by James Gunn
Each group leader would receive instructions to give opponents a chance to join them. Again with any survivors. The battle cry would be “Sair!” All recruits would cut or tear off their sleeves.
Above all, communications. Group leaders would keep in constant touch by runner—
“I’ll go with the group to the left,” Redblade said, showing his teeth in a ferocious grin.
“You’ll stay here!” Horn snapped. “You’ll coordinate information from the runners and dispatch assistance and supervise organization of new—”
“But the control room,” Redblade pleaded; “we can’t hope to take the cap and hold it unless we can isolate it. We need the communications. We need to cut individual Tubes and close air locks and—”
“That battle, like all the rest of them, will be won and lost here,” Horn said firmly. “A staff operation may not be glamorous, but it’s vital.”
Like all staff operations, this was blind; like most, this was confusion. Horn fought for eyes and after that for order; he never got either one satisfactorily. There was never time to do anything thoroughly or well. Impressions swarmed about him; decisions pressed in on him. He snapped off answers and orders by instinct and impulse and a vague sort of pattern that grew unconsciously at the back of his mind.
While Redblade bellowed commands through the amplifier, calling off names and assignments, Horn turned to the floor. As the room cleared, he drafted a group to begin laying out a map of the north cap. When the runners began streaming back, Horn was ready. Slowly the map was clarified and filled in. This room was taken; that one clear. Here a desperate battle with Denebolan lancers or gray guards or blue guards or green guards.… So many casualties. Send more men. Send more guns. Send more ammunition. Send—
The groups that had been drilling under their black-uniformed leaders began to thin out. Soon there were only ten groups left to run and throw themselves flat, dry-fire, and take cover. Horn glanced around worriedly. In a few minutes, there would be too few for safety.
A mass of ragged recruits streamed through the door and went wild at the sight of Sair. When they were quieted, they began to drill. Leaders for them came from the remnants of previous groups.
Perhaps that was the turning point. Horn was never able to pin it down. It might have been earlier when Sair appeared at the ship’s lock and the ragged mob shouted his name. But if anything was the key to victory, it was Sair and the name of Sair.
As the word spread that Sair was alive and on Eron, their forces grew. Sair himself, sitting wearily on an empty crate, spoke briefly through the amplifier to each new throng and passed them on dedicated and malleable.
Impressions assailed them, demanding, relentless: reports, consultations, orders, alarms, successes, failures, garbled messages, lost runners.… But the area under their control grew and the map grew with it. Here was a ship; cargo—packaged food. There was a store of weapons, dynode cells, bullet clips.…
The room became jammed again. Casualties were heavy, but reinforcements were greater. Most of the new recruits were slaves but some of them were rebellious guards and service troops, and there was one bunch of Tube technicians in gold uniforms.
Horn drew them aside and asked, as he had asked dozens of times already, if they had seen Wendre or heard from her. They shook their heads. They had been in the control room when the first attack came; they were all who were left.
Horn turned aside and back to the ever-increasing demands of organization. Nearby rooms were commandeered for assembly and training areas. The first one became headquarters alone. Squads were detailed as arsenal workers, locating and centralizing weapons and ammunition, passing them out. The service troops became cooks and mess-attendants. One kitchen cooked countless liters of soup; it was distributed with condensed emergency rations.
Horn gulped down lukewarm soup and swallowed a few pellets. It was poor stuff, but it was food and food was strength.
As men became proficient in the use of the map, Horn placed them in charge with instructions to report to him as decisions became necessary. Redblade assumed the burden of sending reserves where they were needed, and his amplified bull’s bellow echoed through the tall rooms and corridors.
Horn tore himself away from the barely ordered confusion and tried to think. After so long in the middle of it, he needed a perspective. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the map. At last he saw what he had been missing.
He hunted down the bellow; he fought his way to the pirate’s side. “What happened to those groups we sent toward the control room?”
“Some of them reported back,” Redblade said, surprised.
“I know. The corridor to the left is in our hands for a kilometer, but not the control room. Reports stopped coming in. How’s it going otherwise?”
“We’re not getting so many calls for reinforcements. Now I’m wondering what to do about the new men who keep coming in. We’re running out of room.”
“Spread out,” Horn said, shrugging. “We seem to have most of the corridors and over half the Tube rooms. But it’s no good without the control room. Is there anyone you can trust to leave in charge?”
“No,” Redblade said frankly. “But I think they’ll be too busy for a while to do any mischief, and I don’t think they can move a mob like this. Only one thing is holding them together. Sair. So there’s a few of our fellow prisoners from Vantee who can take over.”
“Good,” Horn snapped. “I’ve got one on the map. Deputize them. We’ve done as much as we can do here. It’s time we saw some action. We’ll take two groups. More would get in the way.”
Redblade’s shoulders straightened and he seemed to grow taller as he turned away.
Horn assembled the gold-uniformed technicians and turned to lead them into the corridor.
“I think,” said a soft voice at his elbow, “that it is time for me to act also.”
It was Sair. Horn studied him for a moment and nodded. “Let’s go.”
