by James Gunn
Wu turned to Ronholm. “Then you may choose first. After you, Fenelon.”
Horn took a deep breath.
“Well?” Wu asked, turning back to Duchane. “Is it agreed?”
Duchane’s eyes shifted from face to face, not speculatively this time, but as if searching for an answer he couldn’t find.
“The alternative,” Wu reminded gently, “is death.”
“All right,” Duchane said hoarsely.
Wu turned to Ronholm. “Choose.”
“That one,” Ronholm said quickly. He pointed at the door by which Wu and Horn had entered. Horn’s jaw muscles tightened and relaxed.
“The right,” Fenelon said, shrugging.
Wendre had come through that door. Horn didn’t envy the aristocrat; it was little better than staying in the room. Objectively, there wasn’t much chance for any of them. Even Ronholm would have to fight his way to the elevator which might or might not work when he reached it.
Perhaps it was better to stay here and take Duchane with him when the shooting started—
“We,” Wu said carelessly, “will take the third exit. I am taking Wendre with me.”
“No!” The word was torn from Duchane’s lips. The hound beside him leaned forward, snarling.
“Careful!” Wu cautioned. “Remember the alternative!”
“Take her!” Duchane groaned. “Down, boy!” he whispered. The hound relaxed a little.
“Come, Wendre,” Wu said, slowly lifting himself out of his chair. “And, companions in peril, back to your chosen exits. The doors should be open and the halls empty.”
Ronholm stood up and began backing. He licked his lips nervously. Fenelon turned and walked briskly toward the door he had chosen. The guns of their guards were steady as they backed away.
Wendre was beside Wu. Wu backed toward the wall behind them. Horn kept his pistol steadily in the middle of Duchane’s chest. He backed a little.
Wu scuffled his feet, as if he were turning toward the wall. In a moment Horn heard a whisper of movement; a breath of air cooled the back of his neck. There had been a third exit. Somehow Wu had known it and got it open.
Duchane’s eyes were hot with fury. Horn’s finger itched against the trigger.
“Ready, gentlemen,” Wu said. “Slowly, now.”
Step by step, Horn backed, feeling walls swing in on either side of him. Into his peripheral vision came the two other doorways. They were empty. The door whispered as it began to slide shut; the rectangle in front of him narrowed swiftly. Simultaneously, Horn heard the whine and screaming ricochet of bullets in the distance.
Horn snapped a shot through the narrow opening. Blackness threw itself toward him, over the table, jaws gaping to swallow the bullet meant for Duchane. Horn threw himself toward the sheltered wall with outspread arms. He crushed Wu and Wendre behind him. Three bullets whined through the narrow slit before the door slid shut.
“What’s this?” Horn asked, turning quickly.
Wu trotted up the dimly lit corridor in front of Horn. Between them was Wendre, who glanced curiously over her shoulder at Horn as she ran.
“Duchane’s mind is devious,” Wu puffed. “It runs to traps and secret passages. This is one of the latter.”
“I haven’t had time to thank you, Matal,” Wendre began.
“No time now, either,” Wu said.
A long flight of narrow stairs led down into darkness. Wu didn’t hesitate. He felt quickly over the wall beside the stairs. Another hidden door slid aside. Behind it, stairs led up. Wu pushed them ahead, up the stairs, and stopped to close the door behind them.
The stairs were interminable. They raced up them until Wu called a halt. He leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his padded bosom, gasping for breath. Slowly color returned to his pale face.
“Go on,” he panted.
Horn hesitated and then grabbed Wu’s right arm. He draped it around his shoulders. With his left arm around Wu’s thick waist, he half-lifted him, half-dragged him up the stairs.
“I’m all right,” Wu protested, but Horn didn’t release him until they had climbed into a small dusty room at the top of the stairs. Half a dozen spacesuits hung from their supports against one wall, transparent helmets racked above.
“What do we do now?” Wendre asked.
“Get out of here fast,” Wu said.
“Where to?.” Horn asked. “Duchane’s got the power. No place is safe as long as he’s General Manager—”
“Why did you want me to vote for him?” Wendre asked.
