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‘If we have not knowledge, we have strength to serve you with,’ Brandyholm offered. The sick feeling which had possessed him ever since they were captured in the ponic tangle showed no sign of weakening its grip on his intestines.
She said to him, without really bothering to look at him, ‘Your “priest” has the right idea: intelligence only can bribe me – not muscle.’
Turning to Bob Crooner, she asked, ‘What have you to say for yourself? You have not spoken yet.’
Crooner looked steadily at her before dropping his eyes and replying, ‘We have no ladies like you in our little tribe. My silence was only a mask for disturbed thoughts.’
‘That sort of thing is not acceptable as a bribe either,’ Viann said levelly. ‘You will all three be taken to a cell now; I shall question you individually, at my convenience.’
Guards appeared, and despite Carappa’s protests they were marched away to a featureless room close at hand. Groaning, Brandyholm lay down on a thin rug and propped himself on one elbow.
‘These people are more civilised than we,’ he said to the priest. ‘They will be sure to kill us. Had you promised us this when we set out, you would have set out alone.’
Carappa came over to him, squatted on his haunches and seized Brandyholm’s shirt front with two large hands. His voice was as thick as cool treacle.
‘Did not the Teaching tell you that a man without backbone is a ponic without miltex? What is your wretched, sordid life to care a curse over? Where in your mind is anything so precious that it should not be carelessly extinguished? Are we not where we desired to be, Tom Brandyholm – in Forwards, near Control? You sick, dispirited thing! I am a man, and like a man I will lie and cheat my way out of this situation. I advise you to do likewise.’
Brandyholm made no answer. The priest’s outburst meant little to him under the circumstances. It was one thing to tell this woman that the ship had a hidden control room with a captain in, and to bluff that they alone knew the way to it; whether or not that would save their lives was quite another thing.
‘Nothing to say?’ the priest asked, still gripping his shirt.
Before Brandyholm could attempt an answer, the door was flung open, and a man stood there calling for Carappa. Neatly, unobserved, as if he had rehearsed it, Carappa slipped the electrical circuits book out of his own shirt front and down Brandyholm’s. Then he got up slowly and left them without a word.
He was escorted to a room with two chairs in which sat Viann and a man who announced himself as Master Scott. His cadaverous face bore an expression which might be construed either as integrity or intransigence; a glance at the long fingers which tapped against one cheekbone suggested that if he was a cruel man, he would be cruel with artistry.
Eloquently, and in suitably vague terms, the priest explained his theory to them.
‘If you will trust me,’ he said, ‘trust me and give me power, I will set this ship – for such I assure you it is – at its destination, and we will be free of it and its oppression altogether.’
He continued falteringly, for it was obvious even to him that his small audience was full of derision and harsh amusement. Silence fell. Under their gaze he fidgeted and rubbed his jowls and muttered to himself. They continued to stare, lips curled with contemptuous enjoyment of his growing discomfiture.
‘Because I come of a small tribe you have no faith in me,’ he grumbled.
‘Not that,’ said Master Scott, almost with kindness. ‘You have at least proved something we were anxious to know – that you are a true native of this ship. I may explain that remark later.’
‘You see, in Forwards we have known for generations that this is a ship,’ Viann said. Her manner was more human now. ‘This control room you speak of in such indefinite fashion was actually found some while ago. But the controls are wrecked, ruined, and there was no captain – nor anyone we could train as captain. These facts are not common knowledge: it is better people should remain in ignorance of the world in which they live.’
‘I will be captain! I will see us all safe!’ burst out Carappa.
‘You are talking like a fool, man,’ said Master Scott. ‘You are unaware of the vast issues involved. It might possibly be instructive for you to see this control room. Come along with us.’
As they made their way along a corridor – the corridors here were immaculately clean and free of all ponic plants – Viann sketched in a few facts she thought Carappa was capable of understanding. ‘The blackness of Nothingness, Written upon the manuscript of the Universe, And punctuated with Stars’ was a sentence from a religious poem which he knew. This Viann tried to translate into scientific terms for him, told him of suns and planets, of the distances between planetary systems and of a metal ship constructed to travel between them.
She spoke of the planet Earth, where the ship was built. She spoke of the launching of the ship and of its travelling at a velocity a twentieth that of light towards the planetary system Procyon.
‘How do you know all this?’ cried Carappa. As he listened the tears had begun to stream from his eyes, and now he flung up his hands in dismay. The world was suddenly more awesome than he dreamed: something too big ever to control.
