by James Gunn
Alone in the darkness and the complete silence, Horn had eaten and then investigated the cell. It was completely bare but clean. There was no exit except through the door, which admitted what air came into the room. Horn fingered the lock. It was newer than the door and escape-proof. Its small square of minute holes needed the insertion of tiny, magnetized filaments.
Before he had time to worry about it, he had fallen asleep.
Now, awake, he wondered what had awakened him. He heard again the odd, clinking sound that seemed loud in the total silence.
“Hurry!” someone whispered.
Horn felt his skin creep. He tensed his muscles. A final clinking sound and the door creaked. Before Horn could spring, a light was in his eyes. He blinked blindly.
“Ah, boy, boy,” someone breathed softly. The light went out. “I’ve been a long, weary time finding you.”
“Wu!” Horn said incredulously.
“The old man himself.” Something metallic clanked against the stone floor of the cell.
Something rustled. “And Lil. Don’t forget poor Lil.”
Horn moved quickly to the door. It was shut, locked tightly. He whirled in the darkness, his back pressed to the bars. “Why did you lock it again? We’ve got to get out.”
“Easy, my boy. We got in. We can get out as quickly. But first we must talk.”
“Talk then. How did you get here? The last time I saw you, the lancers were leading you away from the Victory Monument.”
“So they did. It is another mystery for Duchane’s Index. Cells aren’t made for Lil and me; locks cannot keep us in or out. The jail hasn’t yet been built that will hold us.”
“Not even Vantee?”
“Prison Terminal?” Wu said softly. “Perhaps. Vantee perhaps. But they would have to take us there, and how would they hold us on the way?”
There was no answer except a scurrying and rustling near the floor. In the brief flare of Wu’s light, Horn saw that the old Chinese was dressed as he had been before. His battered metal suitcase was beside his feet. And on the floor was a glowing-eyed cat with matted fur and a scarred face. It trotted toward them triumphantly, a limp rat dangling from its mouth.
“What of you?” Wu asked. “I know, of course, that you were bold enough and foolish enough to carry out the assassination of Garth Kohlnar.”
Briefly Horn described what had happened to him since Wu and Lil had leaped over the ruined wall. After Horn finished, Wu was silent for a few minutes.
“I could help you escape from here,” Wu said finally, “but where would you go? Where in Eron is there a hiding place for the assassin of the General Manager?”
“There isn’t any,” Horn said quietly. “Eron must be destroyed before I’ll be safe.”
“Then you’ve given up?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“Oh.” Wu chuckled. “One man against Eron. A delightfully daring thought—but hopeless. Empires fall when they are ready and not before.”
“When a tree is rotten,” Lil interjected suddenly, “the lightest breeze will topple it.”
“You, too?” Wu sighed. He was thoughtful. “Undaunted youth,” he said. “I would like to feel those emotions again, those convictions that there are no mountains unscalable, no seas unswimmable, no odds too great. How do you plan to start?”
“I don’t know,” Horn said slowly. “Maybe with the man who hired me to kill Kohlnar.”
“Who was that?”
Horn shrugged and then realized the gesture was meaningless in the darkness. “It was in a room as dark as this.”
“You would recognize his voice?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you expect to find him?”
“By something you said once. When we were in the tunnel. I was hired in the Cluster, you see, right after the surrender of Quarnon Four. You said nobody knew about the Dedication then.”
“That’s right,” Wu agreed.
“Somebody knew about it. Kohlnar must have known. Whom did he confide in? Who did he trust? Who betrayed him?”
“I see,” Wu said softly. “That eliminates his enemies, in the Cluster and elsewhere, and leaves his friends. His close friends. To which of them did he tell his dreams?”
“Exactly,” Horn said. “It seems to me that it would be one of the Directors. Which one stood to gain most from Kohlnar’s sudden death?”
“The hunter,” Lil said hollowly, “the bloody, bloody hunter.”
