Starship Page 11

  "They lied!" he shouted. "They lied! We're all victims of a monstrous ... a monstrous . . ."

  But he could think of no word big enough.

  II

  Roy Complain yawned and changed his position on the cell floor for the twentieth time. Bob Fermour sat with his back to the wall, rotating a heavy ring endlessly around a finger of his right hand. They had nothing to say to each other; there was nothing to say, nothing to think. It was a relief when the guard outside thrust his head around the door and summoned Complain with a few well-chosen words of abuse.

  "See you on the Journey," Fermour said cheeringly as the other got up to go.

  Complain waved to him and followed the guard, his heart beginning to beat more rapidly. He was led, not to the room where Inspector Vyann had interviewed them, but back along the way he had first been brought, into an office on Deck 24, near the barricades. The guard stayed outside and slammed the door on him.

  Complain was alone with Master Scoyt. The alien investigator, under the increasing pressure of the trouble piling up about them, looked more eroded than ever. As if his cheeks ached, he supported them with long fingers; they were not reassuring fingers; they could be cruel with artistry, although at present, resting against that haggard countenance, they seemed more the hands of a self-torturer.

  "Expansion to you," he said heavily.

  "Expansion," Complain replied. He knew he was to be tested, but most of his concern went on the fact that the girl Vyann was absent.

  "I have some questions to ask you," Scoyt said. "It is advisable to answer them properly, for various reasons. First, where were you born?"

  "In Quarters."

  "That is what you call your village? Have you any brothers and sisters?"

  "In Quarters we obeyed the Teaching," said Complain defiantly. "We do not recognize brothers and sisters after we are waist high to our mothers."

  Without looking up, Scoyt said tiredly, "How many brothers and sisters would you have to recognize now if you did recognize them?"

  "Only three sisters."

  "No brothers?"

  "There was one. He ran amok long ago."

  "What proof have you you were born in Quarters?"

  "Proof!" Complain echoed. "If you want proof, go and catch my mother. She still lives. She'd tell you all about it."

  Scoyt stood up.

  "Understand this," he said. "I haven't time to get civil answers out of you. Everyone on shipboard is in danger. It's a ship, you see, and it's headed nobody-knows-where, and it's old and creaking, and it's thick with phantoms and mysteries and riddles and pain . . ." He paused. More calmly, he continued. "What you've got to get into your head is that we're all expendable, and if you can't make yourself out to be any use, you're up for the Long Journey."

  "I'm sorry," Complain said. "I might be more cooperative if I knew which side I was on."

  "You're on your own side. Didn't the Teaching teach you that much? 'The proper study of mankind is self'; you'll be serving yourself best by answering my questions."

  Earlier, Complain might have submitted; now, more conscious of himself, he asked one more question: "Didn't Henry Marapper answer all you wanted to know?"

  "The priest misled us," Scoyt said. "He has made the Journey. It's the usual penalty for trying my patience too far."

  When his first stunned reaction was over, Complain began to wonder; he did not doubt the ruthlessness of Scoyt —the man who kills for a cause kills almost unthinkingly— but he could hardly bring himself to believe he would see the garrulous priest no more. His mind preoccupied, he answered Scoyt's questions. These mainly concerned their trek through Deadways; when Complain began to explain about his capture by the Giants, the investigator, noncommittal till now, pounced.

  "The Giants do not exist!" he said. "They were extinct long ago. We inherited the ship from them."

  Although openly skeptical, he then pressed as hard for details as Marapper once had, and it was obvious he slowly began to accept Complain's narrative for truth. His face clouded in thought, he tapped his long fingers on the desk.

  "The Outsiders we have known for enemies," he said, "but the Giants we always regarded as our old allies, whose kingdom we took over with their approval. If they do still live somewhere in Deadways, why do they not show themselves— unless for a sinister reason? We already have quite enough trouble piled up against us."

  As Complain pointed out, the Giants had not killed him when they might conveniently have done so; nor had they killed Ern Roffery, although what had become of the Valuer remained a mystery. In all, their role in affairs was ambiguous.