“How long do you think we’d have lived if you had been elected?” Wu asked softly. “But Horn is right; we must strike back at Duchane. The only way to do that is to cut off the Tubes.”
“We can’t!” Wendre protested, horrified.
“Can’t?” Wu raised one eyebrow.
“Oh, it can be done, of course, but it would cripple the Empire!”
“Better that it be crippled temporarily than fall into the hands of a man like Duchane,” Wu said gravely.
“Maybe that’s true,” Wendre agreed, “but think what it will mean in terms of lives! Power will go off all over the Empire. Everything will stop on thousands of worlds: factories, cars, planes, elevators, slideways. Homes will have no heat; food can’t be cooked. Panic and accident will take millions of lives; children will starve, Eron itself will start dying; a few days without food—”
Wu shrugged. “All over the Empire men are dying, children are starving. If they can’t survive a few days without the power that Eron pipes from Canopus, they don’t deserve to live. Consider how many will die if Duchane consolidates his power.”
“No!” Wendre said decisively, shaking her head. “That’s not the way to save the Empire. We’ll go to my residence. We’ll be safe there while we build up a force to strike back.”
“As you will.” Wu turned away. “But we must hurry. Get into the suits.” The old man turned toward the other wall. Set into it was a miniature visiplate. There were ten numbered buttons beneath it. Wu’s fat fingers blurred as they pushed a series of eight. Wu turned to see Horn watching him. “Quick!” he said.
Wendre was fumbling her way into a suit. It gave him a curious, light-headed sensation when he accidentally touched her as he helped. He steadied himself.
“At the time of the capitulation on Quarnon Four,” he said slowly, “who knew about your father’s plans for the celebration?”
Her tawny eyes searched his face curiously. “I did. He mentioned it, idly, shortly after we arrived.”
“Did any of the other Directors know?”
“Not unless he mentioned it before we left,” Wendre said. “I was the only one to go with him to the Cluster. Why?”
Horn shrugged. “I don’t know.” He started to lower the helmet over her head.
She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Horn felt an unreasonable warmth flood through his body. “A pleasure,” he said, and clamped down the helmet. He pointed to the gauges. She nodded and brushed them away.
Horn turned back to Wu. The visiplate showed a small, empty room with dark gray walls. The few pieces of furniture in the room were overturned or smashed. Wu pressed another button. The screen went blank. He turned.
“Cult headquarters,” he said, shrugging. “Raided.”
“Where do we go now?” Horn asked.
“To the cap, of course, to turn off the Tubes,” Wu said with wide eyes.
Horn glanced at Wendre and remembered that she couldn’t hear them. Her eyes were curious; she stepped away from the wall clumsily, but in a few strides she had learned the short, quick steps that kept the heavy suit balanced. Wu hustled to the shortest suit on the wall. It was still too big, and he had a little difficulty in getting into it.
“What about her?” Horn asked.
“You’re getting sentimental,” Wu said gently. “Helping me up the steps, worrying about a woman. We’ll bring her around.”
“It isn’t g
oing to be easy getting to the cap,” Horn said.
“True,” Wu said. “But it will be no more difficult getting there than it will be getting anywhere.”
“What was the real reason you swung the vote to Duchane?”
“Duchane was a fool. He had the substance, but he had to have the trappings, too. Wendre might have saved the Empire. The slaves fear Duchane worse than death; his term will be bloody but brief. Hurry! We’ve wasted too much time now.”
Horn slipped into a suit. He had it locked tight within seconds. By the time he moved away from the wall, Wu had opened another door. Behind it was a second, narrower stairway leading up to a metal ceiling. Wendre was standing in it, half-bent. Wu motioned Horn past him.
Horn turned on the stairs and saw Wu slipping an extra gauntlet carefully between the jamb and the closing door. When the plate above them slipped aside, Horn felt an explosive push and then a diminishing tug as the air escaped past them into the blackness beyond. Freezing water vapor turned the air white; ice crystals formed around the edge of the horizontal doorway.
