by E. C. Tubb
“A woman is doing my job,” said Kufstein. “She’s doubling with a shift in the preparation room.”
“So you were given a hammer and told to get on with it, right? No choice given. Just do as you’re told and don’t argue. You go along with that?”
“What’s the point of arguing when work needs to be done?”
“No point,” said Anoux, meaningfully. “Especially when there’s a couple of Security guards standing behind you with guns in their hands. Guns they’d use if you wanted to protest.”
“That’s stupid talk!”
“Of course, Max, of course. It’s always stupid to argue against authority because, if nothing else, they have the big stick with which to beat you. A wise man doesn’t want to be beaten so a wise man obeys. Right? The wise man obeys.”
“Now wait a minute,” protested Carl. “Follow that to its logical conclusion and you’re saying that a slave is the wisest man of all.”
“How?” asked Kufstein.
“Think about it. A wise man is the one who obeys, right? Who is the one who obeys most of all? A slave. Therefore a slave is the wisest man there is.”
“So let’s all be wise and become slaves,” said Anoux.
“To hell with that!” rumbled Kufstein. “I’m no fool and I don’t intend to become a slave. Anyway, with a syllogolism like that you can prove anything. It’s a meaningless game. A trick of words.”
“Of course.” Anoux lifted a hand and wiped his faceplate. In the reflected glow of the lights his face was pale, mocking. “It’s nothing but a trick so forget it. But one thing I find hard to forget. Koenig is, at this moment, sitting in his office. You’ve seen his office? The big chair it contains? Well, he’s sitting in it now with, maybe, one of the girls at his side taking dictation. She’s an attractive girl and she likes to take dictation. They could even be sharing a bottle of wine. Most probably they are. It’s thirsty work giving orders.”
Carl said, quietly, “If you’re trying to say something, Raoul, maybe you’d better spit it out. I’m in no mood for riddles.”
“Nor me.” Kufstein turned to stare at the pale face behind the faceplate. “What’s in your mind, Raoul?”
“Nothing. I merely point out a few facts. We are down here, working sixteen hours a day, soaked in sweat, itching, aching, tired. We aren’t the only ones, I know, but there are others who are taking it easy. Koenig in his office giving his orders. Morrow sprawling in Main Mission and keeping his hands clean. Kano, Carter—you heard that he’s been made Head of Reconnaissance? Hezekiah in the stores—another soft number. Zavaroni, Chelata, Umdella, hell, I could name a score of them. They don’t dig. They don’t sweat. They don’t have to breathe their own stink for sixteen hours a day. Think about it, friends, that’s all I’m saying. Just think about it.”
Anoux was a creep but even a creep could talk sense at times. Think about it, he’d said, and as Kufstein picked up his hammer he did just that. Why should he have to use the hammer? Why did he have to wear the suit until it rubbed him raw? Why was it always him holding the sticky end?
As the hammer shuddered into life he remembered when he’d been a boy, hearing the irate voice of his father above the blare of the TV—“Max, you lazy swine! Where are you, Max? Go down to the deli and get some beer. Hurry, Max, hurry!”
Three other brothers, two of them younger than himself, but always it was him who had to run the errands. Always him to be considered last. Always him standing at the end of the line.
Damned if he would let it happen again!
The broken glass had been swept up, equipment restored to its position, fallen beams replaced so that Medical Sector looked as good as new but, still there was debris; the injured, the dying, the dead.
Doctor Bob Mathias paused at the entrance to a ward and looked down the line of cots. In the nearest a man lay blank-eyed, his face lax, chest and arms wrapped in a coccoon of bandages. Lower, a mummy-like head held only slits for eyes and mouth, the skin beneath coated with a hormone enriched salve to aid the healing of the disfiguring burns. A third man, his leg in traction, turned to smile with exaggerated cheerfulness.
“Hi, Doc! Come to count the bodies?”
“Just checking.”
“No need for that, Doc. Only one to a bed in here.”
