by E. C. Tubb
“I thought so. You spoke his name. Twice. Then I slapped you.” Carter stared wonderingly at his hand. “How many times did you hit me?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I thought that I was fast, but you moved faster than any man I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even know what was happening.” He nodded to the two miners. “You can let him go now, he won’t do it again.”
Tiredly Curt slumped into a chair and stared at the floor. He felt ill, physically ill, and, at the same time, he was conscious of a peculiar sense of power. Something was wrong. He had thought of an old friend, dead now for more than two centuries, and suddenly it had seemed as if Comain had stood before him, smiling, talking, real. Then the pain of the blow and the electron-swift reaction. He had lied to Carter. He remembered his blows, five of them, all delivered within the space of . . . of . . .
He frowned. Incredible as it seemed he couldn’t recall any passage of time during the incident, but it had been between the impact and the withdrawing of the young doctor’s hand. And that meant he had moved fast.
A muted drone hummed in the silence of the room and light flared on a dark sheet of smooth plastic. It swirled, steadied, and a woman stared into the room.
“Doctor Lasser?”
“Yes?”
“Decision from Comain. The majority of the Martian colonists are to be transported to Everest. They will construct an observatory there. Machines for levelling the top of the mountain have already left. Transportation will be provided at dawn tomorrow for the selected personnel.”
“I see.” Lasser glared at the calm features of the woman. “You mentioned a ‘majority.’ Does that mean that some of us are to be separated from the main group?”
“Yes. Yourself and your assistants are to report to the Central Hospital. There your acquired skill can be used to the best advantage. Others will work as directed.'You will receive copies of the decision within an hour. That is all.”
“That is all.” Lasser snarled at the darkening screen. “So I’m to be a janitor in a hospital am I? Well, we’ll see about that!” Savagely he pressed a button beneath the screen.
“Information.”
“Yes?” A smooth-faced man looked inquiringly at the angry doctor. “What can I do for you?"
“I wish to consult Comain. How do I go about it?”
“Don’t you know?” Almost the man smiled. “There are public booths in every city. Find one, obey the instructions, and you may ask your question.”
“Thank you.” Lasser switched off the videophone and strode towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Carter stepped before the old man. “Are you crazy, Lasser? You know that they won’t let you out of the building. Calm down, man. We’ve got to think this one out.”
“Why? If that machine says that I should work in a hospital, then it can tell me how to dodge it. Anyway, I’m going to ask.”
“And if it asks you to don the helmet?” Carter nodded at the sudden look of understanding in the old man’s eyes. "Exactly. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep Curt ai secret. Are you going to throw all that away now?”
“No.” Wearily the old man sank into a chair. “What shall we do, Carter? How can we break the stranglehold Comain has on this planet?”
“I don’t know, but I do know that our only hope lies in Curt. He is the one man who can help us.”
“Before I can do that I’ve a lot to learn.” Curt rose from his chair and crossing the room stared out of the window. “You forget that I know nothing of this world. How am I going to live? Where? What shall I call myself? What shall I do if someone asks me for my registration number? If I’m to be of any use to you I’ve got to know these things.”
“He’s right, Lasser.” Carter stared at the old man. “It’s time we made some plans, and the first thing is to give Curt a number. ” He frowned at his own wrist with its neatly tattooed serial index.
“That’s easy.” Wendis bated his own wrist. “We can invent one.
“No. If they check with Comain and find that his number isn’t registered, they will know at once that he is suspect. No. It would be best to give him one of ours. Better in a way, it could be a form of alibi.”
“Good enough.” Wendis nodded and thrust out his arm. “He can have mine.”
“That’s settled then. I’ll copy it in indelible ink, it will be fast, but he can remove it with a chemical if necessary. Now, for the general background.” Carter stared at the silent figure of the young man by the window. “You know by now that Comain rules the planet, in fact if not in name. You must always be careful to avoid registration, on no account must you ever don the helmet, and don’t let anyone persuade you to either.”
“I understand.” Curt turned from the window. "You know,” he said quietly. “All this seems just a little fantastic. You talk of a machine which can assimilate all data and predict coming events from that information. I grasp the idea, but the thing must be intricate beyond imagination. How was it ever built?”
“It wasn’t,” said Lasser curtly. “It grew.” He nodded towards the huge building framed in the window. “That thing has been growing for two and a half centuries now. At first it was a glorified calculating machine, then a limited value predictor, now it is almost a God.”
“Comain was an atheist,” said Curt quietly. “He wouldn’t like to be called a God.”
“It isn’t what the machine wants, it’s what the people decide, and I tell you, Curt, they almost worship that thing.”
“Perhaps, but never mind that now. How do I live?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Lasser, sombrely. “I’d hoped that * we could all give you a part of our wages, but if we are to
be separated that won’t be possible. You could get a job, of course, but that may not be too- easy.”
“How about gambling?” Curt grinned as he asked the question. “I used to be pretty lucky with a pair of dice.” “Gambling is legal. Every city has its pleasure palace and casino, but where are you going to get money for a stake?” “From you, of course, where else?” '
Lasser nodded, and Wendis stirred impatiently from where he stood by the darkened videophone.
