"Surely a rather childish stipulation?"
"You think so? You never knew what was good for you. I've got here in my possession an old diary which proves that I —and you, of course— are descended from a captain of this ship. His name was Captain Complain— Captain Gregory Complain. He owned the whole ship. Imagine that if you can . . ."
Gregg's face was suddenly lit with wonder, then the curtain of surliness fell again. Behind it was a glimpse of a human trying to come to terms with the world. Then he was once more a brute, sitting on bandages. When Vyann asked him how old the diary was, he shrugged his shoulders, said he did not know, said he had never read more than the title page of the thing— and that, Complain guessed, would have taken him some while.
"The diary's in the locker behind you," Gregg said. "I'll show it to you some time— if we come to terms. Have you decided about that?"
"You really offer us little to make the bargain attractive, brother," Complain replied. "This rat menace, for instance— for your own motives you are overestimating it."
"You think so?" Gregg stood up. "Then come and have a look. Hawl, you stay and keep an eye on the lady— what we're going to see is no sight for her."
He led Complain along a desolate muddle of corridor, saying as they went how sorry he was to have to leave this hideout. The ancient explosion and a chance arrangement of closed interdeck doors had given his band a fortress only approachable through the gashed roof by which Complain and Vyann had entered. Still talking —and now beyond his habitual surliness were tokens that he felt some pleasure at the sight of his brother— Gregg burst into a cupboard-like room.
"Here's an old pal for you," he said, with a sweeping gesture of introduction.
The announcement left Complain unprepared for what he saw. On a rough and dirty couch lay Ern Roffery the Valuer. He was barely recognizable. Three fingers were missing, and half the flesh of his face; one eye was gone. Most of the superb mustache had been chewed away. It needed nobody to tell Complain that this was the work of the rats— he could see their teeth marks on a protruding cheekbone. The Valuer did not move.
"Shouldn't be surprised he's made the Journey," Gregg said carelessly.
He shook Roffery's shoulder roughly, raised his head, and let it drop back on to the pillow.
"Still warm— probably unconscious," he said. "But this'll show you what we're up against. We picked this hero up last wake, several decks away. He said the rats had finished him. It was from him I heard about you— he recognized me. Not a bad fellow."
"One of the best," Complain said. In a daze he stood there while his brother kept talking. The rats had picked Roffery up in the swimming pool; while he was still helpless from the effects of the Giants' gassing, they had loaded him on a sort of stretcher and dragged him to their warrens. And there he had been questioned, under torture.
The warren was between broken decks, out of a man's reach. It was packed with rats, and with an extraordinary variety of bric-a-brac they had scavenged and built into dens and caves. Roffery saw their captive animals, existing under appalling conditions. Many of these helpless beasts were deformed, like human mutations, and some of them had the ability to probe with their minds into other minds. These mutated creatures were sent by the rats to question Roffery.
Complain shuddered. He recalled his disgust when the rabbit had bubbled its insane interrogations into his mind. Roffery's experience, long protracted, had been infinitely worse. Whatever they learned from him —and they must have acquired much knowledge of the ways of men— Roffery learned something from them: the rats knew the ship as no man ever had, at least since the catastrophe; the tangles were no obstacle to them, for they traveled by the low roads between decks, which was why men saw them rarely, traveled by the ten thousand pipes and sewers and tubes that were the great ship's arteries.
"Now you see why I'm not happy here," Gregg said. "I don't want my flesh chewed off my skull. Let's get back to your woman."
Vyann seemed content when they returned to her; she was drinking a hot liquid. Only Hawl looked guilty and saw fit to explain that the bloody bandages had made her ill, so he had gone to get her a drink.
"There's a drop left for you, Captain," he added.
As Gregg drank, Complain started to go, still shaken by the sight of Roffery.
"We'll put your proposition to the Council," he said. "They should accept it when they hear about the rats. I'll come back and report to you what they say. Now we must get back; the next sleep-wake is a dark, and there is much to be done before that."