“Duchane?” Wu said. “Perhaps. He or one of the others might hope to retrieve from chaos what he couldn’t get by an orderly transfer of authority. So far Duchane has seemed to gain the most. He has moved swiftly and surely; at the moment he is the most powerful man alive. His position is pretty; it would be even prettier if he had caught the assassin. Or if the lower levels were not on the edge of rebellion. He could have counted on the first; perhaps he could not have expected the second. Duchane. Or perhaps one of the others.”
Horn heard light metallic sounds. He identified it with the opening of Wu’s suitcase. A bar of something was pressed into his hand. He heard a gurgling sound bringing the pungent odor of synthetic alcohol. He bit into the bar gingerly. It was sweet and rich with oils. He ate it hungrily.
“Don’t forget poor Lil!” the parrot said quickly.
The light clicked on briefly. Horn glimpsed a pouch in Wu’s hand and the glitter of huge diamonds sliding from it.
“How did you find me?” Horn asked suddenly.
“Lil and I are used to finding hidden things,” Wu said. “We found the lovely Wendre’s diamond tiara, eh, Lil?”
For answer there was only a muffled crunch and a sigh of satisfaction. “Lovely, lovely,” Lil said. Horn couldn’t decide whether she was referring to Wendre, the tiara, or the diamond.
“It must have been through the Cult,” Horn said.
“You’re a clever man,” Wu said softly. “Yes, the Cult owes me a favor or two, and I called on it to locate you.”
“It must be an interesting organization; even more efficient than Duchane’s. That’s surprising in a religious cult.”
“Isn’t it,” Wu agreed. “And it is—efficient, I mean—in its way and at its level. It followed you for some time, sent out some red herrings to draw the pursuit away, and brought you here.”
“That was the guard who ran past the shop,” Horn exclaimed.
“No doubt,” Wu said.
“Why did you want to find me?” Horn asked.
“You have a right to be curious. And I have a right to refuse to satisfy it. You may credit it to your own charm or an old man’s whim, if you like. You are interesting, you know. Hired killers always are. Not admirable, but interesting.”
“I’ve never asked for admiration,” Horn said mildly. “This isn’t the epoch for admirable characters. They die young. My only interest is survival. But then I don’t suppose anyone would apply the adjective to you, either.”
“True,” said the old voice in the darkness. “But our survival characteristics are slightly different. Yours are skill, strength, courage, and amorality. Mine are craft, weakness, cowardice, and immorality. I recognize the great social forces and work through them; my infirmities keep me alive.”
“It is a strong man,” Lil said in a deep voice, “who recognizes his own weakness.”
“You, on the other hand,” Wu continued, “ignore the social forces and outrage them, and your strength has pitted you against an empire. And yet I like you, Mr. Horn. You are right; this is no time for admirable characters; and I am glad you recognize the historical necessities that mold and move us, willy-nilly.”
“I’ve been used and moved,” Horn said firmly. “No more. From this time on, I’m a free agent, moving but unmoved.” He chuckled; it was an odd sound in the darkness. “Let Eron and history beware.”
“It is a weak man,” Lil said in the same tone as before, “who knows only his own strength.”
“How do you know,”
Wu said, “that in these decisions and these acts you are not an instrument still?”
“We’re wasting time,” Horn said quickly. “What we need is not questions but answers. Someone must have the answers. The person who hired me, for one.”
“And if you find him,” Wu said, “and if you find out ‘why?’—how much better off will you be?”
“I’ll know which way to move,” Horn said. “One thing that could be done, for instance: cut off the Tubes!”
Wu gasped and then chuckled appreciatively. “A master stroke! It would take a man like you to think of it.”
Horn thought he caught a note of mockery in Wu’s voice. “Eron is dependent on the Tubes, totally dependent. She can’t live more than a few days without fresh supplies from the Empire. And if fighting should start, the only chance for a successful rebellion would be if Eron were isolated. Without fresh troops—”
“You needn’t list the advantages,” Wu broke in. “I appreciate them even more than you do. The Empire would be crippled, a wheel without a hub. But how do you propose to cut the Tubes? It isn’t even known how they are activated.”
