Pagina creata il 16 Novembre 1997
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Soon after he was brought aboard the survey vessel, Conan’s tangled mass of hair was clipped short, and he was given clothes to cover his nakedness. They were old and patched, and made of a shoddy synthetic material that felt unpleasant against his skin, but at least they seemed to be clean. Again the doctor questioned him, and became furious when he gave her the same answers he had given before.
"Voices!" she cried in disgust. "Of all the rot! When we reach port, you’d better watch your tongue with the work commissioner. Try telling him it was voices that kept you so healthy, and you’ll be disqualified."
"Disqualified for what?"
"For living, you fool! The New Order can’t take chances with crackbrains. They might wreck valuable equipment. Besides," she added in a lower voice, "I’d hate to see such a fine young body thrown away. Such beautiful muscles! In all my life I’ve never seen their equal." She felt his arms. "Like steel! The New Order needs your strength."
He thanked her for her warning, then asked, "Where are we going?"
"Home for more fuel. Then out again to chart all the new lands we can before the fogs come."
"But—where is home?"
"Industria, of course."
"Is that a—a city?"
"It’s the city of the New Order," she informed him proudly. "Soon it will be the capital of the world. We’ll be there in a few days. Three, four maybe. These are strange waters we must proceed very carefully."
* * *
He saw the haze of Industria, and smelled it, long before the plodding vessel crept close enough for him to make it out. Something about its sprawling ugliness was vaguely familiar. With mounting distaste he stared at the acres of tangled pipes and tanks, the oily smoke curling from some of the stacks, and the vast clutter of plastic buildings, all rising starkly between the sea and the bleak hills. Finally, as the vessel eased in behind the protection of a makeshift breakwater, he remembered a picture he had seen years ago.
"Why," he said to the doctor, who was waiting impatiently to go ashore, "isn’t this one of those chemical cities the Peace Union was planning to build? You know, where everything was supposed to be made of plastics or synthetics, even the food—"
"This is the model city," she interrupted curtly. "The only one finished before the Change. And don’t call the food synthetic. It is the best food ever made, and the most scientific. You’ve been eating it ever since you were rescued."
"I wasn’t rescued," he retorted. "I was captured. And I’d hate to feed your food to a dog."
She whirled on him angrily. "There is no finer food on earth, and you’d better learn to like it! And, so help me, you’d better watch your tongue when you go ashore, or you’ll wish we’d never found you."
Almost before the lines were made fast she jerked her chin at him, swung her long, bony frame over the rail, and leaped to the dock. As he caught up with her, she said, "I’m turning you over to the work commissioner He’ll assign you to a job. You’ll fare much better if you show a little gratitude for the opportunity you’re being given."
"What opportunity?"
"To become a citizen of the New Order, of course! You’ll begin as an apprentice citizen, and the rest is up to you. Nothing is free in this world. It must be worked for"
He forced back his sudden anger and strode glumly beside her. They crossed a square littered with what seemed to be plastic building supplies, and turned toward a long, grimy structure pierced with rows of small windows. The red pennant of the New Order flew defiantly over the entrance.
Just before they reached the place, a sudden downdraft from one of the smokestacks bathed them with acrid fumes. The doctor paused, threw back her gaunt gray head, and breathed deeply. "Ah, that is a good smell!" she cried. "The best smell in the world!"
Conan choked and managed to stutter, "W-what’s so good about it?"
"Because it is the smell of life, and progress," she reminded him sharply. "It has kept us alive ever since the Change. Someday it will help us rule the earth."
She led him into a long, bare hall and through a door on the left. They entered a bleak outer office where several men were in close consultation over a wall map. Beyond them in an adjoining room he glimpsed a huge, red-bearded figure hunched over a desk that seemed much too small for him.
Conan was wondering why every man he’d seen was bearded, when Red Beard glanced up, raised bushy eyebrows, and suddenly roared, "Citizen Doctor Manski! I thought it was about time you were back. Come in and tell me what you found."
"We didn’t find much, Citizen Commissioner," the doctor replied as she entered. "Very little, I’m afraid, that you’d care to hear about. I’m sorry—"
"Stop being sorry," he ordered, "and give me the facts. What did you find?"
"Twenty-seven new islands, all practically worthless. The captain will bring you a full report when he comes."
"No survivors?"
"Just one. He’s young, but he should make a good worker."
"No sign of that fellow we want?"
"Not a trace! I’m beginning to think that bunch at High Harbor are keeping something from us."
"Well, Dyce is there now. He should be able to pry the truth out of them. In the meantime, keep searching. Try Area Three this time."
"But that’s where the compass always goes bad," she reminded him.
