The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

  I saw Zorchi bristle and open his mouth, but a cold, suddenly calculating idea made me interrupt. “To get dell’Angela out as an attendant, I needed a patient for him to wheel. Zorchi had money, and I expected gratitude when I revived him later. It wasn’t hard getting Lawton’s assistant to stack his cocoon near Benedetto’s.”

  “Lawton!” Defoe grimaced, but seemed to accept the story. He smiled at me suddenly. “I had hopes for you, then. That escape was well done—simple, direct. A little crude, but a good beginning. You could have been my number one assistant, Thomas. I thought of that when I heard of the things you were saying after Marianna died—I thought you might be awaking.”

  I licked my lips. “And when you picked me up after Marianna’s death, and bailed me out of jail, you made sure the expediter corps had information that I was possibly not reliable. You made sure the information reached the underground, so they would approach me and I could spy for you. You wanted a patsy!”

  The smile was gleaming this time. “Naturally, until you could prove yourself. And of course, I had you jailed for the things you said because I wanted it that way. A pity all my efforts were wasted on you, Thomas. I’m afraid you’re not equipped to be a spy.”

  It took everything I had, but this time I managed to smile back. “On which side, Defoe? How many spies know you’ve got Millen Carmody down in Bay—”

  That hit him. But I didn’t have time to enjoy it. He made a sudden gesture, and the expediters moved. This time, when they dragged me down, it was very bad.

  * * * *

  When I came to, I was in another room. Zorchi and Rena were with me, but not Defoe. It was a preparation chamber, racked with instruments, furnished with surgical benches.

  A telescreen was flickering and blaring unheeded at one end of the room. I caught a glimpse of scenes of men, women and children standing in line, going in orderly queues through the medical inspections, filing into the clinic and its local branch stations for the sleep drug. The scenes were all in Naples; but they must have been, with local variations, on every telescreen on the globe.

  Dr. Lawton appeared. He commanded coldly: “Take your clothes off.”

  I think that was the most humiliating moment of all.

  It was, of course, only a medical formality. I knew that the suspendees had to be nude in their racks. But the very impersonality of the proceeding made it ugly. Reluctantly I began to undress, as did Rena, silent and withdrawn, and Zorchi, sputtering anger and threats. My whole body was a mass of redness; in a few hours the red would turn to purple and black, where the hoses of the expediters had caressed me.

  Or did a suspendee bruise? Probably not. But it was small satisfaction.

  Lawton was looking smug; no doubt he had insisted on the privilege of putting us under himself after I’d blamed him for Zorchi’s escape. I couldn’t blame him; I would have returned the favor with great joy.

  Well, I had wanted to reach Millen Carmody, and Defoe was granting my wish. We might even lie on adjacent racks in Bay 100. After what I’d told Defoe, we should rate such reserved space!

  Lawton approached with the hypospray, and a pair of expediters grabbed my arms. He said: “I want to leave one thought with you, Wills. Maybe it will give you some comfort.” His smirk told me that it certainly would not. “Only Defoe and I can open Bay 100,” he reminded me. “I don’t think either of us will; and I expect you will stay there a long, long time.”

  He experimentally squirted a faint mist from the tip of the hypospray and nodded satisfaction. He went on: “The suspension is effective for a long time—several hundred years, perhaps. But not forever. In time the enzymes of the body begin to digest the body itself.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know if the sleeping brain knows it is pain or not. If it does, you’ll know what it feels like to dissolve in your own gutwash…”

  He smiled. “Good night,” he crooned, and bent over my arm.

  The spray from the end of the hypo felt chilly, but not at all painful. It was as though I had been touched with ice; the cold clung, and spread.

  I was vaguely conscious of being dumped on one of the surgical tables, even more vaguely aware of seeing Rena slumping across another.

  The light in the room yellowed, flickered and went out.

  I thought I heard Rena’s voice…

  Then I heard nothing. And I saw nothing. And I felt nothing, except the penetrating cold, and then even the cold was gone.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  My nerves throbbed with the prickling of an infinity of needles. I was cold—colder than I had ever been. And over everything else came the insistent, blurred voice of Luigi Zorchi.