  "I'm inclined to believe your tale, Complain," Scoyt said finally, "because from time to time we receive rumors— people swear they've seen Giants. Rumors! Rumors! We get our hands on nothing tangible. But at least the Giants seem to be no threat to Forwards— and best of all, they don't seem to be in alliance with the Outsiders. If we can tackle them separately, that'll be something."

  He lapsed into silence, then asked, "How far is it to this sea where the Giants caught you?"

  "Many decks away— perhaps forty."

  Master Scoyt threw up his hands in disgust.

  "Too far!" he said. "I thought we might go there . . . but Forwards men do not love the ponics."

  The door burst open. A panting guard stood on the threshold and spoke without ceremony.

  "An attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt!" he cried.

  Scoyt was up immediately, his face grim. Halfway to the door, he paused, turning back to Complain.

  "Stay there," he commanded. "I'll be back when I can."

  The door slammed. Complain was alone. As if unable to believe it, he looked slowly around. In the far wall, behind Scoyt's seat, was another door. Cautiously, he went over and tried it. It opened. Beyond was another room, a small antechamber, with another door on the far side of it. The antechamber boasted only a battered panel containing broken instruments on one wall, and on the floor, four packs. Complain recognized them at once as his, Marapper's, Bob Fermour's, and Wantage's. All their meager belongings seemed to be still there, although it was evident their belongings had been searched. Complain crossed the room and opened the other door.

  It led on to a side corridor. From one direction came the sound of voices; in the opposite direction, not many paces away, were— ponics. The way to them looked unguarded. His heart beating rapidly, Complain shut the door again, leaning against it to decide. Should he try to escape or not?

  Marapper had been killed; there was no evidence he also would not be as coolly disposed of. It might well be wise to leave— but for where? Quarters was too far away for a solitary man to reach. But nearer tribes would welcome a hunter. Complain recalled that Vyann had mistaken his group for members of some tribe that was raiding Forwards; in his preoccupation with their capture, Complain had scarcely taker note of what she said, but it might well be the same band that was besieging the barricades now. They should appreciate a hunter with a slight knowledge of Forwards.

  He swung his pack up on to his shoulder, opened the door, looked left and right, and dashed for the tangle.

  All the other doors in the side corridor were shut, bar one. Instinctively, Complain glanced in as he passed— and stopped. He stood on the threshold, transfixed.

  Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if sleeping, lay a body. It sprawled untidily, its legs crossed, it shabby cloak rolled up to serve as a pillow; its face won the melancholy expression of an overfed bulldog.

  "Henry Marapper!" Complain exclaimed, eyes fixed on that familiar profile. The hair and temple were matted with blood. He leaned forward and gently touched the priest's arm. It was stone cold.

  Instantly, the old mental atmosphere of Quarters clicked into place around Complain. The Teaching was almost as instinctive as a reflex. He snapped without thought into the first gesture of prostration, going through the ritual of fear. Fear must not be allowed to penetrate to the subconscious, says the Teachi
ng; it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. Between bow, moan, obeisance, Complain forgot all zest for escape.

  "I'm afraid we must interrupt this efficient demonstration," a chilly female voice said behind him. Startled, Complain straightened and looked around. Dazer leveled, two guards at her side, there stood Vyann. Her lips were beautiful, but her smile was not inviting.

  So ended Complain's test.

  It was Fermour's turn to be ushered into the room or Deck 24. Master Scoyt sat there as he had done with Complain, but his manner was openly more abrupt now. He began, as he had with Complain, by asking where Fermour was born.

  "Somewhere in the tangles," Fermour said, in his usual unhurried way. "I never knew where exactly."

  "Why weren't you born in a tribe?"

  "My parents were fugitives from their tribe. It was one of the little Midway tribes— smaller than Quarters."

  "When did you join the Greene tribe?"

  "After my parents died," Fermour said. "They had the trailing rot. By then I was full grown."