‘You must understand that some terrible catastrophe happened in the ship, thwarting the ideas and ideals of its launchers,’ the slender girl told him.
‘That indeed I know … some terrible wrong of our forefathers.’
‘Some records have survived. You understand that less than a quarter of the ship is accessible to us. All the same, we have pieced these facts together.’
The priest passed a hand over his grey face. ‘But – ’ he began. ‘No, it doesn’t matter …’
‘Here is the control room,’ Master Scott said quietly. Producing a sonic key, he slid open a panel door; as they passed through it, it closed behind them.
The control room was not large, although it had once been impressive in its functionalism. It was shaped much like a segment of orange, the long curve before them from ceiling to floor being ribbed vertically at intervals. Carappa swung his head slowly from side to side like an animal in pain, as he took it in.
‘And where are the stars?’ he asked.
‘Behind there, we think.’ Viann indicated the ribbed wall. ‘But if those are shutters we no longer have the power to withdraw them. They are firmly locked in place.’
‘No longer have the power …’ Carappa echoed. His tears were running again as he paced up and down. ‘I am only a poor provincial priest and I feel very humble – ’
‘Stop dramatising yourself, man,’ Scott said sharply. ‘Take your mind off your own ego and look instead at these.’
He swept a hand eloquently over the semi-circular bank of controls. The whole structure was a ruinous, coagulated mass; it had been destroyed by heat and acid till not a switch or dial remained intact.
‘This can never be repaired,’ he said gravely.
They stood isolated together in the middle of the floor, a sense of their helplessness suddenly giving them a need for kinship.
‘It is worse than you thought, priest?’ Viann asked.
He nodded dumbly, and finally said, ‘This voyage to Procyon – it would take several generations?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘The seventh generation would be young and fit to colonise any planet they reached.’
‘Only seven? Should the ship – how should I say – ’ He paused. He was weary. Again he dragged a heavy hand across his face. ‘Should we not be at Procyon now?’
Master Scott said, ‘We have a log book of an early captain of the ship we could show you. The ship reached the Procyon system and actually found a habitable planet.’
‘Then?’
‘It landed half the people as colonists, took in fresh stocks of water – which had apparently run short – and began back for home, for Earth, again.’
Once more the silence.
As if compelled to probe into something he had no wish to discover, the priest said, ‘And this journey back – another seven generations?’
‘Yes.’
Slowly he rephrased a question he had already asked: ‘Should we not be back at Earth now?’
‘We should,’ said the girl. Her face tilted up towards his as she added through clenched teeth, ‘We have evidence that twenty-two generations have passed since the ship left Procyon.’
For a moment he did not grasp her meaning, asking, ‘Then where are we?’
In the wide room her quiet answer, ‘Lost,’ was almost lost.
Steadying himself, Carappa said dully, ‘You may ask your men to kill me now.’
IV
For some while after the priest was taken from them, Tom Brandyholm and Bob Crooner sat quietly in their cell. Trepidation pinned Brandyholm where he was, slumped against one wall; his entire fibre seemed to have dissolved into a sort of watery paralysis. He did not recognise a form of nervous disease which had carried off a number of his acquaintances; in the unprecedented conditions of the ship, its circumscribed inhabitants perished easily from inner tensions.
He looked hopelessly at the book Carappa had left. Most of it consisted of unreadable diagrams and instructions, obviously of a technical nature. Here and there was a sentence – such as ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all inessential lighting, established to give an illusion of night, will be the period normally devoted to routine maintenance’ – which seemed to make sense without being really comprehensible. Realising how little he understood of the world, Brandyholm began to pace rapidly up and down. Confinement! It was killing him.
He flung himself violently at the door, hammering and scratching on it, screaming.
In a kind of daze, he felt Crooner pull him over onto his back.
‘Got to get away, got to get away, Bob!’ he cried. ‘Can’t we escape – get back to the tribe?’
‘Lie quiet and shut up,’ Crooner advised grimly. ‘Wait your chance. It’ll come, with luck.’
They waited, Brandyholm in a kind of stupor. When the guards came again and called for him, they had to haul him to his feet. He was dragged roughly along corridors and finally pushed into a small room. A uniformed man with a lean face confronted him.
‘I am Master Scott,’ the man said. ‘Expansion to your ego.’
Brandyholm, trying to focus on him through swimming vision, did not reply. A swung hand, catching him sharply on the cheek, cleared his head with remarkable efficiency.
‘Expansion to your ego,’ Master Scott repeated menacingly.
‘At your expense,’ replied Brandyholm feebly.
‘That’s better. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’
‘Migraine.’