The air began to slow; the glittering crystals disappeared. They climbed out carefully—Wendre, Horn, and Wu—onto the gray, metal skin of Eron.
On the gray horizon, at the end of a dim, red, narrowing path, the feeble Ko-type sun hung against the blackness like a fading spark about to be extinguished in a frozen sea. There was no moon, and the unwinking stars gave almost as much light as the sun.
Horn turned slowly, staring out across the unbroken, monotonous grayness, seeing it curve away from him. It was like standing on a giant ball. Horn had the uneasy feeling that it would be easy to start slipping and slide across the smooth, curving metal plain and never stop. There was nothing to see, nothing to stop the slow sweep of the eye.
Horn blinked and shivered. He looked up. That was worse. He felt that he was hanging head downward toward the stars, glued insecurely to a thin, metal disk above.
Beyond one horizon, gold streamers fanned out, diminishing into the blackness of night. The metal skin reflected them dully. They reminded Horn of the familiar aurora polaris phenomenon, but that was atmospheric and there wasn’t any air here. Horn realized, then, that the streamers were the Tubes.
One of the Terminal caps was not too far away, Horn judged, although it was difficult to estimate distance on this featureless plain.
Something was tapping on the arm of Horn’s suit. He swung around. It was Wu’s hand. Horn reached toward the breastplate of his suit to switch on the intercom, but Wu slapped the gauntlet away. Horn leaned forward, noticing that Wendre’s helmet was pressed against Wu’s. When Horn’s helmet touched theirs, he heard Wu’s voice, thin and distorted.
“No phones,” Wu said. “Too dangerous. The airless room and stairways below will slow them down. They’ll have to find suits, but we can’t count on too much time. Duchane’s clever. He’ll have ships out within an hour, and there’s no place to hide. The sanctuary I was counting on is gone, even if we could reach it.”
“My residence,” Wendre suggested again. Even filtered and hollow, her voice was low and lovely.
“Duchane will have guards surrounding it,” Wu pointed out, “even if he hasn’t taken it over by now.”
“My guards are faithful,” Wendre said firmly.
“Possibly,” Wu conceded. “Even so, we need a safe way to get there. Even more immediate, we need a way out of this pitiless exposure and back into Eron. Once there, the best route is the private tubeway, which is basically safe. Duchane can’t sabotage it within hours. But where we can reach it—or where we are now, for that matter—I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Horn pointed toward the golden streamers. “That’s north or south.”
“North!” Wendre said. “Duchane’s residence is close to the north cap.”
Wu raised his head and studied the display for a moment. “About sixty kilometers, I’d estimate, from the apparent size of the Tubes. Too far to walk. Wendre? Do you have a suggestion?”
She shook her head bewilderedly.
“The only tube entrance I know,” Horn contributed, “is a place called the Pleasure Worlds.”
“The Pleasure Worlds,” Wu mused. “That sounds familiar. Let’s see: Eron is divided three different ways. The longitude has letter designations; the latitude and level, numbers. The first two describe a truncated, inverted pyramid.”
“It’s on the top level,” Horn interrupted.
“That’s right,” Wu said, frowning. “Let me remember! The location is—BRU-6713-112. Top level. South of here. If I’m right on my estimate of our present distance, about seven kilometers south. We’ll head in that direction and try to think of a way to determine our longitude. Stick together. If one gets separated, we might never be able to find him.”
They headed away from the golden streamers. They walked toward an unchanging, unmoving horizon curving gently away from them. There was no impression of getting anywhere. To the southwest, hanging unmoving above the horizon, was Eron’s feeble red sun.
They tramped over the endless gray distances, Wu with a skill that soon matched Horn’s. But then, Horn thought, Wu had enjoyed the experience of several hundred lifetimes. Occasionally Horn helped Wendre. He found even that metal contact oddly stimulating.
Time was meaningless; the sun was still. Horn wondered if their heavy footsteps were disturbing Eron’s nobility below. They weren’t, of course. The buffer zone for meteors and the insulation were impervious to sound.
