Pagina creata il 16 Novembre 1997
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It may have been midnight, or long after, when Conan became aware that someone was approaching. In his tiny prison he could only guess the time, for no clock struck the hour and no star was visible in the overcast sky. The darkness would have been absolute save for the feeble glow of light coming from the area of the administration building.
He had been given neither food nor water since leaving the survey boat, and by now his thirst had become a torment. Hopefully he peered through the wall slit on his right, trying to distinguish form and movement in the shadow. Before he could make out anything, he was startled by a low whisper at the edge of the slit.
"Conan?"
"Teacher!" he said hoarsely.
"S-s-s-sh! Never use that name while you are here." A bony hand came through the slit and gripped his own. "Just call me Patch, or even Patchy."
"Yes, sir. Lord, but it’s good to see you! Of all the places to find you—I wouldn’t have dreamed—"
"I’ve been here nearly four years. And of course I’ve been expecting you—but more of that later. Our time is short. Now listen carefully, son. I brought a plastic bag of water, and two rations of food. Eat every bit of the food before dawn. Don’t leave even a crumb for somebody to find. After you’ve eaten, finish the water, every drop of it, and hide the bag until tomorrow night. You can roll it up and put it in your boot, or stuff it in a crack in the wall. Here’s the food. Set it on the floor, then I’ll slide the water bag through the window."
Conan recognized the food by the feel of it, for he had had it on the boat. It was a pair of sandwiches made of synthetic materials, obviously the product of machines. He thrust the unpalatable things in a corner and reached eagerly for the water bag. After untying the knot in the top, he let part of the contents trickle into his parched throat, then carefully retied the bag and placed it by the sandwiches.
"This place hasn’t any regular guards," Teacher said quickly. "But someone’s always on the prowl, checking on things. So I’ll have to make this fast. Whatever they decide to do with you later, they’ll punish you first. They’ll hold you here with barely enough water to keep you alive. That’s their way. It might be wise to do your sleeping during the day, and put on an act when anyone comes to have a look at you. Now, if matters turn bad and I have to free you, I’ll find a way—"
"Don’t worry about getting me out," Conan interrupted. "I can break down the door anytime. I was getting ready to smash it this afternoon, just before I saw you. If you hadn’t come when you did—"
"Thank God I got here! It’s almost impossible to escape from Industria alone. Together, we’ll have a chance." The old man paused and chuckled softly. "Ah, how I would have loved seeing what happened in the commissioner’s office! You must have grown into a powerful fellow. But watch it, son. Don’t lose your temper again, or we’ll never make it."
"I’ll be careful."
"You don’t have to crawl. Just be negative."
"Yes, sir."
"Now here’s the situation. I’m in the boat shop, and I need another helper—a strong one."
"I heard someone say you’d been trying to get more help."
Teacher chuckled again. "I started that talk long ago. I knew you were alive, just as Lanna knew it, and I was sure the survey ship would find you in time. So I’ve been getting ready. Now, if they won’t let me have you in the shop, I’ve another plan—"
The old man broke off abruptly, then whispered, "Here comes a prowler. See you tomorrow night...."
The prowler turned out to be someone on a clattering bicycle making a casual inspection of the waterfront. By the time the bicycle came close enough for its rider to flash a light into his cell, Conan was stretched upon the floor, apparently asleep. The food rations and water were tucked safely out of sight in a corner.
He finished the food and water before dawn, and hid the plastic bag in a deep crack in the wall. The long day that followed was much like the first. No one brought him anything, or even stopped to speak. He managed to sleep through the afternoon. When he awoke the workers were leaving the buildings on his left, and the survey vessel was no longer tied up at the distant pier. Evidently she had put to sea again in search of the man who was already here as a prisoner.
Early that night, long before Teacher was due, two bicycles clattered up and stopped, and a light played over him. He was surprised when a woman’s voice ordered impersonally, "On your feet, brand. We’ve brought your water allowance. Drink it, and return the bottle."
A small plastic bottle was passed through the front opening, and another voice, also a woman’s, said, "We advise you to drink it slowly. It will have to do you for two more days."
In spite of the water he had had last night, thirst was beginning to torment him once more, and he had no trouble finishing the bottle. Both women carried flashlights, and by the occasional flickers from them he saw that they were as old as Dr. Manski, and had the same cold grimness in their features. He suddenly wondered why everyone in this unpleasant place seemed to be middle-aged. Weren’t there any young people here?