Gregg looked hard at his brother. Beneath the morose indifference of his expression, uneasiness stirred; undoubtedly he was anxious to get his band to Forwards as soon as possible. Perhaps he realized for the first time that his younger brother was a force to reckon with.
"Here's a present for you to take with you," he said clumsily, picking up something from the bed and thrusting it at Complain. "It's a sort of dazer I took off a Giant we speared two wakes back. It kills by heat. It's awkward to handle, and you'll burn yourself if you aren't careful, but it was a useful enough weapon against the rats."
The "sort of dazer" was a stubby metal object, as cumbrous as Gregg had said; he pressed the button, and a fan of almost invisible heat spread from the front. Even standing away from it, Complain could feel its heat, but its range was obviously short. Nevertheless, Complain accepted it gratefully, and he parted from his brother on an unexpectedly cordial note. It felt funny, he thought, to be pleased by a personal relationship like that.
Vyann and Complain made their way back to Forwards unescorted, the latter with more anxiety than when they had set out, keeping his senses alert for rats. They arrived safely, only to find Forwards in an uproar.
IV
A Giant had entered Forwards. He had not come through any of the barriers, which of course were guarded continually, but had suddenly appeared before a homeward bound laboring girl on Deck 14. Before she could cry out, the unfortunate girl had been seized, gagged, and bound; she was in no way molested, and as soon as the Giant had finished tying her up, he disappeared. Without much delay, the girl managed to bite off the gag and call for help.
Police and guards had started a search for the invader at once. Their alarm at this confirmation of the existence of Giants, if confirmation still was needed in Forwards, was increased by the apparent pointlessness of his action; obviously some sinister move was afoot. General consensus was that the Giants were returning from their long sleep to take back the ship. In the pursuit that followed, Master Scoyt and most of his staff joined, and were at present scouring all levels near the scene of the incident.
This Vyann and Complain learned from an excited sentry at the barriers. As they made for their own apartments, distant whistles could be heard; the corridors were almost empty— evidently most people had joined in the chase. A diversion was always as welcome in Forwards as it had been in Quarters.
Vyann breathed a sigh of relief.
"This gives us a lull," she said. "I didn't want to face the Council before I had talked to you. I don't know how you feel, but I'm sure of one thing; we can't have your brother's mob here— they'd be unmanageable."
Complain had known instinctively how she felt. Inclined to agree, he nevertheless said, "Do you feel happy about leaving them to the rats?"
"Gregg's deliberately overestimating the abilities of the rats, as a lever to get himself in here. If he's really so anxious about them he can move further into Deadways. He certainly can't come here: our organization would collapse."
Vyann had the stubborn look about her mouth again. She was so self-possessed that a wave of rebellion ran through Complain. Catching the defiance in his eyes, Vyann smiled slightly and said, "Come into my room and talk, Roy."
It was an apartment much like Complain's, rather bare, except for a bright rug on the floor. Vyann shut the door behind them and said, "I shall have to recommend to Roger and the Council that we keep Gregg out at all costs. You m
ay have noticed that half his men had some sort of deformity; I suppose he has to pick what recruits he can from the freaks of Deadways, but we can't possibly allow them here."
"He has more knowledge of that area of the ship than anyone here," Complain said, stung by the contempt in her voice. "For any forays into the ponics he'd be invaluable."
She waved a hand gently, bringing it to rest on his arm.
"Let us not quarrel. The Council can decide the matter. Anyhow I have something to show you––“
"Before we change the subject," Complain interrupted, "Gregg made a remark that worried me. He thought you came with me to keep an eye on me— was that true?"
She looked at Complain searchingly and said, her seriousness dissolving, "Supposing I like keeping an eye on you?"
He had reached one of those points there could be no retreat from; already his blood hammered with a mysterious foreknowledge of what he was bound to do. He dropped the cumbrous weapon Gregg had given him on the bed. Any rebuff was worth pulling her toward him, and kissing her on the lips. There was no rebuff; when she opened her eyes again they were full of an excitement as wild as his.
"You'll stay in Forwards, now, won't you, Roy?"