They moved quickly down the corridor. The Tube rooms they passed were securely in the hands of their forces. After a kilometer they discovered why there had been no reports. The corridor ended against a solid wall.
Horn turned to one of the technicians. “What’s this?”
“Safety barrier. It’s air tight. There’s hundreds of these. They can be lowered from the control room.”
“Can we get through it?”
“Eventually, I suppose. With unitronic torches.”
“We can’t waste that much time.” Horn turned away. “Let’s go in the back door.”
As he led the groups back through the corridor to the first ramp to the lower levels, Horn thought about the safety barrier that had been lowered and the barriers that could have been lowered but weren’t. Someone was in the control room, and he wasn’t taking advantage of his opportunities. He seemed to be interested only in defense.
Horn and Redblade were in front of the party with Sair just a little behind. They were followed by the dozen technicians and two, well-disciplined, fifty-man groups. They met squads coming and going, trotting outward, fresh and confident, or trudging back with their wounded, weary and bloodstained. Even the latter looked up and shouted “Sair!” when they caught sight of the old man.
Runners tried to deliver their message to Horn or Redblade, but Horn waved them on. As they came out into the throbbing, dark, bottom level, bullets whined close to them. Horn quickly deployed his groups. In a minute, they moved out into the corridor and the disorganized remnants of a gray guard detachment scattered and ran.
At the end of the narrow corridor, the door stopped them only for a moment. It gave easily, and Horn decided that it was not the one he had used before. The circular room with its cylindrical pillar was empty.
Horn stood under the ladder and stared up at the plate covering the opening. It had not been screwed back down. Horn climbed to the top rung of the ladder and hesitated. Redblade moved under him. Horn put one foot on Redblade’s shoulder, one foot on
the ladder, and shoved the plate open.
As it clattered against the floor above, Horn was through the opening, his pistol in his hand. There were guards in the room, but they were careless. They were helping two men scramble through the open door of the central tube into the room. The guards were dressed in gold uniforms, but some of the others were ragged laborers from the lower levels.
“Don’t move!” Horn said briskly, and they were too surprised to think of disobedience.
Then Redblade was beside Horn, and men were pouring through the circular opening after him. By the time the guards had made up their minds to resist, the odds were impossible. One of them started to move toward the wall that hid the elevator, but Horn waggled his pistol suggestively.
When Peter Sair was boosted and lifted into the room, many of the laborers gasped.
“This is Peter Sair,” Horn said. “Didn’t you know he was back?”
“Thought I heard that name,” one of the slaves muttered. “It was a fight up there. Thought it was a trick.”
“How many of you would like to fight for Sair and freedom?” Horn asked.
All of the slaves stepped forward eagerly. A few of the uniformed guards glanced at their officer and then settled back.
Gold, Horn thought. Gold for Communications. Gold for Wendre. It seemed incredible that they could still be working for her. How could she have got away from the men who grabbed her above? How could she have contacted her guards, found the loyal ones, and dispatched them here?
“Who sent you here?” Horn asked.
The guards were silent. Horn glanced at the slaves.
“The Entropy Cult,” said the slave who had spoken before. “They sent us through that thing to fight for freedom.”
Horn shook his head bewilderedly. Now the Cult. Where did it come in? Unless Wu had got away and thrown the Cult’s forces, whatever they were, to the side to rebellion—
He turned to the wall and pressed the spot on it that Wendre had pressed. The wall slid silently aside. He motioned to the leader of one of his groups. He put the man’s hand over the concealed latch.
“Count five and press this. Send up three men. After them three more. Stop when there’s just enough left to guard the prisoners.”
He stepped into the elevator. Redblade was close behind. Sair crowded in as the third man. Horn frowned and shrugged. Although Sair would be useless in a fight, his face was worth a dozen guns. It would be disastrous if he were killed, but violence was everywhere. No place was safe.
The door slid shut in front of him. Beside it was a lighted disk. Horn palmed it. The elevator started up. When the car stopped and the door opened, pistols were in the hands of Horn and Redblade. They stepped quickly out of the car and to opposite sides.
The room was the same as Horn remembered it: the panels, the chairs, the walls with their flickering dots of color.… But it was busy now. Technicians were at the panels, sitting in the chairs, moving around the room. It had an air of purpose and efficiency.
Everything stopped. Everyone turned to stare at the three men standing in front of the closed elevator doors. Horn’s orange uniform was tattered; Redblade had almost no clothing at all to hide his massive body. Between them was a man with a familiar face who wore a torn prison coat and trousers.
“Peter Sair!” one of them muttered, and the name worked its way around the room.
In the middle of the room the vault door hung open like an admission of Eron’s poverty, a reminder of a long-lived secret that was a better secret than Eron suspected. Beside it was an officer with a golden, pure-blood face and an air of command. He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Horn.
“Horn?” There was a note of curiosity and expectancy in his voice.
Horn’s gun lifted in warning. Behind him, the elevator door slid open. Three more armed men stepped into the room.
“I’m Horn,” he said slowly.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” the officer said. He waved his hand at the control room. “If you returned, the Director said that we should turn this over to you.”
