Non-Stop - Brian W. Aldiss [53]
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 threshhold and spoke without ceremony.
‘An attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt!’ he cried. ‘Come at once – you’re needed.’
Scoyt was up immediately, his face grim. Half-way 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 round. 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 meagre belongings seemed to be still there, although it was evident the kit had been searched. Complain gave it only a brief glance, then 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 was 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 taken note of what she said, but it might well be the same gang 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 dead. He stood on the threshold, transfixed.
Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if it were merely sleeping, lay a body. It sprawled untidily, its legs crossed, its shabby cloak rolled up to serve as pillow; its face wore the melancholy expression of an over-fed 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 round 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 Teaching; it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. Between bow, bemoan, 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 round. Dazer levelled, 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 on 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.