"You called me a brand," he said. "I thought I was supposed to be an apprentice citizen."
"As long as you have that cross on your forehead," one woman told him, "you’ll be a brand to us. Frankly, we haven’t too much use for brands. They’re seldom to be trusted."
"Thank you," he muttered. "I’m surprised you even bothered to bring me water. Aren’t you afraid to speak to me? Everyone else seems to be."
"We happen to be citizens first class," the other woman informed him sharply.
"And that gives you the right to speak?"
"It gives us many rights, including the use of bicycles."
"Oh. And all lower forms of life have to walk?"
"If you’re below first class, and haven’t grown wings, you can just bet you walk!"
Conan scowled at their dim faces. "If you are so important, why are you out doing guard duty at night?"
"Because the safety of Industria is our responsibility."
"And we can’t leave it to inferiors," added her companion. "Too much can go wrong. A broken wire, a faulty valve—" She paused, and said, "But you need never trouble your head about responsibilities. With the points against you, it’ll be a wonder if you ever make citizen third."
The other snorted. "He shouldn’t be given the chance. Independence has warped his mind. He’s as bad as that devilish old Patch."
"Who’s Patch?" Conan asked innocently.
"Another brand who should have been disqualified " If I’d had my way—"
"But Patch is needed," said the other. "Who else can build boats? Frankly, if he’s turned over to Patch it ought to satisfy everyone."
"Everyone except Repko. You in there, if you’re through with the bottle, pass it back. We can’t stand here all night."
Conan was glad to see them go. Later that night when he told Teacher about them, it brought forth an amused chuckle.
"Pair of harpies," said the old man. "They’re not the worst here, but you’ll find them typical of the first class They’re pretty tough."
"From all I’ve heard, you seem to have a reputation for being tough yourself."
"Yes. I’ve built it up carefully. Without it, we wouldn’t be in a position to escape."
"How do you mean?"
"Son, I’m the only brand here with any kind of authority. I’ve had a chance at citizenship, but I’ve managed to keep away from it."
"But why? I should think that would be a help."
"Not at all. It would have taken me away from the boat shop, especially at night. Except for Tellit, the place is mine. I even sleep there."
"Who’s Tellit? Your helper?"
"Yes. He’s working for citizenship, and will do anything to get it. So don’t trust him."
"A sort of rat, is he?"
"Indeed he is, poor fellow."
"Huh?" Conan stared through the slit at the old man "Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him!"
"But I do. The situation here—the way the New Order is set up to work—has brought out the worst in a lot of people. Very few of the brands can be trusted. And I doubt if there’s one who would try to escape if he had the chance."
"But—but that’s crazy! What’s wrong with them?"
Teacher was silent a moment while he peered out into the night, listening. Reassured, he said quietly, "Conan, you forget what these people have been through, especially the brands. They haven’t got your ability to survive. Those who managed to get here somehow, or were rescued and brought here, were starving. Some were half dead from exposure. When I came here—it was on a life raft from one of the islands—I picked up two survivors on the way. This place looked like heaven to them. It still does. Try talking escape to any of them, and they’ll tell you there’s no place to go. And they’d be right. Just where would you go from here?"
"What’s wrong with High Harbor?"
"Everything’s wrong with it. It’s on the other side of an unknown sea—so it might as well be on another planet. The only men who know how to get there are the officers of the two big vessels. No one here wants to go to the place. They’ve heard too much about it.
Things are bad there, and it’s just a matter of time before Industria takes it over."
"No!"
"I’m afraid it’s true, Conan. It’s bound to happen— unless we can get there ourselves and think of some way to stop them."
"But how in the world are we going to get there?"
"You’re going to take us."
"But—" Conan shook his head. "I don’t understand."
"I’ll explain it later. Other things come first. Repko has me worried. He wants you disqualified. That means the desert for you. Has anyone told you about it?"
"Dr. Manski did."
"Then you know the score. I’ve a friend of sorts at headquarters, and I’m praying he’ll let me know in time to warn you if Repko has his way. Then you can break out at night and I’ll hide you at the boathouse."
"Wouldn’t that be dangerous for you?"
"Not for a night or two. And I’ll need you there to help get ready."
