Starship

  "No," she said, as she closed the panel again. "This is one of three tremendous fans. The little pipe in the middle lubricates it. Those fans never stop; they circulate air to the whole ship."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because Roger brought me down here and explained it to me."

  Immediately, Complain's present surroundings meant nothing to him. Before he could think of stopping, he said, "What is Roger Scoyt to you, Vyann?"

  "I love him very much," she said tensely. "I am an orphan— my mother and father both made the Journey when I was very young. They caught the trailing rot. Roger Scoyt and his wife, who was barren, adopted me; and since she was killed in a raid on Forwards many watches ago, he has trained me and looked after me constantly."

  In the upsurge of relief that buoyed Complain, he seized Vyann's hand. At once, she clicked off her flashlight and pulled away from him, laughing mockingly in the dark.

  "You must prove yourself before trying that sort of thing with me."

  He tried to grab her, but in the darkness banged his head, whereupon she at once switched on the light. At his lack of success he was angry and sulky, turning away from her, rubbing his sore skull.

  "Why did you bring me down here?" he asked. "Why be friendly to me at all?"

  "You take the Teaching too seriously— it's what I might expect from someone out of a provincial tribe!" she said pettishly. Then, relenting a little, she said, "But come, don't look so cross. You need not think because someone shows friendliness they mean you harm. That old-fashioned idea is more worthy of your friend Priest Marapper."

  Complain was not so easily teased out of his mood, especially as mention of Marapper's name recalled the priest's warning. He lapsed into a gloomy silence which Vyann was too haughty to break, and they made their way back rather dejectedly. Once or twice, Complain looked half-imploringly at her profile, willing her to speak. Finally she did— without looking at him.

  "There was something I had to ask you," she said in a reluctant voice. "The lair of the Outsiders must be found; and a tribe of raiders has to be destroyed. Because our people are mainly agriculturalists, we have no hunters. Even our trained guards will not venture far into the tangles— certainly they could not cover the vast areas you did on your way here. Roy— we need you to lead us against our enemies. We hoped to show you enough to convince you they were your enemies too."

  Now she was regarding Complain. She smiled kindly, plaintively.

  "When you look at me like that, I could get out and walk to Earth!" he exclaimed.

  "We shall not ask that of you," she said, still smiling, and for once the reserve completely left her. "Now we must go and see how Roger's business is coming along. I'm sure he has been taking the work of the entire ship on his shoulders. I told you about the Outsiders; he can explain about Gregg's band of raiders."

  Pressing on, she missed the expression of surprise on Complain's face.

  Master Scoyt had been more than busy: he had been successful. For once, feeling he was achieving something, his brow was clear; he greeted Complain like an old friend.

  The interrogation of Fermour, who was still under surveillance in a nearby cell, had been postponed because of a rumpus in Deadways. Forwards scouts, hearing a commotion among the tangles, had ventured as far as Deck 29, the deck on which Complain and Marapper had been caught. This deck, only two beyond the frontiers of Forwards, was badly damaged, and the scouts never dared to go beyond it. They had returned empty-handed, reporting a fight of some sort, punctuated by the shrill screams of men and women, taking place on Deck 30.

  There the whole matter might have ended. But shortly after this episode, one of Gregg's raiders had approached the barriers, calling for truce and begging to see someone in authority.

  "I've got him in the next cell," Scoyt told Vyann and Complain. "He's a queer creature called Hawl, but beyond referring to his boss as 'the captain,' he seems sane enough."

  "What does he want?" Vyann asked. "Is he a deserter?"

  "Better even than that, Laur," Scoyt said. "This fight our scouts reported in Deadways was between Gregg's and another gang. Hawl won't say why, but the episode has seriously upset them. So much so that Gregg is suing for peace through this fellow Hawl, and wants to bring his tribe to live in Forwards for protection."

  "It's a ruse!" Vyann exclaimed, "a trick to get in here!"

  "No, I don't think so," Scoyt said. "Hawl is quite sincere. The only snag is that Gregg, knowing the sort of reputation he has with us, wants a Forwards official to go to him as a token of good faith to arrange terms. Whoever is chosen goes back with Hawl."