“The Directors should know,” Horn said.
“It comes back to them, doesn’t it?” Wu mused. “I’m tempted to help you. Suppose we join forces temporarily. I say ‘temporarily’ because I can’t guarantee how long this quixotic spirit will last. I am an old, old man and easily tired. But we have no love for Eron, eh, Lil? We wouldn’t be sorry to do the Empire an ill turn.”
“Good,” Horn said softly. He didn’t underestimate the help that Wu and Lil offered; they hadn’t lived so long without unusual talents and great cleverness. “We’ve wasted enough time,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Where? Like this? Blindly? Ah, youth, youth!”
“Well, where do you want to go?”
“Why, to the center of things, of course. But suitably attired and adequately prepared. Put these things on.”
Horn felt heavy cloth pressed into his hands. He sorted it into pants, a tunic, and a uniform cap. He hesitated a moment and then stripped off his coveralls.
“A little light,” Lil said impatiently.
In the brief flash Horn saw Lil clinging to the lock of the door. One claw ended in minute feelers which disappeared into the lock’s tiny holes. Tumblers fell, clinking metallically. No wonder locks were no barrier!
Horn slipped into the clothing. It was a uniform, by the feel of it, and it fit surprisingly well. While he listened to Wu’s sighs and rustlings, he had time to wonder where the clothing had come from. It could only have been that fabulous, inexhaustible container, Wu’s battered suitcase, which was obviously much bigger on the inside than it was on the outside.
Wu sighed deeply and clicked the suitcase shut. “Here,” he said. He laid a heavy object in Horn’s hand. Horn had no difficulty identifying it. It was a unitron pistol, complete with cord. “You need this for at least two reasons.”
“Disguise and defense,” Horn supplied. He slipped the cord around his left shoulder and followed Wu’s footsteps through the open doorway. They walked along dark corridors for minutes. Wu stopped once to slip his suitcase, regretfully, into a hidden niche. The second time he flicked a light onto a smooth rock wall. His hand moved into the light. Horn noticed that it looked different, somehow, but he had no time to think about that.
The rock wall opened outward. Beyond was the dimly lighted interior of a tube car. Wu was outlined against it. He was dressed magnificently in rich orange synsilk and furs. A padded bosom stuck out above his rounded belly. Lil seemed to be gone. Horn looked down at his own uniform. It was orange, too.
Orange, Horn thought. Orange for the Directorship of Power.
Wu turned his face back toward Horn. Horn drew back, startled. It wasn’t Wu’s face; it was the fat, golden, jowly face of an Eron noble. Tawny eyes peered out at him over puffy folds of flesh. The hair was stiff, reddish.
The pistol was in Horn’s hand. He knew that face. He had seen it, close, not long ago. It was the face of Matal, Director for Power.
“Ah,” Wu’s voice said. “Then the disguise is effective?”
Horn was startled again. His hand relaxed. The gun flew back against his chest. “But—” he began.
“Another of Lil’s many talents,” Wu said.
“The clothes, the disguise,” Horn said. “It’s obvious that you had this planned.”
“Planned?” Wu echoed judiciously. “I am always prepared, let us say, for opportunity.”
“It seems to me that I am being used,” Horn said gloomily. “What are you after?”
“We all are used. If I am using you, you, in turn, are using me. The question is: are we going where you want to go?”
“Where are we going?”
“To a meeting of Eron’s Directors,” Wu said softly. “They must elect a new General Manager. It is the most crucial meeting since the foundation of the Company. We will be there. We will take part in the decision, I as the Director for Power and you as my personal guard.”
“Yes,” Horn said. It was the right place to go; he could feel it intuitively. “But the real Matal will be there.”
“Matal is dead.”
“Dead?” Horn echoed.
“He was always a careless man. Greed and death caught up with him. Duchane’s assassin found him alone. He was hurrying to a meeting with his head engineers. Power was shining in front of him, the power over men that is real power, and it blinded his eyes. He died at the south Terminal cap, clutching his belly. It was a poor substitute for an empire.”
