaustion, suspense and near-despair. But there had been nothing to match the sheer frustration of the next twelve hours. By the end of it, Peron had reached an unvoiced decision: if he was to be branded as a troublemaker, he was going to earn his label. He had started out simply wishing to know more about the ship and his environment. That had proved to be far more difficult than he expected. The room he had been assigned opened to a narrow corridor, which soon branched in both directions to larger rooms and other passageways. He had tried each one in turn, making mental notes of any changes of direction.
A pattern quickly emerged. If he went off along the left corridor, he was free to wander as he pleased. He had found a dining area and a library whose terminals ignored his requests for information, but readily provided food or drink. It appeared instantly and mysteriously in front of him the moment that his order was placed through the terminal, and was removed just as promptly when he requested that. He had also met some of the other ship’s complement, all much more friendly than Captain Rinker. There were only three of them. It seemed to Peron a preposterously low number to control such a large structure. But as Olivia Ferranti pointed out to him when his wandering took him past her living quarters, it was more people than were needed. Everything was under automatic control; Captain Rinker alone could handle everything. In fact, the rest of them were making their first trip, and had come from Headquarters to the Cass system for their own reasons (which she refused to discuss). She had even offered something like an apology for Rinker’s behavior.
“He’s unusually valuable. There are not many people who like making these long trips, often with no companions. It takes a special temperament. Captain Rinker likes things neat. He can’t stand the idea that you’ve disturbed the pattern of his life.”
Between the Strokes of Night Page 15