"I’ll speak to the captain about it. You should be able to check it before the fogs come. If there’s land there, Briac Roa could be on it." The commissioner paused and scowled at Conan, waiting in the doorway. Abruptly he exclaimed, "Don’t tell me that’s the survivor you brought back!"
"It is. And I certify him as physically perfect, strong, and intelligent. But he’s rebellious—he doesn’t appreciate his opportunity."
"Ha! A little work will take care of that. But he’s amazing! Such health! Come here, young fellow," the commissioner ordered, "and let’s have a look at you!"
Inwardly raging, Conan entered and submitted to the big man’s questions. They were the same ones he had been asked before, but they were sharper, and his bullying questioner was far more demanding. Conan’s rage mounted. Only the memory of the voice he had heard enabled him to hold his temper in check.
But suddenly he burst forth, "Why are you treating me this way? I’m willing to work for my keep, but is there any reason you can’t—"
"Shut up!" the commissioner ordered. "You’re a Westerner. You’ll have to prove yourself before we can accept you as a citizen."
"But I don’t want to be a citizen! All I want is to go to High Harbor. The next time one of your boats—"
Dr. Manski snapped, "Don’t be ridiculous! Soon everyone at High Harbor will be glad to have citizenship. If you’ll take my advice—"
"I said, shut up!" the commissioner ordered again. Then he roared, "Citizen Repko!"
A large, pale-eyed, loose-jointed man, heavy-featured and almost beardless, appeared in the doorway. "Yes, Citizen Commissioner?"
"Take this young fool," growled the commissioner, "see that he’s marked and listed, then send him back for assignment."
Conan was thrust into the other room and made to stand at attention while Citizen Repko, with obvious enjoyment, used a stylus and a paperlike piece of plastic to record his name, date of rescue, and other pertinent information. Finally Citizen Repko took what appeared to be a thick metal tube from his desk, and ordered him to stand against the wall.
"What’s that?" Conan asked suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"
"Shut up and hold still!" he was told.
He saw that the other men in the room were watching expectantly while one end of the tube was placed against his forehead. There was a click as a spring was drawn back, then a sudden snap that made him gasp as hundreds of stinging needlepoints were driven into his skin.
He jerked angrily away. "What—what have you done to me?" he demanded.
"Look in the mirror," said the wielder of the tube, smirking. "See how pretty we’ve made you!"
Conan whirled and stared into a cracked glass hanging near the door. On the forehead of the incredulous face staring back at him was a large scarlet cross. An indelible cross, for now he remembered that this was how the old Peace Union used to mark its prisoners— with a tattooing machine that drove the color into the skin.
He touched the blazing mark with trembling fingers and turned slowly, outraged. Even then he might have held his mounting fury in check. But the sudden raucous laughter of the four men watching him was too much.
All at once a cry of pure hate tore from his throat. Before anyone realized what he was doing, he had snatched the tube from the grinning Repko and thrust it against the man’s forehead. It was done so quickly and with such force that Repko was slammed backward and pinned in a corner. In his rage Conan did not even think of setting the tube’s mechanism, but it hardly mattered. The dye-colored needles were already protruding. The sting of them brought a howl, and Citizen Repko fell writhing to the floor.
Conan turned at the sound of angry voices. Two men seized his arms, and a third tried to jerk the tube from his grasp. He jammed it into the fellow’s forehead, then spun about, using the tube as a club. It broke finally, for it seemed to be made of some light cast metal. But by this time there was no one left who felt like tackling him, not even the red-bearded commissioner who stood gaping in his office door.
With a last surge of temper Conan pounded the end of the tube upon the floor until it was beyond repair, then flung it in Red Beard’s face.
He made no resistance when men poured in from the hall and seized him.
* * *
Six quiet, graying men marched him outside and across the square. With hardly a word they shoved him along the untidy waterfront to a half-submerged area, and over to a concrete cubicle built into a wall. The place looked as if it might once have been a sentry box. He was thrust inside—thrust almost gently, it seemed— and the small plastic door was closed and locked.
Through the narrow slits in the walls he peered curiously out at the men, wondering what they were. Surely not regular guards. They had spoken but little while he was with them, but as the group turned to go back he heard one of them say in a low tone, "Did you see what he did to Repko?"
There were soft chuckles, and another said, "Haggel got it too. Most of the dye was gone, though it came out a very fine shade of pink."
Conan heard a quickly suppressed guffaw. Them "Old Patch has been begging for a stronger helper. If Patch gets him, it will be punishment enough. I wouldn’t wish anyone . . . "
The men moved beyond range of his hearing. He eyed them thoughtfully until they were out of sight. Finally, scowling and muttering to himself—a habit he had formed on the islet when trying to solve some problem on which his very life often depended—he began pacing in a circle in his tiny prison. Occasionally he halted and glanced out through one of the slits to study his surroundings. He missed very little, and already he had gathered a surprising amount of information since coming ashore. He was trying to arrange his observations into a clearer picture when he heard the quick scrape of plastic boots on the cracked paving outside.