“We can give him what we receive from the sale of our personal possessions,” he snapped. “What I want to know is what do we do after that? How are we going to wreck Co-main?”
“We are not going to wreck Comain.” Lasser glared at the young man. “We are going to force the Matriarch to grant us an independent Mars. The only way we can do that is to disturb things to such an extent that they will be glad to get rid of us. Any talk of rebellion or wrecking will bring the metamen after us, and you know what that means.” “Imprisonment?”
“Yes. Any attempt to sabotage Comain is punishable with five hundred years forced labour.”
“What?” Curt stared at the old man. “You must be mistaken. No man can live five hundred years.”
“No man has lived five hundred years,” corrected Lasser, grimly. “But that is only because the metamen are relatively new.” He smiled humourlessly at the young man. “You haven’t met them yet have you? Wait until you do, then you will understand how a man can be forced to labour for half a millennium. Death would be a pleasure in comparison.”
He spun at the sound of a heavy tread outside the door, and silently the five men waited for the portal to open. Something entered the room.
It was tall, ten feet from the soles of its metal feet to the top of its cone-shaped head. It moved with a mechanical precision and it looked like a demented parody of a man. It thudded to a halt, and from its twin-scanning lenses deep ruby lights flickered and pulsed.
“Doctor Lasser?” Its voice was cold, inhuman, like the sounds made by vibrating plastic and electrical current.
“Yes?” Lasser stepped forward.
“Decision of Comain.” The thing raised its articulated arm and held out a thin sheaf of papers. “Take them.”
Lasser took the papers from the
metal hand and stood waiting while the thing turned and thudded from the room.
“What was it?" Curt wiped sweat from his face and palms. “A robot?”
“That was a metamen,” said Lasser grimly. “The Matriarch probably sent it as a reminder to obey the predictions of Comain.” He stared at Wendis. “Now you know why you mustn’t even think of wrecking, the machine. Those things are potentially immortal, and how would you like to wear that metal shell and work at forced labour for the next five hundred years?”
“Those things,” whispered Curt sickly, “men?”
“The brains of men in mechanical bodies. Mostly those who have died by accident, or those who deliberately chose the potential immortality of a robot-like life to inevitable death. They are the guards of Comain, the servants of the Matriarch, emotionless, unfeeling, perfect servants and police. These are the elite of course, criminals are exiled to the Moon, but elite or not, the metamen are dangerous and will hunt a man to his death.”
“I see,” said Curt, and stared out of the window towards the huge building.
Suddenly he wanted very much to get out of the room.
CHAPTER XII
Night had fallen and the city of Comain glittered with ten thousand coloured lights, the great bulk of the central building scintillant with illuminated landing stages, terraces, speckled with lighted windows and glowing with floodlit radiance. Cars droned softly along the wide roads and people, careless, casual people, sauntered between high buildings as they walked towards their evening recreation.
Curt felt his pulses leap with excitement as he moved among them.
He wore a utilitarian suit of dull gray, a combination of slacks and high collared blouse, soft and comfortable against his skin. Money rested in his pocket, the proceeds of the sale of all the Martians’ personal possessions, and on his left wrist his skin tingled to the freshly applied chemical of an indelible number. Lasser had told him all he could, the old doctor knew more about conditions on Earth than any of the others, and now, with Wendis at his side, Curt was exploring the sprawling area of the Capital city.
“Any ideas, Curt?”
“Perhaps.” Curt frowned as the Asteroid Miner stepped closer. Despite himself Curt didn’t trust the man. He was too intense, too eager for action, too careless of his own and others’ safety. Wendis was a fanatic with a one track mind, the type of man who would cheerfully destroy a city or a civilisation to achieve his own ends. Curt didn’t mind that. He had no delusions as to why the Martians had smuggled him to Earth, and he knew that to the gaunt doctor and the fanatical Wendis he was but a tool, something to be used so that they could get their own way.
But sometimes a tool could use the user.
He halted before a terraced building, staring at the swirling beauty of everchanging colour from kaleidoscopic floodlights as they bathed the smooth concrete in shimmering waves of red and blue, green and yellow, merging and weaving in an eye-catching pattern. People moved through the wide double doors a colourful, happy throng, and soft music spilled from the building. ,
“Well?” Wendis jerked his head towards the wide doors. “Going in?”
“Is this the casino?”
“Yes.” The young miner stared'"contemptuously at the building. “This is where the decadent so-called men of Earth spend their recreation time. You can get anything here, drink, drugs, gambling, anything. These pleasure palaces provide the main form of amusement now.”
“Drugs?” Curt smiled. “What do you mean? Tobacco?” “I mean what I say. Gome on, the quicker we get to work the better.” Impatiently Wendis thrust towards the wide doors and shrugging, Curt followed him into the huge building.
A great hall stretched before him, a smoothly finished expanse of gleaming plastic, and from it stairs and passages led to various parts of the building. Down both walls a row of cubicles, looking something like the public telephone kiosks of his own age, stretched in close array and from them* a continuous stream of people eddied and swirled. Almost all the new arrivals seemed to head for the booths, entering, staying a few moments, then either making their way to one or the other of the passages, or, in a few cases, leaving the building. Curt touched Wendis on the arm and jerked his head towards the booths.
