The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [27]
Joe was an altogether more complex individual, though sometimes he reminded Stormgren of an overgrown baby. Their interminable canasta games were punctuated with violent political arguments, but it became obvious to Stormgren that the big Pole had never thought seriously about the cause for which he was fighting. Emotion and extreme conservatism clouded all his judgments. His country’s long struggle for independence had conditioned him so completely that he still lived in the past. He was a picturesque survival, one of those who had no use for an ordered way of life. When his type had vanished, if it ever did, the world would be a safer but less interesting place.
There was little doubt, as far as Stormgren was concerned, that Karellen had failed to locate him. He had tried to bluff, but his captors were unconvinced. He was fairly certain that they had been holding him here to see if Karellen would act, and now that nothing had happened they could proceed with the next part of their plan.
Stormgren was not surprised when, five or six days after his capture, Joe told him to expect visitors. For some time the little group had shown increasing nervousness, and the prisoner guessed that the leaders of the movement, having seen that the coast was clear, were at last coming to collect him.
They were already waiting, gathered round the rickety table, when Joe waved him politely into the living room. The three thugs had vanished, and even Joe seemed somewhat restrained. Stormgren could see at once that he was now confronted by men of a much higher caliber, and the group opposite reminded him strongly of a picture he had once seen of Lenin and his colleagues in the first days of the Russian Revolution. There was the same intellectual force, iron determination, and ruthlessness in these six men. Joe and his like were harmless: here were the real brains behind the organization.
With a curt nod, Stormgren moved over to the seat and tried to look self-possessed. As he approached, the elderly, thickset man on the far side of the table leaned forward and stared at him with piercing gray eyes. They made Stormgren so uncomfortable that he spoke first—something he had not intended to do.
“I suppose you’ve come to discuss terms. What’s my ransom?”
He noticed that in the background someone was taking down his words in a shorthand notebook. It was all very businesslike.
The leader replied in a musical Welsh accent.
“You could put it that way, Mr. Secretary-General. But we’re interested in information, not cash.”
So that was it, thought Stormgren. He was a prisoner of war, and this was his interrogation.
“You know what our motives are,” continued the other in his softly lilting voice. “Call us a resistance movement, if you like. We believe that sooner or later Earth will have to fight for its independence—but we realize that the struggle can only be by indirect methods such as sabotage and disobedience. We kidnapped you partly to show Karellen that we mean business and are well organized, but largely because you are the only man who can tell us anything of the Overlords. You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Stormgren. Give us your cooperation, and you can have your freedom.”
“Exactly what do you wish to know?” asked Stormgren cautiously.
Those extraordinary eyes seemed to search his mind to its depths: they were unlike any that Stormgren had ever seen in his life. Then the singsong voice replied:
“Do you know who, or what, the Overlords really are?”
Stormgren almost smiled.
“Believe me,” he said, “I’m quite as anxious as you to discover that.”
“Then you’ll answer our questions?”
“I make no promises. But I may.”
There was a slight sigh of relief from Joe and a rustle of anticipation went round the room.
“We have a general idea,” continued the other, “of the circumstances in which you meet Karellen. Would you go through them carefully, leaving out nothing of importance.”
That was harmless enough, thought Stormgren. He had done it scores of times