Conan asked where it was, and learned he could reach it in total darkness merely by going two hundred paces up the waterfront.
"If you are forced to break out in daylight," Teacher added, "we’ll have to change plans. Are you a good swimmer?
"Yes, sir."
"Then don’t stop at the boathouse. Keep going on up the coast. You may have to go only five or six miles or it may be double that distance. I’m not sure. I saw the spot only once, and I was so exhausted my judgement was poor."
"What’s there?"
"A break in the cliff. It’s where I stopped and spent the night four years ago, when I came here on the raft. It has a trickle of fresh water, so a person could hide there indefinitely. The spot is important to us. Very important. To escape from here we’ll have to use it as a base."
"But someone must know of it. What about the men you brought here?"
"They don’t remember it. They were too far gone. And no one ever goes in that direction. It’s impassable—seemingly. High cliffs all the way."
"But how—"
"You’ll have to swim around the worst spots. A good swimmer can do it easily. You see, there’s no surf to . worry about. Offshore reefs protect it. At low tide, you’ll find a narrow bit of beach here and there."
The old man paused for a moment, listening. Then he added hastily, "I think our harpies are returning. There’s just one thing more. If you fail to get away, and Repko takes you to the desert, wait till dark and cut over the hills to the cliffs. See you tomorrow...."
* * *
The days passed. A full week went by. Conan had learned patience on his islet, but now he was feeling like a caged animal. If he had not known that his presence at the shop was important to Teacher’s plans, he would have smashed down the door and gone up the coast to wait.
On the tenth morning he was surprised to see Repko approaching with the other man he had marked Repko unlocked the door and peered at him balefully a moment. Suddenly he gave an ominous jerk of his thumb.
"On your feet, brand. Out!"
Conan, who had slumped down quickly and was now feigning extreme weakness, got up slowly and staggered outside. Unconsciously his eyes went to the foreheads of both men, and he saw that their crosses had been removed.
Repko did not miss the glance. His pale, heavy features tightened with suppressed fury. He jerked Conan about and ordered hoarsely, "Get going!"
"Where are you taking me?"
It was not until they were in front of what was obviously a boat shop that Repko bothered to reply. "The others wanted you disqualified," he said, almost making the lie sound like truth. "But we decided to give you a chance. It’s the only chance you’ll get. Next time it’ll be the desert." He raised his voice and called "Patch! Where are you?"
"Hey? What is it?"
The irascible old fellow with the single glittering eye who appeared suddenly in the doorway couldn’t possibly be Teacher. To Conan at that moment he seemed like a total stranger, and a very unpleasant one at that.
Repko said, "Here’s that helper you wanted."
"Helper?" Patch rasped. "Him? Is this a joke?"
"Isn’t this the fellow you asked for?"
"Phah! I asked for him a week ago. He’s no good to me in the condition he’s in!"
"Then feed him," Repko muttered, turning away from the fierceness of that coldly glittering eye. "He’s your worry now."
As the two men hurried away, Patch broke into a furious tirade directed at the stupidity of humans and the unfairness of circumstance. In the middle of it he broke off and whirled upon a short fellow with bandy legs who had come to the door.
"What are you standing there gawking about you butterfingered ape? Get moving! Draw an issue of clothes and a ration of slop for that prize package they brought us. And you—" Patch swung suddenly to Conan, and snarled, "You stink! Hop in the water yonder and wash it off—and don’t take all day doing it. This is a boat shop, not a men’s club. We have work to do!"
Conan was shaken by the blast, even though he knew it to be an act. The ill-tempered old crank was as opposite from Teacher as a man could be. But he was thankful for the opportunity to wash, and he drew off his filthy clothing and tottered, with a fine pretense of weakness, into the harbor.
Long before he was ready to crawl out, the bandylegged helper, Tellit, appeared. The man brought clothing, a bottle of water, and food in a plastic container.
"Whew!" Tellit exclaimed, staring at Conan’s lean body with its rippling muscles. "To see you with your clothes on, I wouldn’ta dreamed—" Then, ‘Shake It up and get dressed! The old devil will make it hard on us both if you are slow."
Conan slapped himself partially dry and fumbled into the clean clothes. While he ate, Tellit spoke angrily about Patch.