  Scoyt's mouth, naturally heavy, had now elongated itself into a slit. A weapon had appeared, and was lightly balanced between Scoyt's hands. He began to pace up and down in front of Fermour, watching him closely.

  "Have you any proof of all this stuff you tell me?" he asked.

  Fermour was pale, tensed, incessantly twisting the heavy ring on his finger.

  "What sort of proof?" he asked, dry-mouthed.

  "Any sort. Anything about your origins we can check on. We aren't just a rag-taggle village in Deadways, Fermour. When you drift in from the tangles, we have to know who or what are you . . . Well?"

  "Marapper the priest will vouch for me."

  "Marapper's dead. Besides, I'm interested in someone who knew you as a child; anyone." He swung around so that they were face to face. "In short, Fermour, we want something you seem unable to give— proof that you're human!

  "How long have you been with the Greene tribe?" Scoyt continued.

  "Oh, I lose track of time. Twice a hundred dozen sleep-wakes."

  "We do not use your primitive method of calculating time in Forwards, Fermour. We call four sleep-wakes one day. That would make your stay with the tribe ... six hundred days. A long time in a man's life."

  He stood looking at Fermour as if waiting for something. The door was pushed roughly open and a guard appeared on the threshold, panting.

  "There's an attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt," he cried.

  On his way to the door, Scoyt paused and turned back toward Fermour, grim-faced.

  "Stay there!" he ordered. "I'll be back as soon as possible."

  In the next room, Complain turned slowly to Vyann. Her dazer had gone back in its holster at her waist.

  "So that tale about the attack at the barriers is just a trick to get Master Scoyt out of the room, is it?" he said.

  "That's right," she said steadily. "See what Fermour does now."

  For a long moment, Complain stood looking into her eyes, caught by them. Then, pulling himself away in case his heart might be read in his face, Complain turned and fixed his gaze through the peephole again.

  He was in time to see Fermour grab a small stool from the side of the room, drag it into the middle, stand on it, and reach up toward the grille that here, as in most apartments, was a feature of the ceiling. His fingers curled helplessly a few inches below the grille. After a few fruitless attempts to jump and stand on tiptoe, Fermour looked around the room in desperation and noticed the other door beyond which lay his pack. Kicking the stool away, he hurried through it, so vanishing from Complain's sight.

  "He has gone, just as I went," Complain said, turning to brave the gray eyes again.

  "My men will pick him up before he gets to the ponics," Vyann said carelessly. "I have little doubt your friend Fermour is an Outsider, but we shall be certain in a few minutes."

  "Bob Fermour! He couldn't be!"

  "We'll argue about that later." she said. "In the meantime, Roy Complain, you are a free man— as far as any of us are free. Since you have knowledge and experience, I hope you will help us attack some of our troubles."

  His voice betraying his nervous excitement, Complain said, "I will help you in any way I can."

  "Master Scoyt will be grateful," she said, moving away with a sudden sharpness in her voice. It brought him back to realities, and he asked with an equal sharpness what the Outsiders did that made them so feared; for though they had been dreaded by the Greene tribe, it was only because they were strange, and not like men.

  "Isn't that enough?" she said. And then she told him of the powers of Outsiders. A few had been caught by Master Scoyt's various testing methods— and all but one had escaped. They had been thrown into cells bound hand and foot, and sometimes unconscious as well— there to vanish completely; if guards had been in the cells with them, they had been found unconscious without a mark on their bodies.

  "And the Outsider who did not escape?" Complain asked.

  "He died under torture on the presses. We got nothing from him, except that he came from the ponics."

  She led him from the room. No longer did she appear as friendly as she had a moment ago; her moods seemed capricious, and he hardened himself against her, trying to recall the old Quarters's attitude to women— but Quarters seemed a thousand sleep-wakes out of date.

  On Deck 21, Vyann paused.

  "There is an apartment for you here," she said. "My apartment is three doors further along, and Roger Scoyt's is opposite mine. He or I will collect you for a meal shortly."