"Do you need to ask?" he exclaimed, putting his hand up to touch the hair that had always so compelled him. They stood together for a long while, just looking at each other, until at last Vyann said, "This will not do. Come and see what I've got to show you— something thrilling! With any luck it will tell us a great deal we need to know about the ship."
Vyann was back to business; it took Complain somewhat longer to recover. She sat down on the bed. As Complain sat beside her, she unbuttoned her tunic and pulled out a narrow black book, handing it to him.
"It was written by an ancestor of yours. I stole it from Gregg's locker when I had sent Hawl out to get me a drink. It's the diary of Gregory Complain, sometime captain of this ship."
The instinct which prompted Vyann to steal the diary was a sure one; although the entries were comparatively few, the vistas they opened up came like a revelation. Because Vyann read more quickly than he, Complain soon gave up, lying with his head in her lap as she read aloud.
At first the account was difficult to follow, by virtue of its reference to things of which Vyann and Complain had no knowledge; but they soon grew to understand the alarming predicament in which the writer of the diary and his contemporaries had found themselves. That ancient crisis seemed suddenly very near, although it had happened so long ago; for Captain Gregory —as Vyann soon discovered— had been the first captain on the ship's journey home from Procyon V.
An illuminating entry occurred only a few pages after the diary began:
28.xi.2521. More trouble. Watkins, I/C Floriculture was up to see me after morning watch. He reports that the chlorosis afflicting many species of plants is no better, despite constant iron treatments. Advance spectrum output has been increased two degrees. Lt. Stover —I understand the ratings call him "Noah"— was up shortly afterwards. He is I/C Animal Insemination, and is no happier about his lower animals than Watkins is about his higher plants. Apparently the mice are breeding at a significantly faster rate, but bearing undeveloped fetuses; guinea pigs show similar tendencies. This is hardly a major worry. Most of these creatures went off-board at New Earth (Procyon V's new name) as planned; the few we have are concessions to Noah's sentimentality— though his argument that they may be useful for laboratory experiments has something to commend it.
30.xi.2521. Last night was our monthly ball. My dear wife, Yvonne, who always organizes these things, had gone to great pains over it; she looked lovely —but of course the years tell on us both— it's hard to realize Frank is eighteen! Unfortunately the dance was a complete failure. This was our first since leaving Orbit X, and the absence of the colonists made itself felt. So few people seem left aboard. We are now ten days out from New Earth. The monotonous years stretch like dead weight before us.
Went amidships this morning to see Floriculture. Watkins and Montgomery, the hydroponics specialist, look more cheerful. Though many of the crops appear worse than before, those essential plants, the five cultures which provide us with our air, are picking up again; the iron dosages evidently did the trick. Less cheer from Noah Stover— they have a lot of sick animals on their hands.
2.xii.2521. We are now on full acceleration. The long journey home may be said to have begun in earnest: as if anyone felt excited. Morale is low ... Yvonne and Frank are being splendid, partly, I suppose, to try and forget that Joy —so recently our baby girl!— is now several a.u.'s behind. A No-More-Procreation Club has been formed in crew's quarters, I am told by Internal Relations; the basic human drives can cope with that one, I think. More difficult to deal with is poor Bassitt. . . He was an Aviarist 2d Class, but now that all birds except a handful of sparrows have been released on the New World, time hangs heavy for him. He has evolved a dismal religion out of old psychology textbooks, which he insists on preaching up and down Main Corridor.
Amazing thing is, people seem inclined to listen. Sign of the times, I suppose. These are minor matters. I was about to deal with a more serious one —the animals— when I was called. More later.
5.xii.2521. A curse has fallen upon us! Hardly an animal aboard ship is now on its feet, many are dead. The rest lie stiffly with eyes glazed, occasional muscular spasms providing their only sign of life. The head of Fauniculture, Distaff —who went to school with me— is sick, but his underlings and Noah are doing good work. Drugs, however, seem ineffective on the suffering creatures. If only they could talk! Agritechnics are cooperating full blast with the Laboratory Deck, trying to find what plague has descended on us. Curse of God, I say! . . . All this is grist for Bassitt's mill, of course.