"I hate his guts! He’s a brand just like the rest of us —but does he ever help you? No! He’ll downgrade you and rob you every time!"
"Rob you? Of what?"
"Of points! That’s all we’ve got here. Points. It takes a thousand points to make citizen third. You know what that dirty old buzzard did to me last month? I had nine hundred points. But would he give me a break and put in a good report so I could get more? No! He marked me down and I lost thirty points! All because I goofed on a couple things and spoiled some plastic."
"For just a brand, how did he manage to get so much power?"
"Because the old devil knows boats."
"But—" Conan frowned, finding it hard to associate Teacher with anything nautical. "There ought to be a lot of people here who could build something as simple as a boat."
"In a city full of lab workers? Pshaw." Tellit spat and glanced uneasily at the shop. "This place wasn’t even on the sea until the Change. Oh, they had a channel cut to the coast, but that didn’t make boatbuilders out of anybody. Sure, there were a few who thought they could build one—till they tried. Old Patch saw what they were doing, and said the thing would break apart when it hit rough water. They laughed at ‘im and said who’d he think he was, Briac Roa? Well, the boat did break up. Five men drowned. So old Patch got his chance. He’s been running the shop ever since."
Tellit spat again. "You see, a boat’s not simple, even the simplest ones. That’s what fooled me. When the work commissioner got sore at me, and turned me over to Patch for punishment, I thought I’d get smart and learn about boats—then I’d be on top. But it’s no go. I never saw anything so complicated. I’d give my soul to get away from this place."
"You mean you’d like to escape?"
Tellit stared at him. "Escape from what? I mean get away from the shop."
"But wouldn’t you rather leave Industria?"
"Huh? You got rocks in your head? Why, a man would be a fool to want to get away from Industria!"
"You don’t mind being a slave?"
"Sure I mind—but if I watch my points, I’ll soon be citizen third. Then I’ll be on the way up. Once you re a proper citizen, this is a pretty good town. You get all kinds of privileges. But you gotta learn the ropes, and play it cozy with the boys on top. If old Patch had done that, he’d at least be citizen second by now. But he s such a crank and a fool he doesn’t care what he says to people. So instead of gaining points, he’s always losing ‘em. I’ve heard he’s almost three thousand points behind. Can you beat that? Of course, it’s turned into a sort of joke by now, and he’s so crazy he doesn’t give a hoot. Still—"
They were interrupted by a shout from the boathouse, and a sudden blast of language that brought them to their feet like puppets on strings. "Get in here and act alive, you worthless pair of deadheads! You’ve been vacationing long enough. We’ve got a ship to build! "
The ship turned out to be a plastic-and-metal trawler, some fifty feet in length, with a high bow for heavy weather and a broad deck aft for handling nets. Her staunch framework, partially covered with sheets of thick plastic, nearly filled the main shed and left little room at the end for several small boats that were being built at the same time.
Conan was put to work helping Tellit clamp and fasten the plastic sheets to the framework, which was of heavier plastic reinforced with aluminum.
"We don’t have any steel here," Tellit informed him, as he payed the seams with a reeking bonding fluid. "All we have is a little bit of aluminum, and we gotta make it stretch. Most of it has to go for motors."
"How long will it take to finish a boat this big?" Conan asked, instantly deciding that the trawler was the craft Teacher intended to use for their escape. One glance told him that the little boats were entirely too small. Only something as large and as powerful as the trawler could possibly take them across the dangerous waters he had been watching for the past five years.
"Dunno," Tellit replied. "We been on this job six months already. Even with you helping, it’ll take another six months before we can launch her. That is, if the motor’s ready."
"Motor?"
"Yeah. They gotta make one special for this baby. There’s the model for it yonder. Patch wants to try it out on that little runabout he’s finishing to see how it handles."
With a sudden sinking sensation inside, Conan glanced at the corner of the shop where Patch was busy cementing the stern in one of the boats. Would he be forced to spend the next six months here, working to complete the trawler, before there was any possibility of escaping? Or did Teacher have something else in mind?
At twilight a bell rang, and he went with Tellit to a local food booth, signed a ration card that had already been punched for his earlier meal, and drew a packaged dinner. They ate by the boat basin in front of the shop.