“What are they?”
“Public consultation booths. The fools are finding out whether or not they will enjoy themselves tonight. If they get a high prediction, they stay, if not, they leave and try something else.”
“You mean that if Comain tells them that they won’t have a good time they believe it?”
“Naturally. Isn't that what Lasser has been telling you all along.” The young miner scowled and headed towards a flight of stairs. “Come on. Let’s see if you are still lucky.”
The gambling rooms occupied a whole floor of the great building and Curt stared across the brilliantly lit expanse as he tried to recognise the various machines and lay-outs. People thronged the room, men and women, their faces flushed with excitement, and the steady droning of the croupiers and the endless clicking of chips and coins blended into muted sound.
“What are you going to try first? The dice?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to look around for a while. You forget, all this is new to me.”
“Suit yourself,” grunted Wendis. “I’m going to get a drink. I’ll meet you over "by the dice table, the third one from the end; this hanging about is getting on my nerves.”
“Maybe you should go back to the hotel and let Menson act as watchdog?” Curt stared at the angry face of the young miner. “It’s about time that you realised I don’t like being pushed around, Wendis. I’m not your property to do as you order. I’ll play in my own good time.”
“Then play, or cut your throat, or go to hell for all I care. I’m fed up with this. I want to get back home to Mars, and the sooner the better.”
“Will getting drunk help?”
"Damned if I know, but I’m going to try it.” He hesitated, then grinned, looking surprisingly young and foolish. “Sorry, Curt, but I’m all wound up inside. See you later?”'
“Yes.” Curt stared after the tense figure of the miner, then shrugging, turned to examine the gambling devices which almost filled the huge room.
Something like a slot machine stood close beside him and he examined it, studying the brilliant plastic and coloured metal. A small trap' at the top of the machine released,a ball, the game appeared to be to decide which of two channels the ball would take. It was a simple game paying even money, and he turned from it, looking for something more in his line. Other machines flanked the wall, some incredibly complex and paying high odds, others as simple as the first and hardly worth more than a curious glance. He halted before something which reminded him of an * old-fashioned pipe organ, and watched as a woman thrust coins into a slot.
Light flared behind a clear sheet "of plastic and tiny motes of searing brilliance spilled from the pipes, weaving and turning in a complex rhythm. Rapidly the woman pressed a series of buttons and a web of luminescence engulfed the brilliant motes. For a moment the two lights seemed to hang "suspended in invisible combat, then the web died and the motes flared in splendid victory.
- Biting her lips the woman moved away, and, after watching others wage their skill, Curt moved after her. That machine was not for him.
The droning of a croupier presiding over a spinning wheel attracted his attention and he watched the players push piles of coins onto a squared board. The wheel, a treble ring of black and white compartments, spun and a flickering point of light hovered above the spinning disc. It settled, the wheel stopped, and the voice of the impassive croupier echoed in the momentary silence.
“Central white. Odds a thousand to one. Place your bets please.”
Curt shrugged and moved on.
He felt restless, uneasy, tense and excited. Everything was so different, the clothes everyone wore, the casual indifference, the impression of carelessness as if no one had any cares 'or personal worries. It was
only at the tables that he felt at home. He-recognised the intent expressions, the flush of excitement and the eagerness of the gamblers as they placed their bets, but even here there was the same impression of indifference as if they knew that what they did wasn’t really important.
He halted by an expanse of green baize and smiled at the sight of familiar dice as they tumbled and rolled over the smooth surface.
This was for him.
Curt pressed forward, dragging money from his pocket and watching the flow of play. A man rattled the dice, threw them, grunted at the result and turned away. Curt nodded at the croupier and dropped several notes onto the table.
“Yes?”
“Sure.” Skilfully the man covered the bet and tossed the dice. Curt swept them up, feeling their smooth surfaces, rolling them between his palms. Abruptly he flung them against the end of the table. "
“Eight.” The croupier returned the cubes. “The point is eight.”
“Here it comes.” Curt rolled and threw.
“Nine. Try again.” The dice bounced and settled.
“Seven. You lose.”
Curt shrugged and passed over the dice. He hadn’t really expected to win, not at first, and patiently he waited until the dice passed around the table. '
“Ten credits. Right?”
“You’re covered.” Curt nodded and rolled the dice.
“Seven! A winner!”
“Let it ride.”
“Seven again!”
“Let it ride.” Curt licked his lips, feeling the familiar tension of a gambler on a lucky streak warming his stomach. Slowly he threw the cubes, sending them skittering across the table, bouncing them from the baffle at the far end.
“Seven again!” The croupier glanced at the young man. “Again?”
“Why not. Let it ride.” Around him he could feel the silent tension of the watching crowd. Three wins in a row wasn’t too unusual but it was unusual enough to arouse interest, and Curt smiled as h&. felt the cubes roll against his palm. He smiled, then, concentrating on throwing a seven, he threw the dice.
Again he won, and again he left the pile of money where it was. Now he stood to win a hundred and sixty credits, and if he could win again . . .
