Starship Read online

  "Why should I—" Complain began hotly. A scuffle outside gave them the briefest warning and then the door was hurled open, rebounding on its hinges. It missed Complain by inches only, for he stood half behind it.

  The crisis powered his inspiration. Flinging both hands over his face, he bent forward, groaning loudly and staggering, making believe the edge of the door had struck him. Through his fingers he saw Zilliac, the lieutenant's right-hand man, next in line for the lieutenancy, burst into the room and kick the door shut behind him. He glared contemptuously at Complain.

  "Where's the priest? I saw him come in here."

  As he turned, dazer ready, to survey the room, Complain whipped up Gwenny's wooden stool by one leg and brought it down at the base of Zilliac's skull, square across the tense neck. A splintering sound of wood and bone, and Zilliac toppled full length. Marapper stood up. With a heave, all teeth showing, he tipped the heavy bunk over sideways, sending it falling across the fallen man.

  "I've got him!" the priest exclaimed. "Hem's guts, I've got him!" He gathered up Zilliac's dazer, moving with agility for a heavy man, and faced the door.

  "Open up, Roy! There'll doubtless be others outside, and it's now or never if we're getting out of this with breathable throats."

  But the door swung open at that moment without Complain's aid. Meller the artist stood there, sheathing a knife.

  "Here's an offering for you, priest," he said. "I'd better bring him in before someone comes along."

  He grabbed the ankles of a guard who lay crumpled in the corridor. Complain went to his aid, and together they dragged the limp body in and closed the door. Meller leaned against the wall mopping his forehead.

  "I don't know what you're up to, priest," he said, "but when this fellow heard the rumpus in here, he was off to get his friends. I thought it better to dispatch him before you had a party."

  "May he make the Long Journey in peace," Marapper said weakly. "It was well done, Meller. Indeed we've all done well for amateurs."

  Death was as common as cockroaches in the small tribes.

  "Death is the longest part of a man," said a folk poem. This stretched-out spectacle, so frequently met with, was the subject of much of the Teaching: there had to be a formal way of dealing with it. It was fearful, and fear must not be allowed to lodge in a man. The automatic man in Complain, confronted with death now, fell straight into the first gesture of postration, as he had been brought up to do.

  Seeing their cue, Marapper and Meller instantly joined

  him, Marapper crying softly aloud. Only when their intricate business was over and the last Long Journey said did they lapse back into something like normality.

  "I've yet to hear what they were after you for, priest," Meller said.

  "The greater credit to the speed of your assistance," said Marapper smoothly, making toward the door. Meller put his arm across it and answered, "I want to hear what you are involved in. It seems to me I am now involved in it too."

  When Marapper drew up but did not speak, Complain said impetuously. "Why not let him come with us, Marapper?"

  "So . . . ," the artist said reflectively. "You're both leaving Quarters! Good luck to you, friends—I hope you will find whatever you are going looking for. Myself, I'd rather stay here safely and paint; thanks for the invitation."

  "Brushing aside the minor point that no invitation was offered, I agree with all you say," Marapper said. "You showed up well just now, friend, but I need only men of action with me: and at that I want a handful, not an army."

  As Meller stepped aside and Marapper took hold of the door handle, the latter's attitude softened and he said, "Our lives are of microscopically small moment, but I believe that we now owe them to you, painter. Back to your dyes now with our thanks, and not a word to anyone."

  Turning sharply down a side corridor, Marapper led the way to his own quarters. Glancing about him furtively, he produced a magnetic key and opened the door, pushing Complain in ahead of him. It was a large room, but crowded with the acquisitions of a lifetime, a thousand articles bribed or begged, things meaningless since the extinction of the Giants, and now merely fascinating relics of a more varied and advanced civilization than theirs.

  "Stay here while I get the other three rebels," Marapper said, making to go. "Then we'll be on the move."

  "Supposing they betray you as the guard did?"

  "They won't—as you'll know when you see them," Marapper said shortly. "I only let the guard in on it because he saw this going in here." He thumped the book inside his tunic.