  Two Forwards officers were with Hawl, supposedly guarding him. They had plainly been beating him with knotted ropes. Scoyt dismissed them sharply, but for some while could get no sense out of Hawl, who lay face down, groaning, until the offer of another thrashing made him sit up. He was a startling creature, as near a mutant as made no difference. Madarosis had left him completely hairless, so that neither beard nor eyebrows sprouted from his flesh; he was also toothless. Congenital deformity had given his face a crazed top-heaviness, for while he was so undershot that his upper gum hung in air, his forehead was so distended by exostosis that it all but hid his eyes. Yet Hawl's chief peculiarity was that these minor oddities were set above a normal-sized body on a skull no bigger than a man's two fists clenched one atop the other.

  As far as could be judged, he was of middle age. Taking in Vyann's and Complain's awed gaze, he muttered a fragment of scripture.

  "May my neuroses not offend------"

  "Now, Shameface," Master Scoyt said genially. "What guarantee does your master offer our representative —If we send him one— of getting back here in safety?"

  "If I get back safely to the captain," Hawl mumbled, "your man shall get back safely to you. This we swear."

  "How far is it to this brigand you call the 'captain'?"

  "That your man will know when he comes with me," Hawl replied.

  "Very true. Or we could drag it out of you here."

  "You couldn't!" There was something in the strange creature's tone which compelled respect. Scoyt evidently felt it, for he told the man to get up and dust himself off and take a drink of water. While he did so, Scoyt asked, "How many men in Gregg's gang?"

  Hawl put the drinking utensil down and stood defiantly with hands on hips.

  "That your man will be told when he comes with me to arrange terms," he said. "Now I've said all I'm going to say, and you'll have to make up your minds whether you agree or not. But remember this— if we come here, we shall be no trouble. And we shall fight for you rather than against. This also we swear."

  Scoyt and Vyann looked at each other.

  "It's worth trying if we can get a foolhardy volunteer," he said.

  "It'll have to go to the Council," she said.

  Complain had not spoken yet, awaiting his opportunity. Now he addressed Hawl.

  "This man you call captain," he said. "Has he another name than Gregg?"

  "You can ask him that when you're arranging terms," Hawl repeated.

  "Look at me carefully, fellow. Do I resemble your captain in any way? Answer."

  The captain has a beard," Hawl said evasively.

  "He should give it to you to cover your head with!" Complain snapped. "What do you say to this then?— I had a brother who ran amok into Deadways long ago. His name was Gregg— Gregg Complain. Is that your captain, man?'

  'To think the captain has a brother here in Forwards!" answered Hawl.

  Complain turned excitedly to Master Scoyt, whose heavy face creased with surprise. "I volunteer to go with this man to Gregg," he said.

  The suggestion suited Master Scoyt well. The full force of his persuasiveness, genial but relentless, was applied to the Council of Five, who convened at once under his direction; Tregonnin was urged reluctantly from the library, Zac Deight disentangled from a theological argument with Marapper, and Billyoe, Dupont, and Ruskin, the other three of the C
ouncil, lured from their various interests. After a private discussion, they had Complain brought before them, instructed him on the terms to lay down before Gregg, and dismissed him with their expansions. He would have to hurry to be back before the next dark sleep-wake descended upon them.

  Though the disadvantages of having Gregg's band in Forward were obvious, the Council was keen to welcome them in; it would mean an end to most of the skirmishing on Forwards' perimeter and the acquiring of an experienced ally to fight against the Outsiders.

  An orderly returned Complain's dazer and flashlight to him. He was in his room strapping them on when Vyann entered, closing the door behind her. On her face was a comically defiant expression.

  "I'm coming with you," she said, without preamble.

  Complain crossed to her, protesting. She was not used to the ponics, danger might be lurking there, Gregg might well play them false, she was a woman . . .

  She cut him short. "It's no use arguing," she said. "This is Council's orders."

  "You got around them! You arranged it!" he said. He could see he guessed rightly, and was suddenly deliriously glad. Seizing her wrist, he asked, "What made you wish to come?"