His visitor was Dr. Manski. The black eyes in her gaunt, hard face were glittering with cold wrath.
"You fool!" she bit out harshly. "You utter, complete fool! Whatever possessed you to act the way you did?"
In spite of his uncertain predicament, a strange calm had come over him. "How would you have acted," he replied, "if you had been in my place?"
"Why—why, I’d have used my head!" she snapped. "Don’t you realize you’ve practically signed your death warrant? You can’t attack citizens of the New Order and destroy valuable property without being punished. You’ll probably be disqualified."
Conan shrugged and wished she would go away.
"Did you hear what I said?" she thrust at him. "Disqualified!" He shrugged again.
"Doesn’t the thought of dying frighten you?"
"No."
"Don’t talk such nonsense! Of course it frightens you."
"No," he said slowly. "I haven’t been afraid of anything since—"
"Well? Since what?"
"Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. You see,
I—I was sent here for a purpose."
She stared at him. "Who sent you? For what purpose?"
"I don’t know yet. And I’ve already tried to explain it to you—"
She snorted derisively. "Rot! And don’t hand me any more of that stupid ‘God’ stuff, or I’ll not waste my time ashore trying to help you. I must leave in the morning."
"Why should you help me? What for?"
"Because the New Order needs you!" she flung at him angrily. "It needs your youth and your strength— but it’s going to take all I can do to get the commissioner to overlook what you’ve done. You’ve hurt two of the men badly, and you’ve completely ruined the only marker we have. You’ll have to practically get down on your knees and beg the commissioner’s pardon. Even then—"
"I’ll beg nobody’s pardon!". he flared. "He’d better beg mine! What right has any of you to brand me like this? Are we at war? No! Am I a criminal? No! Was I brought here of my own free will to work? No! I despise the whole bunch of you. You’re worse than the Peace Union. You—"
"Shut up and listen to me—"
"You’ll hear me out!" he cried. "All this talk of rebuilding the world—who are you trying to fool? The survivors you’ve captured and branded? What a lie! You people caused the Change in the first place don’t tell me you didn’t, because you did!—and now all you want is to run what’s left of the world. If you had any decency—"
"Oh, stop talking like an idiot! Don’t you realize it took both sides to do the damage?"
"I don’t believe it!"
"But it did! Now someone has to put the pieces back together. "
"Only it has to be done your way—and with branded prisoners! You’d even take over High Harbor if you could, and rob everybody of his rights! Why, you’re the dirtiest bunch that ever—"
"Shut up!" she ordered icily. "No one has any rights, not even I. Only the state has rights—the New Order. It’s only the state that—"
"State, my eye! Of all the stupid ideas!"
"You’re the stupid one! Stupid and ignorant. Of course we’ll take over High Harbor—and soon! We’ll be doing them a favor. They’re entirely incapable of looking after themselves. If you could only see—"
"I can see how warped and twisted you are! And greedy!" He was shaking with fury by now, and hating her as much as he’d ever hated anyone. "Go away!" he shouted. "Leave me alone!"
She glared back at him a moment, her black eyes narrowing, her thin mouth hardening dangerously. Abruptly she turned on her heel and began striding away.
A dozen yards from his prison she hesitated, then stopped. Slowly she turned and strode back.
"You’re so young," she told him tersely. "Hardly more than a child. And so very foolish. But you will be judged as an adult, because you are so tall and strong. We need your strength, and that alone may save you."
He opened his mouth to speak, then wisely closed it as it dawned upon him that she really was trying to help him.
"I’ve only a few minutes," she said. "When I leave, I may never see you again. You may be disqualified, and driven into the sands."
"The—sands? "
"The desert," she snapped. "It’s out back—hundreds of miles of it. We seldom bother to kill unless a disqualified person tries to return. Then he is shot."
She paused a moment, and hurried on. "Now listen to me carefully. I am going to talk to the commissioner, and to others if I can. If you are brought in for questioning, do as I have told you. Don’t act like a fool again. And remember—if you’re allowed to live, it is worth working for citizenship. This is a better place than you think."
Through the slit in the wall he raised questioning eyes to her. She said harshly, "If you can prove yourself as a citizen, you will discover how good it is. We all work together for the state, so there is no crime here. And, naturally, there are no police. But there is punishment—as you will find out. People like you must be taught that the New Order always comes first."