  After he had gone, Complain heard the magnetic lock click into place. If something did go awry with the priest's plans, he would be trapped here with much awkward explaining to do on his release, and would probably die for Zilliac's death. He waited tensely, picking nervously at an irritation in one hand. He glanced down at length, and saw a minute splinter embedded in the flesh of his palm. The legs of Gwenny's stool had been rough.

  PART TWO

  Deadways

  I

  IN Quarters, a well-worn precept said "Leap before you look"; rashness was proverbially the path of wisdom, and the cunning acted always on the spur of the moment. Other courses of conduct could hardly be entertained when, with little reason for any action, a brooding state of inaction threatened to overwhelm every member of the tribe. Marapper, who was adept at twisting any counsels to his own advantage, used these arguments of expediency to rouse the last three members of his expedition.

  They followed him grudgingly, snatching up packs, jackets, and dazers, moving behind him through the corridors of their village. Marapper stopped before the door of his compartment and felt for his key.

  "What are we halting here for? We'll be caught if we hang around, and chopped into little pieces. Let's get into the ponics if we're going."

  Marapper swung toward the questioner. Then he turned away, not deigning to reply. Instead, he pushed open the door and called, "Come out, Roy, and meet your companions."

  Wary, a good hunter avoiding a possible trap, Complain appeared with his dazer in his hand. Quietly, he surveyed the three who stood by Marapper; he knew them all well: Bob Fermour, elbows resting placidly on the two bulging pouches strapped to his belt; Wantage, rotating his fending stick endlessly in his hands; and Ern Roffery the Valuer, face challenging and unpleasant. For long seconds, Complain stared at them as they stood waiting.

  "I'm not leaving Quarters with them, Marapper," he said definitely. "If they are the best you can find, count me out I thought this was going to be an expedition."

  "So it is an expedition," the priest roared, spitting in his rage. "It is an expedition, and by hem you'll all come into Deadways with me if I have to carry your corpses there one by one."

  "What are you making such a fuss about anyway, Complain?" Wantage shouted. "Why are you coming? I'm sure I don't want your company!"

  The priest's short sword was suddenly between them. They could see his knuckles white from his grip on the handle.

  "As I am a holy man," he growled, "I swear by every drop of rancid blood in Quarters, I'll Long Journey the next man that speaks."

  They stood there stiff with hostility, not speaking.

  "Sweet, peace-making blade," Marapper whispered, and then, in ordinary tones, unhitching a pack from his shoulder, "Strap this harness on your back, Roy, and pull yourself together. Soften up, all of you, and start walking. Keep in a bunch. We've got to get through one of the barriers to get into Deadways, so take your lead from me. It won't be easy."

  He locked the door of his compartment, glanced thoughtfully at the key and then slipped it into a pocket. Without another sign to the others, he started to walk down the corridor. They hesitated only momentarily, and then fell obediently in beside him. Marapper's iron stare remained firmly fixed ahead, relegating them all to another, inferior universe.

  At the next corridor junction, he turned left and, at the next but one, left again. This led them into a short cul-de-sac with a m
esh gate filling all the far end; a guard stood before it, for his was one of the side barriers.

  The guard was relaxed but alert. He sat on a box, resting, until the five came in view around the corner. He jumped up and leveled a dazer at them.

  "I should be happy to shoot," he cried, giving the standard challenge. Eyes hard, legs braced, he made it sound more than a cliché.

  "And I to die," responded Marapper amiably. "Tuck your weapon away; we are no Outsiders."

  "Stop or I fire!" the guard called. "What do you want? Halt, all five of you!"

  Marapper never paused in his stride, and the others came slowly on with him. For Complain, there was a certain fascination about it that he could not explain.

  "You are getting too short-sighted for that job, my friend," the priest called. "I'll see Zilliac and get you taken off it. It is I, Marapper your priest, the agent of your doubtful sanity, with some well-wishers. No blood for you tonight, man. I have something important here for you."