  “Weels! Weels!”

  At first it was an annoyance. Then, abruptly, full consciousness came rushing back, bringing some measure of triumph with it. It had worked! My needling of Defoe and my concealing of Zorchi’s ability to revive himself had succeeded in getting us all put into Bay 100, where the precious hypodermic and fluid were hidden. After being pushed from pillar to post and back, even that much success was enough to shock me into awareness.

  My heart was thumping like a rusty cargo steamer in a high sea. My lungs ached for air and burned when they got it. But I managed to open my eyes to see Zorchi bending over me. Beyond him, I saw the blue-lighted sterilizing lamps, the door that opened from inside, and the racked suspendees of Bay 100.

  “It is time! But now finally you awake, you move!” Zorchi grumbled. “The body of Zorchi does not surrender to poisons; it throws them off. But then because of these small weak legs, I must wait for you! Come, Weels, no more dallying! We have still work to do to escape this abomination!”

  I sat up clumsily, but the drugs seemed to have been neutralized. I was on the bottom tier, and I managed to locate the floor with my legs and stand up. “Thanks, Zorchi,” I told him, trying to avoid looking at his ugly, naked body and the things that were almost his legs.

  “Thanks are due,” he admitted. “I am a modest man who expects no praise, but I have done much. I cannot deny it. It took greatness to crawl through this bay to find you. On my hands and these baby knees, Weels, I crawled. Almost, I am overcome with wonder at so heroic— But I digress. Weels, waste no more time in talking. We must revive the others who are above my reach. Then let us, for God, go and find food.”

  Somehow, though I was still weak, I managed to follow Zorchi and drag down the sacks containing Rena and Carmody. And while waiting for them to revive, I began to realize how little chance we would have to escape this time, naked and uncertain of what state affairs were in. I also realized what might happen if Lawton or Defoe decided to check up on Bay 100 now!

  For the few minutes while Rena revived and recognized me, and while I explained how I’d figured it out, it was worth any risk. Then finally, Carmody stirred and sat up. Maybe we looked enough like devils in a blue hell to justify his first expression.

  He wasn’t much like my mental image of the great Millen Carmody. His face was like his picture, but it was an older face and haggard under the ugly light. Age was heavy on him, and he couldn’t have been a noble figure at any time. Now he was a pot-bellied little man with scrawny legs and a faint tremble to his hands.

  But there was no fat in his mind as he tried to absorb our explanations while he answered our questions in turn. He’d come to Naples, bringing his personal physician, Dr. Lawton. His last memory was of Lawton giving him a shot to relieve his indigestion.

  It must have been rough to wake up here after that and find what a mess had been made of the world. But he took it, and his questions became sharper as he groped for the truth. Finally he sat back, nodding sickly. “Defoe!” he said bitterly. “Well, what do we do now, Mr. Wills?”

  It shook me. I’d unconsciously expected him to take over at once. But the eyes of Rena and Zorchi also turned to me. Well, there wasn’t much choice. We couldn’t stay here and risk discovery. Nor could we hide anywhere in the clinic; when Defoe found us gone, no place would be safe
.

  “We pray,” I decided. “And if prayers help, maybe we’ll find some way out.”

  “I can help,” Carmody offered. He grimaced. “I know this place and the combination to the private doors. Would it help if we reached the garage?”

  I didn’t know, but the garage was half a mile beyond the main entrance. If we could steal a car, we might make it. We had to try.

  There were sounds of activity when we opened the door, but the section we were in seemed to be filled, and the storing of suspendees had moved elsewhere.

  We shut and relocked the door and followed Carmody through the seemingly endless corridors, with Zorchi hobbling along, leaning on Rena and me and sweating in agony. We offered to carry him, but he would have none of that. We moved further and further back, while the sight of Carmody’s round, bare bottom ahead ripped my feeling of awe for him into smaller and smaller shreds.