  The answer was not as flattering as he might have wished. Vyann had always wanted to hunt in the ponics, she said; this was the next best thing. And suddenly Complain was reminded —without pleasure— of Gwenny and her passion for the hunt.

  "You'll have to behave yourself," he said severely, wishing her reason for joining him could have been more personal.

  Marapper appeared before they left, seeking a word alone with Complain. He had found a mission in life: the people needed to be reconverted to the Teaching; since the more lenient rule of the Council had begun, the Teaching had lost its grip. Zac Deight in particular was against it— hence Marapper's argument with him.

  "I don't like that man," the priest grumbled. "There's something horribly sincere about him."

  "Don't stir up trouble here, please," Complain begged, "just when these people have come around to accepting us. Relax, Marapper. Stop being yourself!"

  Marapper shook his head so sadly his cheeks wobbled.

  "You also are falling among the unbelievers, Roy," he said. "I must stir up trouble: turmoil in the id— it must out! There lies our salvation, and of course if the people rally round me at the same time, so much the better. Ah, my friend, we have come so far together, only to find a girl to corrupt you."

  "If you mean Vyann, priest," Complain said, "leave her out of this. I've warned you before, she's nothing to do with you."

  His voice was challenging, but Marapper was as bland as butter in return.

  "Don't think I object to her, Roy. Though as a priest I cannot condone, as a man, believe me, I envy."

  He looked forlorn as Complain and Vyann made for the barriers, where Hawl awaited them. His old boisterousness had been muted by Forwards, where everyone was a stranger to him; undoubtedly, for Marapper, to be a big fish in a small pool was better than being a small fish in a big pool. Where Complain had found himself, the priest was beginning to lose himself.

  Hawl, his incredibly tiny head cocked, looked only too glad to get back into the ponics; the reception Forwards had given him had not been notably cordial. Once the little party of three were seen through the barricades, he loped ahead professionally, Vyann behind him. Complain bringing up the rear. No longer a mere freak, Hawl moved with an agility the hunter in Complain could only admire; the fellow hardly seemed to stir a leaf. Complain wondered what could have alarmed a man of his stamp so much that he was willing to forsake his natural element for the unfamiliar disciplines of Forwards.

  Having only two decks to cover, they were not long in the ponics. This, in Vyann's view at least, was all to the good; the tangles, she found, were not romantic; merely drab, irritating, and full of tiny black midges. She stopped gratefully when Hawl did, and peered ahead through the thinning stalks,

  "I recognize this stretch!" Complain exclaimed. "It's near where Marapper and I were captured."

  A black and ruinous length of corridor lay ahead, the walls pockmarked and scarred, the roof ripped wide with the force of some bygone explosion. It was here the explorers from Quarters had run into the eerie weightlessness. Hawl shone a light ahead and let out a fluttering whistle. Almost at once, a rope floated out of the hole in the roof.

  "If you go and grab hold of that, they'll pull you up," Hawl said. "Just walk slowly to it and catch hold. It's simple enough."

  It could, despite this reassurance, have been simpler. Vyann gave a gasp of alarm as the lightness seized her, but Complain, more prepared, took her waist and steadied her. Without too much loss of dignity, they got to the rope and were at once hauled up. They were hauled through the roof, and through the roof of the level above that— the damage had been extensive. Hawl, scorning the aid of ropes, dived up head first and landed nonchalantly before they did.

  Four ragged men greeted them, crouched over a desultory game of Travel-Up. Vyann and Complain stood in a shattered room, still almost weightless. A miscellany of furniture was ranged around the hole from which they emerged, obviously acting as a shelter for anyone needing to guard the hole in the event of an attack. Complain expected to be relieved of his dazer, but instead, Hawl, having exchanged a few words with his tattered friends, led them out to another corridor. Here their weight immediately returned.

  The corridor was filled with wounded men and women lying on piles of dead ponics, most of them with face or legs bandaged; they were presumably the victims of the recent battle. Hawl hurried past them clucking sympathetically, and pushed into another apartment filled with stores and men, most of them patched, bandaged, or torn. Among them was Gregg Complain.