‘You confess regularly?’
‘When my priest, Carappa, is at liberty.’
‘Then you should not suffer guilt-attacks which produce migraines,’ answered Scott, ignoring Brandyholm’s thrust. Changing his tone, he said, ‘I have to ask you some questions. It would be wise to answer carefully. First: where were you born?’
‘In Quarters.’
‘Proof of that?’
‘What do you call proof? Go and catch my mother: she’s still alive: she’ll tell you.’
‘Have you any reasons why your life should be spared?’
‘What reason have you to kill me?’
Master Scott made an impatient gesture. ‘I’m trying to be patient. Reasons, quickly. Have you any knowledge?’
‘What if I have?’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when his mouth was slammed shut by a palm under his chin. He was pinned against the wall, struggling, while a long finger flicked unpleasantly against his windpipe.
‘Understand this,’ Scott said, synchronising words with flicks, ‘Everyone on shipboard is in a damn beastly situation. It’s a ship, see, and it’s headed hell-knows-where, and there are some queer things going on aboard – never mind that – you wouldn’t understand. What you can understand, is that we’re all expendable, and if you can’t show you’re any use you’re bound for the Long Jump. Now – talk.’
Sick, sweating, Brandyholm said the first thing that came into his head: ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all unessential lighting, established to give a delusion of night, will be the period devoted to maintenance.’
He was instantly released. Instantly, he slumped to the floor.
‘What’s that?’ Scott asked, stirring him slightly with one foot. He wrote it down in a notebook while Brandyholm repeated it.
‘Is it important?’ Brandyholm asked.
‘Could be. Where did you get it from?’ He listened intently while the other explained about the book of circuits, which he had left in the cell.
The silence which followed was broken by the entry of an excited man who grabbed Scott’s arm and said, ‘You’re needed at once at the barricades! An attack is developing. Everyone is wanted.’
‘I’m coming,’ Scott said. Without another glance at Brandyholm, they ran from the room. The latter took no advantage of their disappearance beyond arranging himself more comfortably on the floor. So deeply had a feeling of defeat crept into him that he scarcely realised he was alone; when he did realise it, he was at first unable to do anything about it. Gradually, however, he fostered a strengthening rage in himself. He had been tricked, trapped, maligned, persecuted, bullied, he who deserved only kindness … Tears stood in his eyes, and he hauled himself to his feet. He was going to show them. An exhilarating urge to clamp his hands round somebody’s throat seized him.
The door by which Scott and the other man had left proved to be locked. The opposite wall also had a door, which opened into a sort of ante-room. Passing through this, Brandyholm came into a deserted corridor, at the far end of which, beyond a gap, he could see ponics growing. He had never been so grateful for the sight of those growths in his life. Once in among them, escape should be easy, and he could find his way back to Quarters. Here was the luck Crooner had spoken of.
He began to run down the corridor. There was one room to pass with an open door; he sprinted past it, glancing in as he did so. What he saw made him halt and turn back. Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if he were merely sleeping, lay Carappa. His huge body sprawled untidily, his legs were crossed, and face bore the expression of a well-fed bulldog – and blood was clotted over his hair and temple.
‘Carappa!’ Brandyholm exclaimed, leaning forward and touching the priest’s arm. It was stone cold.
The teaching laid down strict instructions on the ceremony to be observed over the dead. Death has a sting, said the Teaching, for those who observe it; it strikes fear into their hearts. This fear must not be allowed to permeate the subconscious: it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. So firmly had this principle been instilled into Brandyholm that, abandoning all thought of escape, he snapped straight away into the first gesture of prostration.
‘I’m afraid we must interrupt,’ said a cool female voice behind him. He jumped round. Viann and two guards with levelled dazers confronted him. Her lips were beautiful but her smile was unnerving.
‘Well, warrior?’ Crooner asked defiantly, looking up at the man who stood on the threshold of his cell, his thumbs tucked theatrically in his belt.
‘Your turn for interrogation. Look lively,’ the man said. He was an ugly looking brute: Crooner thought it wise to jump to his feet at once.
He was marched along the course Carappa and Brandyholm had taken earlier. Now he too faced Master Scott. They exchanged greetings in surly fashion as the guard left them to confront each other
‘Where were you born?’ Scott snapped.
‘Somewhere in the tangles.’
‘Why?’
‘My parents were fugitives from their tribe – one of the little Midway tribes. My father ran amok, I believe. It often happens. I was fully grown when I joined the Greene tribe.’
‘Have you proof of all that?’ Scott asked, elongating his mouth to a mere slit.