  He stopped at a door I had almost missed and his fingers tapped out something on what looked like an ornamental pattern. The door opened to reveal stairs that led down two flights, winding around a small elevator shaft. At the bottom was a long corridor that must be the one leading underground to the garage. Opposite the elevator was another door, and Carmody worked its combination to reveal a storeroom, loaded with supplies the expediters might need.

  He ripped a suit of the heavy gray coveralls off the wall and began donning them. “Radiation suits,” he explained. They were ugly things, but better than nothing. Anyone seeing us in them might think we were on official business. Zorchi shook off our help and somehow got into a pair. Then he grunted and began pulling hard-pellet rifles and bandoliers of ammunition off the wall.

  * * * *

  “Now, Weels, we are prepared. Let them come against us. Zorchi is ready!”

  “Ready to kill yourself!” I said roughly. “Those things take practice!”

  “And again I am the freak—the case who can do nothing that humans can do, eh, Weels?” He swore thickly, and there was something in his voice that abruptly roughened it. “Never Zorchi the man! There are Sicilians who would tell you different, could they open dead mouths to speak of their downed planes!”

  “He was the best jet pilot Naples had,” Rena said quietly.

  It was my turn to curse. He was right; I hadn’t thought of him as a man, or considered that he could do anything but regrow damaged tissues. “I’m sorry, Luigi!”

  “No matter.” He sighed, and then shrugged. “Come, take arms and ammunition and let us be out of this place. Even the nose of Zorchi can stand only so much of the smell of assassins!”

  We moved down the passage, staggering along for what seemed to be hours, expecting every second to run into some official or expediter force. But apparently the passage wasn’t being used much during the emergency. We finally reached stairs at the other end and headed up, afraid to attract attention by taking the waiting elevator.

  At the top, Carmody frowned as he studied the side passages and doors. “Here, I guess,” he decided. “This may still be a less used part of the garage.” He reached for the door.

  I stopped him. “Wait a minute. Is there any way back in, once we leave?”

  “The combination will work—the master combination used by the Company heads. Otherwise, these doors are practically bomb-proof!” He pressed the combination and opened the door a crack.

  Outside, I could see what seemed to be a small section of the Company car pool. There were sounds of trucks, but none were moving nearby. I saw a few men working on trucks a distance from us. Maybe luck was on our side.

  I pointed to the nearest expediter patrol wagon—a small truck, really, enclosed except for the driver’s seat. “That one, if there’s fuel. We’ll have to act as if we had a right to it, and hope for the best. Zorchi, can you manage it that far?”

  “I shall walk like a born assassin,” he assured me, but sweat began popping onto his forehead at what he was offering. Yet there was no sign of the agony he must have felt as he followed and managed to climb into the back with Rena and Carmody.

  The fuel gauge was at the half mark and, as yet, there was no cry of alarm. I gunned the motor into life, watching the nearest workmen. They looked up casually, and then went back to their business. Ahead, I could see a clear lane toward the exit, with a few other trucks moving in and out. I headed for it, my hair prickling at the back of my neck.

  We reached the entrance, passed through it, and were soon blending into the stream of cars that were passing the clinic on their way out for more suspension cases.

  The glass doors of the entrance were gone now, and workmen were putting up huge steel ones in their place, even while a steady stream of cases were hobbling or being carried into the clinic. Most of them were old or shabby, I noticed. The class-D type. The last ones to be admitted. We must have spent more time in the vault than I’d thought, and zero hour was drawing near.

  Beyond the clinic, the whole of Anzio was a mass of abandoned cars that seemed to stretch for miles, and the few buildings not boarded up were obviously class-D dwellings, too poor to worry about. I cursed my way through a jam-up of trucks, and managed to find one of the side roads.

  Then I pressed down on the throttle as far as I dared without attracting attention, until I could find a safe place to turn off with no other cars near to see me.