  It was unmistakably Gregg. The old look of dissatisfaction, manifesting itself around the eyes and the thin lips, was not altered by his heavy beard, or by an angry scar on his temple. He stood up as Complain and Vyann approached.

  "This is the captain," Hawl announced. "I brought your brother and his lady to parley with you, Captain."

  Gregg moved over to them, eyes searching them as if his life depended on it. He had lost the old Quarters's habit of not looking anyone in the eye. As he scanned them, his expression never changed. They might have been blocks of wood; he might have been a block of wood; the blood relationship meant nothing to him.

  "You've come officially from Forwards?" he finally asked his younger brother.

  "Yes," Complain said.

  "You didn't take long to get yourself into their favor, did you?"

  "What do you know of that?" Complain challenged. The surly independence of his brother had, from all appearances, grown stronger since his violent withdrawal from Quarters long ago.

  "I know a lot of what goes on in Deadways," Gregg said. "I'm captain of Deadways, if nowhere else. I knew you were heading for Forwards. How I knew, never mind— let's get down to business. What did you bring a woman with you for?"

  "As you said, let's get down to business," Complain said sharply.

  "I suppose she's come to keep an eye on you to see that you behave yourself," Gregg muttered. "That seems a likely Forwards arrangement. You'd better follow me; there's too much moaning going on in here . . . Hawl, you come too. Davies, you're in charge here now— keep 'em quiet if you can."

  Following Gregg's burly back, Complain and Vyann were led into a room of indescribable chaos. All over its scanty furnishings, rags and clothes had been tossed; red-soaked bandages lay over the floor. A remnant of manners still lurked in Gregg; seeing the look of distaste on Vyann's face, he apologized for the confusion.

  "My woman was killed in the fight last night," he said. "She was torn to bits— I couldn't get to her. I just couldn't get to her. She'd have cleaned this up by now. Perhaps you'd like to do it for me?"

  "We will discuss your proposals and then leave as soon as possible," Vyann said tightly.

  "What was it about this fight that scared you so, Gregg?" Complain asked.
br />   " 'Captain' to you," his brother said. "Nobody calls me Gregg to my face. And understand, I'm not scared: nothing's ever scared me yet. I'm only thinking of my tribe. If we stay here we'll be killed, sure as shame. We've got to move, and Forwards is as safe a place as any to move to. So . . ." He sat wearily on the bed and waved to his brother to do the same. "It's not safe here any more. Men we can fight, but not rats."

  "Rats?" Vyann echoed.

  "Rats, yes," Gregg said, baring his fangs for emphasis. "Great big rats, that can think and plan and organize like men. Do you know what I'm talking about, Roy?"

  Complain was pale.

  "Yes," he said. "I've had them running over me. They signal to each other, and dress in rags, and capture other animals."

  "Oh, you know them, do you? Surprising . . . You know more than I credited you with. They're the menace, the rat packs, the biggest menace on the ship. They've learned to cooperate and attack in formation —that's what they did last sleep when they fought us— that's why we're getting out. We wouldn't be able to beat them off again if they came in strength."

  "This is extraordinary!" Vyann exclaimed. "We've had no such attacks in Forwards."

  "Maybe not. Forwards is not the world," Gregg said grimly. He told them his theory: that the rat packs kept to Deadways because there they found the solitary humans whom they could attack and destroy without interference. Their latest raid was partly evidence of increasing organization, partly an accident because they had not at the outset realized the strength of Gregg's band. Deciding he had said enough, Gregg changed the subject abruptly.

  His plans for coming into Forwards were simple, he said. He would retain his group, numbering about fifty, as an autonomous unit which would not mix with the people of Forwards; they would spend their wakes as they spent them now, skirmishing through Deadways, returning only for sleeps. They would be responsible for the guarding of Forwards from Outsiders, Giants, rats, and other raiders.

  "And in return?" Complain asked.

  "In return, I must keep the right to punish my own folk," Gregg said. "And everyone must address me as Captain."