Horn stopped suddenly. Wu, feeling the vibration through his feet, looked back. Horn motioned him to another helmet-to-helmet conference. His lips twisted as he thought how strange it was, their little group huddled together upon this gray world while beneath them humanity teemed like ants in a hill, living, loving, suffering, dying.
“The ships must have some way of identifying sectors,” Horn said, “where to land and so on. Sight would be much too slow. It would have to be radio, and these suits incorporate planet-to-ship frequencies.”
Wu nodded. “Everybody quiet.”
Horn brushed the switch and tuned to the pts frequency. The inside of the helmet whined; it was an excruciatingly painful sound. Horn turned it off hastily and sighed. “Automatic. It would have to be, of course.”
“Has anyone been looking down?” Wu asked. They stared at each other blankly; the unchanging horizon had a way of seducing the eye upward in the futile hope of seeing something different. “I thought not,” Wu said. “Just before you stopped, I noticed something to the left.”
In a few moments they were looking down at three letters painted beside a broad, golden stripe running north and south: BRT.
“Repairmen and working crews would need guides like these,” Wu said exultantly. “And we’re off less than one seventeen-thousandth of the circumference. At this latitude, that’s about twenty-two meters. Which way do they letter? Oh, my poor, abused head!”
“West,” Wendre said.
They headed west. In a few minutes they were standing over another golden line. This one was lettered: BRU. They had been marching south between the two lines.
They followed the stripe south until another stripe crossed it at right angles. It was numbered: 67.
“Sixty-seven kilometers from the pole,” Wu sighed. “If my memory hasn’t played tricks on me, the Pleasure Worlds is only one hundred and thirty meters south.”
It was only when they began to look closely that they noticed the small figures painted regularly beside the stripe they followed. Gradually the figures climbed from “1” to “12” and then “13.”
“Here!” Wu said. “Let it be here! We can’t have much more time before the ships are out in force.”
They scattered to search for a trap door. Wendre came running back toward them, almost falling, and led them toward a plate recessed into the gray metal. Painted across it clearly was the designation: BRU-6713-112.
“You try the door itself,” Wu told Horn, “while Wendre and I sta
mp around the outer edge. There must be some way to open this from the outside.”
They never learned the exact location of the latch. While they were doing their strange dance, the door suddenly started sliding under Horn’s thundering feet. He leaped to safety beside Wendre. Starlight revealed an upper step. Horn started down.
The stairway seemed identical with the one at Duchane’s. An outstretched hand touched metal. Wendre pressed close behind him. Back of her was Wu, bending painfully below the door level.
Wendre’s helmet pressed against Horn’s. It had the intimacy of a caress. “Matal says there will be a latch disk beside the door. Cover it with your hand.”
Horn’s hands were already working their way around both sides of the door. Unexpectedly, the darkness deepened and became impenetrable night. The trap door had closed overhead. Why didn’t the door open in front?
It was the air, of course. The room was an air lock, and air had to be released into the little stairwell before the door in front could open. It opened, and Horn still couldn’t see. Water vapor had condensed and frozen on their helmets. Horn brushed away some of the frost with his gauntlet and stepped into the lighted room. As the frost gathered again, the light sparkled and blurred and then the frost began to melt and trickle down the plastic.
Horn backed into an empty wall rack and braced himself against it as he stripped off his gauntlets and gingerly touched the helmet clamps. They were cold but not dangerous. In a moment he was out of his suit and helping the others.
They found their way down long stairs and finally into the yellow hall that Horn remembered. This time it was silent. They met no one. The whole place seemed deserted.
“The Pleasure Worlds,” Wendre said. “What is it?”
“Here, for a price,” Wu said, “men can indulge their passions, some strange and some not so strange.”
“Oh,” she said. Her golden face darkened.
“This is it,” Horn said. The door had a pale blue disk.
Wu brushed it. The door didn’t open. Wu knelt in front of the door and pressed his forehead against it. Horn glanced down curiously. Wu’s eyebrows were moving like tiny snakes. They worked into the crack beside the door. The infinitely useful Lil.