  “Where to?” I asked. We couldn’t go back to Zorchi’s, since any expediter investigation would start there. Maybe we’d never be missed, but I couldn’t risk it. If we had to, we could use some abandoned villa and hide out, but I was hoping for a better suggestion.

  Zorchi looked blank, and Rena shrugged. “If we could only find Nikolas—” she suggested doubtfully.

  I shook my head. I’d had a chance to think about that a little while the expediters took us to see Defoe, and I didn’t like it. The leader of the revolution had apparently been captured by Defoe. According to Benedetto dell’Angela, he’d escaped. Yet Defoe hadn’t tried to pump us about him. And when Benedetto set out to meet him, the expediters had descended at once.

  It made an ugly picture. I had no wish to go looking for the man.

  “There’s my place,” Carmody said finally. “I had places all over the world, kept ready for me and stocked. If Defoe let it be thought that I had retired, he must have kept them all up as I’d have done. Wait, let me orient myself. Up that road.”

  Places all over the world, with food that was wasted, and with servants who might never see their master! And I’d been brought up believing that the Underwriters were men of quiet, simple tastes! Carmody’s clay feet were beginning to crumble up to the navel!

  * * * *

  The villa was surrounded by trees, on a low hill that overlooked an artificial lake. It had been sealed off, but the combination lock yielded to Carmody’s touch. There were beds made up and waiting, freezers stocked with food that sent Zorchi into ecstasy, and even a complete file of back issues of the Company paper. Carmody headed for those, with the look of a man hunting his lost past. He had a lot of catching up to do.

  But it was the television set that interested me. It was still working, with taped material being broadcast. The appeal had been stepped up, asking for order and cooperation; I recognized the language as being pitched toward the lower classes now, though. And the clicking of a radiation-counter sounded as a constant background, with occasional shots of its meter, the needle well into the danger area.

  Zorchi joined me and Rena, dribbling crumbs of meat down his beard. He snorted as he caught sight of the counter. “There is a real one in the other room, and it registers higher,” he said. “It is interesting. For me, of no import. Doctors whom I trust have said Defoe is wrong; my body can resist damage from radiation—and perhaps even from old age. But for you and the young lady…”

  He shut up at my expression, but the tape cut off and a live announcer came on before I could say anything. “A bulletin just in,” he said, “shows that the government of Naples has unanimously passed a moratori
um on all contracts, obligations and indebtedness for the duration of the emergency. The Company has just followed this with a declaration that it will extend the moratorium to include all crimes against the Company. During the emergency, the clinics will be available to all without prejudice, Director Defoe said today.”

  “A trap,” Rena guessed. “We wouldn’t have a chance, anyhow. But, Tom, does the other mean that—”

  “It means your father was wrong,” I answered. “As of right now—and probably in every government at the same time—the Company has been freed from any responsibility.”

  It didn’t make any difference, of course. Benedetto had expected that everyone must secretly hate the Company as he did; he hadn’t realized that men who have just been saved from the horrible danger of radiation death aren’t going to turn against the agency that saved them. And damn it, the Company was saving them, after its opponents had risked annihilation of the race. Defoe would probably make sure the suspendees were awakened at a rate where he could keep absolute power, but not from any danger of bankruptcy.

  * * * *

  Carmody had come out and listened, attracted by the broadcast radiation clicking, apparently. Now he asked enough questions to discover Benedetto’s idea, and shook his head.

  “It wouldn’t work,” he agreed with me. “Even if I still had control, I couldn’t permit such a thing. What good would it do? Could money payments make food for a revived world, Miss dell’Angela? Would bankrupting the only agency capable of rebuilding the Earth be a thing of honor? Besides, even with what I’ve read, I can see no hope. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “But if you can arouse the other Underwriters against Defoe,” she insisted, “at least you can prevent his type of world!”

  He shook his head. “How? All communications are in his hands. Even if I could fly to the Home Office, most of the ones I could trust—and there apparently are a few Defoe hasn’t been able to retire—would be scattered, out of my reach. A week ago, there might have been a chance. Now, it’s impossible. Impossible.”