"You gotta be a citizen third before you can go into a place with tables," Tellit grumbled. "I’m sure getting tired of being a brand. We have the longest hours, do most of the work, and have none of the privileges. All I need to get this blasted cross off my forehead is a hundred and thirty points. But they’re going to be the hardest points I’ve ever earned."
"But just how do you get your points? By turning out a lot of work, and not making any mistakes?"
"Don’t kid yourself!" The little man spat, and his eyes narrowed. "You’d be a brand the rest of your life if you played it straight. Like I said before, you gotta be cozy with the right people. Find out what they want to know, and tell ‘em. See?"
"You mean to—to turn informer?"
"I don’t like that word," Tellit snapped. "But in a place like this, it’s every man for himself. If I spotted you sleeping on the job, or stealing, I’d be a fool not to report it. It’s the same with everybody."
"I’d rather revolt than turn informer," Conan said grimly. "What’s the matter with all the captives here? Aren’t there enough of them to fight for their rights?"
"You don’t understand. You can’t fight the setup."
"Why not? Who’s to stop you? There are no police."
"Pshaw! We’re all of us police. See? We brands are scattered everywhere in the factory area, and there’s no chance to meet and plan anything without being reported. "
"But what about nights? Where do you sleep?"
"In the local bunkhouse, two to a cell."
"Cell? You mean you’re locked in?"
"We’re not locked in, but we might as well be. A brand’s not allowed out after the last bell. If we’re caught, we’re in trouble. Every bunkhouse has a citizen second in charge, and if we don’t watch our step, we’re in trouble again. Everybody’s out for points, so it means everybody’s watching us. When we’re in trouble, it means we lose points or part of our food ration. If it happens too often, we’re disqualified. Now d’you get it?"
"I get it," Conan said slowly.
"Then watch your step—and pray old Patch doesn’t keep you at the boathouse nights."
"Huh? Is he likely to?"
"He did me. Until I’d learned the ropes here. Used to keep me awake half the night, making me do this or that till I was ready to kill ‘im. Boy, was I glad to go back to the bunkhouse and get some sleep!"
The sudden ringing of the bell drove them to work again.
The long twilight deepened. It was almost dark when the next bell rang. Tellit put his tools away and said wearily to Conan, "Let’s go. There’s a spare bunk for you at my place."
"Oh, no you don’t!" old Patch rapped out. "Boy, you’re bunking right here on the floor till you learn the difference between a fid and a fiddlehead. Y’hear me?
"Y-yes, sir," Conan faltered, and slumped down on the floor with a fine pretense of utter exhaustion.
The moment Tellit was out of sight, Patch chuckled softly and said in the voice of Teacher, "Sometimes I almost hate myself. What a nasty old devil I am!"
"You certainly are, sir! But I can see the reason for it now."
"Well, we’ve work to do. Are you as near collapse as you appear?"
"Of course not! I could work all night."
"Good! You may have to. If we can get ready tonight, we’ll leave this place tomorrow."
Conan sat up, his face blank with astonishment. "You—how—but I thought it would be months before the trawler—"
"Oh, good heavens, son, that craft would never do. We need sail." The old man tugged at one of the small boats he had been working on and pointed to another in the dim corner of the shop. "Drag that one here."
Wondering, Conan did as he was told. Though he knew practically nothing about boats, it was apparent that the squat, ugly little runabout would never d for an ocean voyage, even for one person. He glanced at Teacher, puzzled.
"Turn it around," the old man ordered. "Put the two boats together, stern to stern."
Conan joined the boats, then stepped back and looked at them. He gasped. The ugliness had vanished. In the fading light it seemed that he was peering at single hull, pointed at either end, with the long, flowing lines of a sailing craft.
"Why," he whispered, "I—I wouldn’t have believed it! How did you do it? I mean, I didn’t know—"
"That I knew about boats? They were my first love." Teacher moved to the door, listened a moment, then said, "The trick was to design what we needed, and build it without anyone realizing what we were doing. This was the only answer. It needs a keel—or a substitute for one—but we’ll take care of that later, at the place I told you about. Now, here’s the plan.... "
Tomorrow night, the old man explained, they would load both boats with the equipment they needed, and use the model for the trawler motor to take them up the coast to the break in the cliff. There, the two boats would be permanently joined, and rigged with a sail which they would make on the spot.
"But first," Teacher added, "there are some things we must have. To get them will require your strength. You see, we must break into a building and commit burglary."