  During this interchange, Marapper's advance had not faltered. The guard hesitated uncertainly; other guards were within hail, but a false alarm could mean lashes for him, and he was anxious to preserve his present state of misery intact.

  Drawing the short sword swiftly from under his cloak, Marapper with a grunt dug it deep into the guard's stomach, twisted it, and caught the body neatly over his shoulder as it doubled forward.

  "That was neatly done, father," Wantage said, impressed. "Couldn't have improved on it myself!"

  "Masterly!" Roffery exclaimed, respect in his voice. It was good to see a priest who so ably practiced what he preached.

  "Pleasure," grunted Marapper, "but keep your voices low. Fermour, take this, will you?"

  The body was transferred to Bob Fermour's shoulder; he, being five foot eight, and nearly a head taller than the others, could manage it most easily. Marapper wiped his blade on Complain's jacket, holstered it, and turned his attention to the mesh gate.

  From one of his voluminous pockets, he produced a pair of wire cutters, and with these snicked a connection on the gate. He tugged at the handle; it gave about an inch and then stuck. He heaved and growled, but it moved no further.

  "Let me," Complain said.

  He set his weight against the gate and tugged. It flew suddenly open with a piercing squeal, running on rusted bearings. A well was now revealed, a black, gaping hole, seemingly bottomless. They shrank back from it in some dismay.

  "That noise should attract most of the guards in Quarters," Fermour said, inspecting with interest a notice, ring for elevator, by the side of the shaft. "Now what, priest?"

  "Pitch the guard down there, for a start," Marapper said.

  The body was hurled into the blackness.

  "Still warm," Marapper whispered. "No need for death rites— just as well if we are to continue to claim our life rights. Now then, don't be afraid, children, this dark place is man-made; once, I believe, a sort of carriage ran up and down it. We've got to follow the guard's example, although less speedily."

  Cables hung in the middle of the opening. The priest leaned forward and seized them, then lowered himself gingerly hand over hand down fifteen feet to the next level. The elevator shaft yawning below him, he swung himself on to the narrow ledge, clung to the mesh with one hand and applied his cutters with the other. Tugging carefully, levering with his foot against an upright, he worked the gate open wide enough to squeeze through.

  One at a time, the others followed. Complain was the last to leave the upper level. He climbed down the cable, silently bidding Quarters an uncordial farewell, and emerged with the others. The five of them stood silently in rustling twilight, peering about them.

  They were on strange territory, but one stretch of ponic warren is much like another.

  Marapper shut the gate behind them and then faced forward, squaring his shoulders and adjusting his cloak.

  "That's quite enough action for one wake, for an old priest like me," he said, "unless any of you care to start a dispute about leadership?"

  "That was never under dispute," Complain said.

  "There'll be enough trouble," Wantage prophesied, swinging the bad side of his face toward the walls of growth around them. "It would make sense if we saved our swords for other stomachs."

  Reluctantly, they agreed with him.

  Marapper brushed at his short cloak, scowling thoughtfully; it was bloodied at the hem.

  "We shall sleep now," he said. "We will break into the first convenient room and use that for camp. This must be our routine every sleep: we cannot remain in the corridors— the position is too exposed. In a compartment, we can post guards and sleep safe."

  "Would we not be better advised to move further from Quarters before we sleep?" Complain asked.

  "Whatever I advise is the best advice," Marapper said. "Do you think any one of those supine mothers' sons back there is going to risk his scabby neck by entering an unknown stretch of ponics, with all its possibilities for ambush? Just to save my breath answering these inane suggestions, you'd better all get one thing perfectly clear— you are doing what I tell you to do. That's what being united means, and if we aren't united we aren't anything. Hold firm to that idea and we'll survive. Clear enough? Roy? Ern? Wantage? Fermour?"

  The priest looked into their set faces as if he were holding an identification parade. They hooded their eyes from his gaze, like a quartet of drowsy vultures.

  "We've agreed to all that once already," Fermour said impatiently. "What more do you want us to do?"