10.xii.2521. Among the stack of routine reports on my desk every morning is the sick report. On the 8th there were 9 sick, yesterday 19, today 41— and a request, which I hardly needed, from Senior M. O. Toynbee, to see me. I went straight down to sick bay to see him. He says the trouble is a food poisoning of some still unidentified kind. Toynbee, as usual, was rather pompous and learned, but without definite knowledge; obviously, as he explains, whatever got into the animals has got into his patients. They were a pathetic lot, a high percentage of them children. Like the animals, they lie rigidly, occasionally undergoing muscular twitch; high temperatures, vocal cords apparently paralyzed. Sick bay out of bounds to visitors.
14.xii.2521. Every child and adolescent aboard now lies in pain in sick bay. Adults also affected. Total sick: 109. This is nearly a quarter of our company; fortunately —at least as far as manning the ship is concerned— the older people seem more immune. Distaff died yesterday, but he was sick anyway. No deaths from the strange paralysis reported. Anxious faces everywhere. I can hardly bear to look at them.
17.xii.2521. Oh Lord, if You did not from its launching turn Your face from this ship, look upon us now. It is nine days since the first 9 sicknesses were reported. Eight of them died today. We had thought, and Toynbee assured me, they were recovering. The stiffness lasted a week; for the last two days, the patients were relaxed, although still running temperatures; 3 spoke up intelligently and said they felt better, the other 6 seemed delirious. The deaths occurred quietly, without struggle. Laboratory Deck has post-mortems on hand, Sheila Simpson is the only survivor of this first batch, a girl of thirteen; her temperature is lower, she may live.
The nine-day cycle will be up for 10 more cases tomorrow. Infinite foreboding fills me.
One hundred and eighty-eight people are now in bed, many lying in their respective rooms, the sick bay being full. Power staff are being drafted as orderlies. Bassitt in demand! A deputation of twenty officers, all very respectful, and headed by Watkins, came to see me after lunch; they requested that we turn back to New Earth before it is too late. Of course I had to dissuade them; poor Cruikshank of Ship's Press was among them— his son was one of the 8 who died this morning.
18.xii.2521. Could no
t sleep. Frank was taken early this morning, dear lad. He lies as rigid as a corpse, staring at— what? Yet he was only 1 of 20 new cases; the older people are getting it now. Have been forced to modify the ship's routine: another few days and it must be abandoned altogether. Thank heaven most devices are automatic and self-servicing.
Of the 10 patients whose nine-day cycle finished today, 7 have died. The other 3 remain on the threshold of consciousness. No change in young Sheila. All anyone talks about now is what is called the "Nine Day Ague." Had Bassitt put in the cells on a charge of spreading depression.
I am tired after a prolonged inspection of Agriculture with, among others, Watkins, who was rather stiff after the failure of his deputation yesterday. Ninety-five per cent of all livestock took the Ague, Noah tells me. About 45 per cent of those recovered— wish human figures looked as good! Unfortunately, the bigger animals came off worst; no horses survived and, more serious, no cows. Sheep fared badly, pigs and dogs comparatively well. The mice and rats are fully recovered, their reproductive capacities unimpaired.
Ordinarily earth-grown plants have shown roughly similar percentages of survival.
In the adjacent chambers, Montgomery showed me his hydroponics with pride. Completely recovered from chlorosis —if it was chlorosis— they are more vigorous than ever, and seem almost to have benefited from their version of the Nine Day Ague. Five types of oxygenator are grown: two "wet," one "semi-wet," and two "dry" varieties. One of these dry varieties in particular, an edible variety modified centuries ago from ground elder, is growing luxuriantly and shows a tendency to flow out from its gravel beds over the deck. Temperatures in Floriculture are being kept high; Montgomery thinks it helps.
Phoned laboratories. Research promises (as it has before) to produce a cure for our plague tomorrow; unfortunately most of the scientists are down with the Ague, and a woman called Payne is trying to run things.
21.xii.2521. I have left the Control Room— perhaps for good. The shutters have been closed against the stars.