Non-Stop - Brian W. Aldiss [54]
Scoyt’s mouth, naturally heavy, had now elongated itself into a slit. A rubber cosh had appeared, and was lightly balanced between Scoyt’s hands. He began to pace up and down in front of Fermour, watching him closely.
‘Have you any proof of all this stuff you tell me?’ he asked.
Fermour was pale, tensed, incessantly twisting the heavy ring on his finger.
‘What sort of proof?’ he asked, dry-mouthed.
‘Any sort. Anything about your origins we can check on. We aren’t just a rag-taggle village in Deadways, Fermour. When you drift in from the tangles, we have to know who or what you are . . . Well?’
‘Marapper the priest will vouch for me.’
‘Marapper’s dead. Besides, I’m interested in someone who knew you as a child: anyone.’ He swung round so that they were face to face. ‘In short, Fermour, we want something you seem unable to give – proof that you’re human!’
‘I’m more human than you, you little –’ As he spoke, Fermour jumped, his fist swinging.
Nimbly, Scoyt skipped back and brought the cosh hard across Fermour’s wrist. Numbness shooting up his arm, Fermour subsided deflatedly, face sour with malice.
‘Your reflexes are too slow,’ Scoyt said severely. ‘You should easily have taken me by surprise then.’
‘I was always called slow in Quarters,’ Fermour muttered, clutching his sleeve.
‘How long have you been with the Greene tribe?’ Scoyt demanded, coming closer to Fermour again and waggling the cosh as if keen to try out another blow.
‘Oh, I lose track of time. Twice a hundred dozen sleepwakes.’
‘We do not use your primitive method of calculating time in Forwards, Fermour. We call four sleep-wakes one day. That would make your stay with the tribe . . . six hundred days. A long time in a man’s life.’
He stood looking at Fermour as if waiting for something. The door was pushed roughly open and a guard appeared on the threshold, panting.
‘There’s an attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt,’ he cried. ‘Please come at once – you’re needed.’
On his way to the door, Scoyt paused and turned back towards Fermour, grim-faced.
‘Stay there!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
In the next room, Complain turned slowly to Vyann. Her dazer had gone back in its holster at her waist.
‘So that tale about the attack at the barriers is just a trick to get Master Scoyt out of the room, is it?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ she said steadily. ‘See what Fermour does now.’
For a long moment, Complain stood looking into her eyes, caught by them. He was close to her, alone in what she had called the observation room, next to the room in which Fermour now was and Complain had been earlier. Then, pulling himself away in case his heart might be read in his face, Complain turned and fixed his gaze through the peephole again.
He was in time to see Fermour grab a small stool from the side of the room, drag it into the middle, stand on it, and reach up towards the grille that here, as in most apartments, was a feature of the ceiling. His fingers curled helplessly a few inches below the grille. After a few fruitless attempts to jump and stand on tip-toe, Fermour looked round the room in desperation and noticed the other door beyond which lay his pack. Kicking the stool away, he hurried through it, so vanishing from Complain’s sight.
‘He has gone, just as I went,’ Complain said, turning to brave the grey eyes again.
‘My men will pick him up before he gets to the ponics,’ Vyann said carelessly. ‘I have little doubt your friend Fermour is an Outsider, but we shall be certain in a few minutes.’
‘Bob Fermour! He couldn’t be!’
‘We’ll argue about that later,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, Roy Complain, you are a free man – as far as any of us are free. Since you have knowledge and experience, I hope you will help us attack some of our troubles.’
She was so much more beautiful and frightening than Gwenny had ever been. His voice betraying his nervous excitement, Complain said, ‘I will help you in any way I can.’
‘Master Scoyt will be grateful,’ she said, moving away with a sudden sharpness in her voice. It brought