Mathias forced himself to smile despite the fatigue which he felt riding his shoulders like a massive burden. A joke, any joke, no matter how poor was better than the dull stares of men who had given up hope. True a broken leg was a relatively minor injury but the man had been crushed beneath a rock fall and had suffered injuries to his pelvic region. The testicles had been damaged, or was it the penis?
He felt irritation at himself for his inability to remember. True he was tired and fatigue dulled the sharp edge of intelligence but to forget the exact injuries a patient had suffered was inexcusable. Not for the first time he missed Riden and his happy-go-lucky manner. A good doctor and an excellent surgeon with a fund of bantering good humor. A healer, trained, dedicated—wasted!
Mathias remembered how he had found the man, lying, seemingly asleep among a litter of glass, his eyes closed, the lashes lying softly on his cheeks, the hair in a tangled disarray. One hand, he recalled, had been turned palm upwards, the fingers curved as if closing on something, a figment of imagination or a conscious effort to grip hard to the life which he may have known, was vanishing. Or, no, Mathias corrected himself, he could not have known. The shard of glass which had thrust like a dagger into the soft area beneath the curve of the skull had killed immediately.
A moment of pain, perhaps, a sting as if from a giant bee—and then what? Had the brain rested in its dark confines, aware, conscious still, waiting until the lack of oxygen brought disintegration and final decay? Had death taken so long to arrive? Had Bob lain there, knowing, mentally screaming for help, unable to move, unable to do anything but pray.
Did death come like that? When the body died did the intelligence linger, trapped in the decaying brain, knowing and aware, a prisoner locked in a skull? Was that the time of judgement when life itself could be evaluated and old terrors spring to being so that creatures of the imagination lurking in the corners of a barely remembered hell could come forward and blossom into full and dreadful life?
A fantasy—when a man died he died. Once the system ceased to function then existence was over. And yet still the question remained—how long did it take to die? Three minutes and a dead man could be revived with no apparent loss of function. Longer and the brain revealed irreversible damage. At this moment, in the intensive care unit, men and women were being kept alive by machines. Did they know, consciously know, they were, in a sense, already dead?
“Doctor?” The man with the broken leg was staring at him, his face concerned. “Something wrong?”
“No.” Mathias glanced at the clip-board hanging at the foot of the cot. The writing was small but he had excellent vision. “No, Simon. I’m just a little tired, I guess. The quicker some of you bums get out of here the quicker I can catch up on my sleep.”
“I’m doing my best, Doc.” Simon Lansing smiled, pleased at having been addressed by name. A small thing, but it made him an individual not a unit on an assembly belt. He sobered as he threw back the cover, anticipating the inspection. “The leg seems fine, Doc, but how about this other thing?”
A nurse came forward to remove the dressing, her hands a soft amber against the green of the sheets, the sickly whiteness of the abdomen and thighs. Mathias leaned forward, sniffing, unaware of the habit developed years ago when he had first practiced in a primitive land. The initial test which could detect the presence of gangrene faster than modern technology.
The lack of the sickly sweet stench was noted and evaluated as he gently moved the limp appendage. One side of the penis was torn, the sac ruptured and marred with bruises and abrasions. Stitches now meshed it and salves added their colors to the red and purple flesh. Lansing winced as Mathias probed.
“That
hurt?”
“Like hell. Doc!” The man sucked in his breath as the fingers touched and gently kneaded the testicles. “Hey!”
“I’ve finished.” Mathias dipped his hands in the bowl of blue-tinted water the nurse offered him, rinsing, waving them dry as she redressed the wound. “You were lucky, Simon. Some nasty bruising but no actual, internal damage. No hernias and no blood-clots. Some fribulation and, for a while you’ll feel as if you’ve been kicked in the groin, but it’ll pass.”
“That’s a relief. And the other?”
“Will heal. Try not to get an erection. Pass water before sleep and as often as possible.” Mathias glanced at the nurse. She was neatly formed, a petite blossom from the Orient, her almond eyes enigmatic, her mouth like a crushed rose. An attractive girl, one too attractive to be in attendance on a man in Lansing’s situation. But he could help. A strong sedative and a double dose of bromides should do it. The girl’s eyes twinkled as he gave the order.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And then you’d better take over from Nurse Maguire in intensive care. It’s time she had a break.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Again the twinkle. Maguire had a heart of gold but her face and figure had long passed their prime. “I understand.”