  Although all were in some measure in agreement with him, the other three growled angrily at Fermour, he being a somewhat safer target for growls than the priest.

  "Yes, there is something else I want you to do. I want you to obey me implicitly, but I also require you to swear you will not turn on one another. I'm not asking you to trust each other, or anything stupid like that. I'm not asking for any breaches of the canons of the Teaching— if we're to make the Long Journey, we're making it Orthodox. But we cannot afford constant quarreling and fighting; your easy times in Quarters are over.

  "Some of the dangers we may meet we know about— mutants, Outsiders, other tribes, and finally the people of Forwards themselves. But have no doubt that there will be dangers of which we know nothing. When you feel spite for one of your fellows, nurse that bright spark for the unknown; it will be needed."

  He looked searchingly at them again.

  "Swear to it," he commanded.

  They agreed to forego the privilege of private quarrels, and pressed slowly into the ponic fringes, the priest leading, fishing out an enormous bundle of magnetic keys. Some yards on, they came to the first door. They halted, and the priest began to try his keys one by one on the shallow impression of the lock.

  Complain, meanwhile, pushed on a little further and called back to them after a minute.

  "There's a door here which has been broken into," he said. "Another tribe has evidently passed this way at some time. It would save us trouble if we went in here."

  They moved up to him, passing back the rattling canes. The door stood open only a finger's breadth, and they eyed it with some apprehension. Every door presented a challenge, an entry to the unknown; all knew of tales of death leaping from behind these silent doors, and the fear had been ingrained in them since childhood.

  Drawing his dazer, Roffery lifted his foot and kicked out. The door swung open. Within, the briefest of scuttles was heard, and then dead silence. The room was evidently large, but dark, its sources of illumination having been broken— how long ago? Had there been light within, the ponics would have forced the door in their own remorseless way, satisfying their unending thirst for light, but they had even less use than man for the corners of darkness.

  "Only rats in there," Complain said, a little breathlessly. "Go on in, Roffery. What are you waiting for?"

  For answer, Roffery took a flashlight from his pack and shone it ahead. He moved forward, the others crowding after him
.

  It was a big room as rooms went, eight paces by five; it was empty. The nervous eye of Roffery's light flicked sharply over the usual grille in the ceiling, blank walls and a floor piled with wreckage. Chairs, and desks, their drawers flung aside, their paraphernalia scattered, had been savagely attacked with a hatchet. Light-weight steel cabinets were dented, and lay face down in the dust. The five men stood suspiciously on the threshold, wondering dimly how long ago the havoc had been wrought, feeling perhaps a memory of that savagery still in the air, for savagery —unlike virtue— endures long after its originators have perished.

  "We can sleep here," Marapper said shortly. "We will eat and then you will draw lots for guard duty."

  They ate frugally from the supplies in their packs, wrangling over the meal as to whether or not a guard was necessary. Since Complain and Fermour held it was necessary and Roffery and Wantage held it was not, the sides were equally balanced, and the priest did not find himself bound to join the disagreement. He ate in silence, wiped his hands delicately on a rag, and then said, from a still full mouth, "Roffery, you will guard first, then Wantage, so that you two will have the earliest opportunity of proving yourselves right. Next sleep, Fermour and Complain will guard."

  "You said we should draw lots," Wantage said angrily.

  "I changed my mind."

  He said it so bluntly that Roffery instinctively abandoned that line of attack and remarked, "You, I suppose, father, never guard?"

  Marapper spread his hands and edged a look of childlike innocence on to his face. "My dear friends, your priest guards you all the time, awake or asleep."

  Rapidly, he pulled a round object from under his cloak and continued, changing the subject, "With this instrument, which I had the forethought to relieve Zilliac of, we can scientifically regulate our spells of guard so that no man does more than another. You see that it has on this side a circle of numbers and three hands or pointers. It is called a watch, so called after a period of guard, which is —as you know— also a watch. The Giants made it for this purpose, which shows that they too had Outsiders and madmen to deal with."