  Opening the door, Complain looked in.

  "I've never seen a room like this before," he said, impressed.

  "You've had all the disadvantages, haven't you?" she said ironically, and left him. Complain watched that retreating figure, and went into the room.

  It held little luxury, beyond a basin with a tap which actually yielded a slight flow of water and a bed made of coarse fabric rather than leaves. What impressed him was a picture on the wall, a bright swirl of color, non-representational, but with a meaning of its own. There was also a mirror, in which Complain found another picture; this one was of a rough creature smirched with dirt, its hair festooned with dried miltex, its clothes torn.

  He set, to work to change all that, grimly wondering what Vyann must have thought of such a barbarous figure. He scrubbed himself, put on clean clothes from his pack, and collapsed exhausted on the bed— exhausted, but unable to sleep; for at once his brain started racing.

  Gwenny had gone, Roffery had gone, Wantage, Marapper, now Fermour, had gone; Complain was on his own. The prospect of a new start offered itself— and the prospect was thrilling. Only the thought of Marapper's face, gleaming with unction and bonhomie, brought regret.

  His mind was still churning when Master Scoyt arrived.

  "Come and eat," he said simply.

  Complain went with him, watching carefully to gauge the other's attitude toward him, but the investigator seemed too preoccupied to register any attitude at all. Then, looking up and catching Complain's eye on him, he said, "Well, your friend Fermour is proved an Outsider. When he was making for the ponics, he saw the body of your priest and kept straight on. Our sentries had an ambush for him and caught him easily."

  Shaking his head impatiently at Complain's puzzled look, Scoyt explained, "He is not an ordinary human, bred in an ordinary part of the ship, otherwise he would have stopped automatically and made the genuflections of fear before the body of a friend; that ceremony is drummed into every human child from birth. It was that which finally convinced us you were human."

  He sank back into silence until they reached the dining-hall, scarcely greeting the several men and women who spoke to him on the way. In the hall, a few officers were seated, eating. At a table of her own sat Vyann. Seeing her, Scoyt instantly brightened, went over to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  "Laur, my dear," he said. "How refreshing to f
ind you waiting for us. I must get some ale —we have to celebrate the capture of another Outsider— and this one won't get away."

  Smiling at him, she said, "I hope you're also going to eat, Roger."

  "You know my foolish stomach," he said, beckoning an orderly and beginning to tell her at once the details of Fermour's capture. Not very happily, Complain took a seat by them; he could not help feeling jealous of Scoyt's easy way with Vyann, although the investigator was twice her age. Ale was set before them, and food, a strange white meat that tasted excellent; it was wonderful, too, to eat without being surrounded with midges, which in Deadways formed an unwanted sauce to many a mouthful; but Complain picked at his plate with little more enthusiasm than Scoyt showed.

  "You look dejected," Vyann remarked, interrupting Scoyt, "when you should be feeling cheerful. It is better here, isn't it, than locked up in a cell with Fermour?"

  "Fermour was a friend," Complain said, using the first excuse for his unhappiness that entered his head.

  "He was also an Outsider," Scoyt said heavily. "He exhibited all their characteristics. He was slow, rather on the weighty side, saying little— I'm beginning to be able to detect them as soon as I look at them."

  "You're brilliant, Roger," Vyann said, laughing, and she put a hand over his affectionately.

  Perhaps it was that which sparked Complain off. He flung his fork down.

  "What about Marapper?— he was no alien and you killed him! Do you think I can forget that? Why should you expect any help from me after killing him?"

  Waiting tensely for trouble to start, Complain could see other people turning from their meal to look at him. Scoyt opened his mouth and then shut it again, staring beyond Complain as a heavy hand fell on the latter's shoulder.

  "Mourning for me is not only foolish but premature," a familiar voice said. "Still taking on the world singlehanded, eh, Roy?"

  Complain turned, amazed, and there stood the priest, beaming, scowling, rubbing his hands. He clutched Marapper's arm incredulously.