“Good.” Mathias frowned as still she lingered at his side. “Something else?”
“Your class, Doctor. It is time.”
Almost he had forgotten and, for a moment, was tempted to cancel it, then recognized the temptation for the weakness it was. Others were involved and his fatigue must not be used as the excuse to absolve his responsibility. They also were tired but, if they could overcome their weariness, then so must he.
But others also had demands.
Mathias glanced down the ward at the figures he had yet to see. The nurse followed his eyes.
“Two are sleeping, Doctor,” she said quietly. “Three others are comfortable. Only Saxby is in pain.”
“Peter Saxby?”
“Yes. Your class, Doctor?”
“Make my apologies for being detained. Give me ten minutes.” Then, before she could leave he added, “Have everything arranged.”
Peter Saxby turned to stare at him as Mathias strode down the ward. The man was flushed, sweat beading his temples, deep lines graven from nostrils to mouth. His skin was flaccid to the touch and Mathias let his fingers linger for a moment, reminded of a snake he had once had as a pet when a boy, feeling the same concern for the man as he had for the reptile when, falling sick, it had died.
“I’m a nuisance, Bob.”
“You’re a sick man, Peter.”
“And no damned help to anyone lying here like a stinking log. I should be up and at work.”
“Yes, you should.” Matthis smiled at the expression he caught in the sick man’s eyes. “Did you expect me to say anything else?”
“Then why keep me here?”
“Because you’ve got a damaged kidney. That beam which fell on you wasn’t a feather. It could have broken your back and, if it had, you’d really have something to worry about. As it is you need time to heal. Here is where you get it. And,” Mathias said grimly, “we can do without martyrs.”
“You think I’m that?”
“You’ve refused medication.”
“Sedation, nothing else.”
“To me it’s all medication.” Mathias grew harsh with pretended anger. “Damn it, Peter, what the hell do you think you’re playing at? How would you like it if I told you how to do your job? You’d tell me to go to hell, right? Well, I’m telling you right now that this stupidity has to stop. You take what I prescribe and no arguments, understood?”
“We haven’t the stuff, Bob, you know that. Others need sedatives more than me. I can stand a little pain.”
Mathias leaned forward and touched the sweating cheeks. As he lifted his fingers, the brown skin glistening with moisture he said, quietly, “A little pain, Peter?”
“I can stand it. Damn it, Bob, back in the old days they had no choice. They—”
“Suffered like hell and they died crying,” snapped Mathias. “Don’t tell me how it was and still is in too many parts of the world. Women screaming in labor, men rotting, children hunched in corners like dumb animals locked in the hell of their sores, broken bones, diseases, burst spleens, ruptures, festering wounds. Their eyes eaten from the sockets by thirst-crazed flies. Their flesh a breeding ground for maggots. Naked bone showing where rats have torn away the flesh—God, man, don’t talk about pain to me!”
Almost he had lost control and was aware of it as he stood, trembling, his mind burning with remembered sights, scenes from nightmare, horrors hardly to be believed in an age in which men had reached for the stars and had built a home on the Moon. Ignorance and, worse than ignorance; an inhuman indifference to the suffering of others. A suffering which could be eliminated by the simple use of money. The redirection of wealth into medical services instead of being squandered on the bottles of gin spilled on the dirt at fashionable weddings, the cars, clothes, planes, machines for making holes in flesh, the uniforms, the strutting, the thrones of petty dictators, the perfumes and drugs and intoxicants—the cult of self, self, self!
“Bob!”
“It’s nothing.” Mathias drew in his breath, fighting for calm, for detachment. “But don’t act the fool, Peter. Take the medication I prescribe for you. There is no intrinsic virtue in pain.”