“Does Duchane know it?”
“Even Duchane wouldn’t dare receive such a message. No, the assassin must make his way to the Director for Security as best he can, evading capture. He must come a long way, but if we delay much longer he may be there before us.”
“How did you know about this car?” Horn asked.
“There are few things about Eron I don’t know,” Wu said placidly. “It is difficult to keep secrets from a man who has outlived civilizations. I was here when the Directors’ private tubeway was built. Another thing I know, for instance, is that the car is meant for one person but two can squeeze in. I will let you have the chair.”
Horn hesitated and stepped into the car. He sat down and strapped the belt across his legs. Wu painfully maneuvered his bulky, padded figure past Horn’s knees. He squeezed and panted and complained, but finally he was wedged into the space at Horn’s feet, his back against the wall under the control panel, his feet planted solidly under the chair.
“Close the door,” Wu sighed. “This is extremely uncomfortable for an old man of my size and shape. Already I can feel my enthusiasm waning.”
Horn looked down. There was something naggingly familiar about the way his face was shadowed. It eluded him; Horn shook his head and slowly closed the door. The click was followed by darkness and the nudge of the sliding inner door. Once more the many-colored disks floated in front of Horn.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Black.”
Horn felt a shiver start up his spine. He frowned. “Duchane?”
“That’s where the meeting is,” Wu said. The colored disks cast an eerie, motley pattern over his reddish hair, but his face was dark. “To the center of things. Quickly.”
Horn reached out and palmed the black disk. He felt again that uneasy sensation of free fall; there is no direction but outward. Perhaps it was half due to that, the suspicion that swept over him.
It was obvious, however, that Wu knew too much and he knew too little. All he knew about Wu was what the old man had told him; that could easily be lies and evasions. Wu could be anyone; he could be working for Duchane himself. He could be leading Horn into a trap. He had to have some organization behind him; he couldn’t have all the information he displayed without it, not even with the help of Lil.
“You know a great many things,” Horn said in the darkness. “Things that Duchane doesn’t know: me and my locati
on, Matal and his fate. And things that no one but Directors know: the secret tubeway and the meeting and its location. It is a wonder how you have learned so much.”
“I am—”
“I know,” Horn said impatiently. “You are an old man, and you have learned many things.”
He started. Shadows over Wu’s face. Put a hood over it. The resemblance clicked into place.
“You!” Horn said hoarsely. “You were the priest with the embroidered symbol on your robe.”
“The Prophet,” Wu corrected gently.
THE HISTORY
The pecking order.…
Among men, as among chickens, it is a necessity.
Hen A can peck hen B; hen B can peck hen C; hen C can peck hen D. Until the pecking order is established, there can be no peace in the henyard.
What chickens know instinctively, men must learn for themselves: power is indivisible.
Garth Kohlnar learned that rule well as he fought his way up the dangerous ladder of power politics from an impoverished nobility. Power is indivisible, and there are no means alien to it: intrigue, corruption, exposure of corruption, deals, betrayals.…
The management of the Company had been set up as a check-and-balance. The five Directors were chosen by competitive examination from all qualified engineers among the Golden Folk. Their duties: to establish policy, elect the General Manager, and preserve the secret of the Tube.
The General Manager was merely an executive. It had never worked that way. Kohlnar had ruled the Company with an iron hand.
His death shattered the peace of the henyard. The pecking order had to be rediscovered.…
12
STALEMATE
“Do you think,” Wu asked, “that a man could live as long as I have with just the aid of his own senses?”
“Then the Cult exists only for your protection,” Horn said sardonically.
“For my protection,” Wu agreed, “and the consolation of the miserable. And possibly for other reasons which we can’t go into at the moment. For we are there.”
The car came to a stop. The door swung open. Outside it was a large, bare room with glistening, black marble walls. Wu motioned him out of the car. Horn unsnapped the belt and cautiously stepped out, his pistol in his hand. The room was empty.