THE HISTORY
Knowledge.…
For some, it is an end in itself. For most, it is a tool, the greatest tool, archetype of all tools. Knowledge is basic. With it, man’s puny strength can be multiplied infinitely.
One of the peculiarities of knowledge is that it always overflows its container. New containers must be built to hold it. Books supplanted the human brain and were themselves superseded by films, which gave way to tapes.… At the end of the sequence was the Index.
Its inventor was trying to discover the secret of the Tube. He built a bigger container. Its capacity was unlimited, because additional units could be attached as needed.
Each unit contained billions of floating, microscopic crystals. Each crystal, coated with a monomolecular metal film, was a dynode cell capable of receiving, storing, and discharging energy on its own wavelength.
The inventor filled it with knowledge and asked it the vital question. The Index answered: “The invention described is impossible.”
The knowledge it called on was, of course, human knowledge.
To Duchane, on the other hand, the Index was invaluable. It grew until it occupied mile after square mile of precious Eron floor space. Into it were fed the complete files of every Company office, the immense volumes of police reports, intimate data on every individual within the limits of the Empire.…
Duchane didn’t ask the impossible. The questions he asked were simple. But, sometimes, the answers were a little strange.…
19
DANGER BELOW
“The Director?” Horn asked shakily.
“Wendre Kohlnar,” the officer said. His face was puzzled and a trifle condescending. “Don’t ask me why. I’m just obeying orders.”
“Where is she?” Horn asked quickly. His eyes searched the room.
The officer shrugged. “Somewhere in Eron. I suspect that she’s mad, but then everyone seems to be these days.”
The elevator doors kept opening and closing behind Horn; armed men spread out around the room.
“The last time I saw her,” Horn said, “she had just been captured by rebels—”
“Slaves,” the man amended. “They seemed to have some connection with the Entropy Cult. They gave the Director a chance to talk, and she said she wanted to help. Oddly enough, they believed her. Even odder, they were right.”
Half of the workers in the room, Horn had noticed, were dressed in the drab rags of the lower levels. “And you don’t know where she’s gone?”
The officer shrugged again as if the whims of the insane were beyond him. “She contacted me from here, gave me instructions to gather what loyal guards and technicians I could find, and told me how to get here through the Directors’ private tubeway. When I arrived, she left by the same means.”
Horn was silent. He felt Redblade and Sair staring at him curiously. “All right,” he said quickly. “We’re taking over. You’ll tell your men that they’ll take orders from us, Sair, Redblade, or myself. So will you. Let’s get busy.”
With the dozen technicians Horn had brought, the control room had close to a complete complement. Horn had the barriers raised and the doors opened. In a few minutes he was reunited with the main body of rebel troops. The control room, with its myriad circuits, indicators, communication facilities, and controls, became central command. Reports steamed in.
Ninety percent of the north cap was in the hands of the rebels. Only a few strong points of resistance remained. With the control room’s flexibility, they would soon be reduced. Communication devices of several kinds brought coherence out of confusion. Barriers began to drop throughout the cap. In a few minutes, the opposition was isolated. Ventilators were closed, and firefighting gases were released. As the effectiveness of these measures became apparent, ideas for turning facilities into weapons occurred on every side.
But new forces kept arriving, and it was impractical to keep guards in
every Tube room.
“Can’t we stop them from coming?” Horn asked the casually efficient officer.
“We can’t cut off the Tubes,” he said. “Only a Director can do that with the main switch. But we can cut the power to the Tube rooms. The ships won’t come out of the lock. The troops will have to climb through the personnel lock in spacesuits. We can lock all doors, flood them with gas—”
“Good,” Horn said quickly, cutting him off as his enthusiasm threatened to get out of hand. “As soon as our troops are out of the way, do everything you can think of. What about the south cap?”
“We cut off power to there as soon as I took over. Duchane’s men were in control, but now we haven’t been able to raise anyone for hours.”
In half an hour, the north cap was in their hands as securely as it would ever be. Horn turned to Sair. “Eron’s isolated. Now it’s only a matter of dealing with the forces already here.”
Horn felt a great weariness. After so long they had only taken the first step, important though it was.
Sair took a deep breath and turned to the gold-uniformed officer. “You said you were in touch with the south cap. Could you make a general hookup from here to broadcast to every receiver in Eron?”
He shrugged. “Of course. It will go out to every screen, public or private. But I can’t guarantee how many are still in operation.”
“Set it up,” Sair said. “Let me speak to Eron.”
In a few minutes, it was ready. Sair stood in a small cubicle surrounded by the round, blank, staring eyes of camera lenses.
“Yes,” he began quietly. “You recognize me. I am Peter Sair, who has been called the Liberator. I am alive. I am on Eron. Forces under my command have just taken over the north Terminal cap and the control room. Eron is isolated. The Empire is doomed.
“It is right. It is just. It is past time. Once more, throughout the five-hundred-light-year radius of the Empire, men will be free to live as they wish, to choose their own paths, and to follow them to their own goals. It is not a simple thing, or an easy one, to be free. And it isn’t simple or easy to break the power of an Empire without shattering that Empire to pieces.