Saxby said, quietly, “I’m not trying to be a hero, Bob. I’m as weak as the next man, but, damn it, we are limited on supplies. I know it and so do you. Sedatives must be short and others might need them more than I do. So, if I can do without, it helps, doesn’t it?”
“In your case, no.” Mathias touched his own face and found it dewed with perspiration. As he wiped it he added, “That kidney needs to be rested. I want to avoid all stress and unnecessary movement until the ruptured tissues have a chance to heal. I don’t want you hanging about in here as a permanent guest. What I do need, what we all need, is for you to be up and out and back at work. Now do I get cooperation or do I have to hold you down and pump the dope into your backside?”
“That’ll hurt!”
“I know—that’s the idea.” Mathias smiled, feeling more relaxed now he had vented some of his accumulated tension. “A few cc’s of saline shoved into a buttock and you’ll have some idea what unbearable agony really is. A couple of treatments and you’ll be begging for relief.” He ended, with finality, “I’ll have Nurse Maguire take care of it.”
C H A P T E R
Eight
The corridor ran straight and wide, the walls and floor clearly delineated in the glow thrown by the overhead panels. It merged with a cross-passage, the left hand making for the recreation areas, the right to the living quarters. Behind was the complex fanning out into laboratories and offices, ahead rested the thick doors which closed off the down-sloping passage leading to the underground generators.
To Chan Anyang it was all in his mind as clear as any map; the passages, tunnels, corridors, compartments, sections, all the intermeshed and associated components of the base. A Security Guard needed such knowledge if he was to fulfil his function with any degree of efficiency. He had to know the area, the shortest route from any one point to any other, the detours possible in case of accidental blockage, the juxtaposition of compartments, the entire topography of the installation.
And it helped to know just where the whispering galleries were, the conduits which, by accident and not design, caught and transmitted sounds from one section to another. An unintended spy-system which betrayed confidences and which, in other times, could have provided a novelty.
“Listen!” Vladimir Volochek, the tough head of the Section had said. “Listen to whispers, to the flutter of an eyelash, to the crease of a smile. Watch for the unusual, a sudden break in movement, a glance, a frown where there is no cause. Grow antennae like an ant to sense the strain in the atmosphere. Trust nothing, be always suspicious, use your brain!
”
A hard man, Volochek, and it was common knowledge the Russian had worked for the KGB before being seconded by his nation to the Moon. Anyang could only guess as to what his original purpose had been, to spy, certainly, but for what remained a mystery. Now he sent his men out on endless patrols, sharing them, questing like a dog, sniffing the air as he opened doors, sometimes standing immobile for long periods as if trying to become a living part of the base as if, by so doing, he could sense its strains and weaknesses.
“We look for trouble,” he insisted at every briefing. “Any kind of trouble; a patch of dampness, a small burn, the scent of char, an instrument out of place, a door incorrectly dogged. That is one kind of trouble and just as important as any other. But the second kind isn’t so easy to spot and determine. A man walking from where he had no reason to be, the glance from one to another as you come into sight, the breaking of a word when you are near. Assess these things, note them and from whom they originate, put them into your reports. And, remember always, we are to protect the base and those it contains. At all times and at any cost. That is our function. You will remember it.”
As Anyang had remembered previous instructions when he had patrolled the streets of Hong Kong until, sickened by the corruption, he had applied to join the Security Guards stationed on the Moon and, much to his secret amazement, had been accepted.
Now, turning a corner, he glanced from side to side and, seeing it deserted, leaned negligently against the wall.
A voice as thin as a whisper said, “You wanna play that goddamned thing you take it somewhere else, you hear me? I ain’t joking, boy. I’ve had all I can take.”
“Sit down, man.” A deeper voice, rich, heavy, holding a potential violence. “Just sit and slow down, now. A little music never hurt no one. Just a few notes and you’ll get in the mood.”
“You’re pushing it! Start playing and I’ll smash that bloody flute over your head.” The third voice was sharper, higher, trembling on the edge of hysteria. “Sam’s right. Enough is enough. You want to play then get the hell out of here and let me get some sleep. You start making noises then, sure as God, I’ll stop you.”