Suddenly she gave an angry shake of her head, turned to leave, then said over her shoulder, "I don’t know why I even bother with you. You Westerners killed my son, so I have every reason to hate you."
With that she marched grimly away.
* * *
Long after Dr. Manski was out of sight, Conan stood peering from his prison at the empty waterfront, thinking of what she had told him and of all he had seen and heard. No police here? Then Industria must be the sort of place where everyone watched everyone else. You’d be afraid to trust your own brother. And who ran things? The commissioners? Then who were the middle-aged men who’d marched him out here and locked him up? They’d jumped when the work commissioner yelled for help—but they’d been secretly pleased over what had happened. They couldn’t possibly be regular guards. They looked more like—well, doctors or professional men.
Then he realized that was what they had to be. Chemists, science workers, technicians of all kinds. Of course! They must have been here from the beginning, for it took people like that to keep a chemical city operating.
Only, nothing seemed to be operating very fast here.
The only signs of activity were far down the curving waterfront where he could just make out the stern of the patrol craft that had brought him from the islet Occasionally figures appeared on the flimsy dock beside it, carrying boxes which they heaved aboard. His view in the other direction was cut short by the protruding wall of the building against which his tiny prison had been built.
Suddenly, as he looked again at the submerged area near him, he realized that an important part of the city must have been drowned by the Change. And wouldn’t a lot of important brains have been drowned at the same time?
Some instinct told him that Industria wasn’t all that Dr. Manski liked to pretend it was.
He could hear sounds of work going on all around him—but something was missing. What was it? Then he remembered that every large factory area he’d ever been in had a kind of overall sound, a very soft purr or hum. It went with big machines and power. Industria didn’t have it. Could it be running on emergency units?
Conan scowled at the drowned section. If the city was running properly, automatically making what people needed, then life should be really easy here. But obviously life wasn’t easy.
Why? The answer was right in front of him. The whole drowned section contained the wreckage of solar equipment, barely awash in the tide. The heart of Industria was dead. And dead with it, without a doubt, were the select few who might have known the secret of building a new heart.
No wonder they wanted to find Briac Roa!
He was wondering if it could be noon when a gong sounded in the building on his left. Men and women, dressed alike in the same cheap tunics, poured from a nearby entrance. Evidently they had heard about him already, for they all glanced at him curiously before turning and hurrying down the waterfront.
The last two workers swung in the opposite direction. As they passed, only a few feet away, they peered at him furtively, and he was startled to see that each had been branded on the forehead with a scarlet cross like his own.
"Hey!" he called. "Just a moment, please—"
They looked away without replying, and hastened out of sight around the projecting wall.
In quick anger Conan bruised his fist on the concrete enclosing him. Then he sighed and shook his head.
He’d already guessed how it was here. Everybody afraid of everybody else—especially the branded ones, and the ordinary workers. If anyone so much as spoke to him, it would probably be reported.
The lunch period was soon over and he watched the workers return. The thought of their synthetic food kept his appetite at bay, but his thirst was growing, and he wished someone would bring him a drink of water.
By midafternoon it dawned on him that the work commissioner might keep him here for days until he was nearly dead of thirst. Fury boiled in him again, and without thinking what he was doing, he kicked viciously at the plastic door.
A long crack appeared near one of the hinges.
His eyes widened at the sight of it. Then he braced himself and started to kick again, harder.
Abruptly he froze. Someone was coming.
From around the corner of the projecting wall appeared a long cart with four rattling plastic wheels. It was being pushed by a very lean old man with a white beard and a wild mass of thick white hair. He was an irascible-looking fellow, made almost piratical by the black patch that covered one eye. On his forehead was a scarlet cross.
As he shuffled past, scowling fiercely and muttering, Conan was astonished to see the good eye swivel quickly in his direction, then close in a wink.
Man and cart vanished down the waterfront. Minutes later they reappeared, and now the cart was loaded with several sheets of heavy plastic. As they came again by the prison, the cart tilted suddenly on the broken paving, and the plastic sheets fell off.
"Blow it an’ blast it!" the old pirate sputtered sulphurously. He began reloading the plastic, all the while muttering a stream of imprecations. In the middle of it, almost as if catching his breath, he whispered swiftly, "They call me Patch.... Take it easy, son.... See you tonight...."
A final whisper, sandwiched between mutterings, reached Conan’s ears as the cart began clattering away.
"Lanna has Tikki again."
Shock held Conan rigid. Then he told himself he couldn’t have heard right. It was impossible. How could that incredible old rascal be the man he had to be in order to have uttered those last few words?
But he was. Only Teacher himself could have learned - about Tikki. Teacher was here, a prisoner of the New Order—but he had so changed his appearance and manner that there was no possibility of his ever being recognized by those who sought him.