DARD SURVEYED the country over which the 'copter flew. It required
only a few minutes to cover the same rugged miles across which he
and Dessie had fought their way. And he was sure that he saw traces
of that trip left on the snow below.
The machine skimmed over the heights which concealed the cave.
And then, for the first time in crowded hours, Dard remembered
Sach. It was down this very slope that the messenger had led the
chase.
"You've heard from Sach?" He was anxious to be reassured
concerning that small, wary man.
But Kimber didn't reply at once. And when he did, Dard was aware
of the reservations in his tone.
"No news yet. He hasn't reported at any of our contacts. Which
reminds me—"
Under the pilot's control the 'copter swung to the right and
headed away from the path Dard had followed into the hills. He was
unreasonably glad that they were not going to wing over the charred
ruins of the farmhouse.
Instead, within a short space, they were circling another farm,
one in much better condition than the farm which had sheltered the
Nordis family. In fact, the buildings gave such an air of
Pax-blessed landsman prosperity that Dard wondered at Kimber's
visiting the place. Only a man with the brightest of prospects
under the new rule would dare to keep his buildings in such good
repair. And the volume of smoke curling fatly from the chimney
spoke of unlimited warmth and food, better conditions than anyone
but a staunch supporter of the Company of Pax could attain.
Yet Kimber set the 'copter down without hesitation on a stretch
of packed snow not too far from the house. Once down however the
pilot made no move to leave the machine.
The house door opened and a man wearing the good farm homespun
of an "approved" landsman—another Folley by all outward
signs—crossed the yard. For one wild moment Dard was inclined to
doubt the man beside him, being still more uneasy when the round
plump face of the landsman was thrust close to the window of the
'copter.
Pale blue eyes in a weather-beaten face flicked over them both,
and Dard did not miss the fact that they widened a fraction as they
passed from Kimber's impassive face to his flashy uniform. The
landsman turned and spat at a hound that approached, showing white
teeth and growling.
"Time?" he asked.
"Time," Kimber returned. "Get moving on tonight if you can,
Harmon."
"Sure we've been packin' some stuff already. Th' boy's got th'
road cleared—"
Then those blue eyes slid back to Dard. "Who's th'
youngster?"
"Nordis' brother. He got in with the Nordis girl. Lars is
dead—raid."
"Yeah. Heard a rumor they all were—that th' roundup got 'em.
Glad to know that ain't th' truth. Well—be seein' you—"
With a wave of the hand he headed back to the house. And Kimber
took them aloft.
"I didn't think—" Dard began. Kimber chuckled.
"You didn't think a man such as Harmon would be one of us? We
have some mighty odd contacts here and there. We have men who drove
ground trucks and men who were first rank scientists—before the
purge. There's Santee—he was a non-com of the old army—he can
read and write his name—and he's an expert with weapons—to us
he's as important a part of the Cleft as Tas Kordov, who is one of
the world's greatest biologists. We ask only one thing of a
man—that he believes in true freedom. And Harmon is going to be
more important in the future. We may know how to grow
hydro-style—you had a meal or two with us and know that—but an
honest dirt farmer will be able to teach us all better tricks.
Added to that Harmon's been our biggest ace in the hole all along.
He and his wife, their son, and their twin girls—they've been
playing a mighty hard role for more than five years—doing it
splendidly, too. But I can well believe that he welcomed my news
that it is over. Double lives are tough going. Now, back to
work."
The 'copter wheeled and flew due west into a sky now painted
with sunset colors. It was warm inside the cabin, and the clothing
about his thin body was the finest he had worn in years. Dard
relaxed against the padded cushion, but far inside him was a
warming spark of excitement, an excitement no longer completely
darkened by fear—Kimber's confidence in himself, in the eventual
success of their mission was comforting.
Below ran a ribbon of road, and by the churned snow, it was a
well-traveled one. Dard tried to identify landmarks. But, never
having seen the country from above, he could only guess that they
were now being guided to town by that same artery which had tied
Folley's holding and the tumbledown Nordis place to the overgrown
village which was the nearest approach to a pre-Burn city.
Another farm road, rutted and used, cut into the main road and
its curve was familiar. It was Folley's! And it had seen
considerable travel since the storm. He thought briefly of
Lotta—wondered if she had gone back to the message tree with some
food for Dessie as she had promised. Dessie!
Dessie!
Hoping he could keep from revealing to Kimber his own secret
problem, the one which had gnawed at him ever since he had seen the
star ship, he asked a question:
"I didn't see any children in the Cleft."
Kimber was intent upon flying; when he answered it was with a
faint touch of absent-mindedness:
"There're only two. Carlee Skort's daughter is three and the
Winson boy—he's almost four. The Harmon twins are—ten, I
think—but they don't live in the Cleft."
"Dessie is six—almost seven."
Kimber grinned. "Bright little trick, too, isn't she? Took to
Carlee right away—after we had persuaded her you were going to
recover. Last I heard she'd taken command in the nursery quarters.
Carlee was surprised at how sensible she was."
"Dessie's a pretty big person," Dard said slowly. "She's old for
her years. And she has a gift, too. She makes friends with
animals—not just tame ones—hut the wild things. I've seen them
come right up to her. She insists that they talk."
Had he said too much? Had he labeled Dessie as one so far
outside the pattern that she would not "fit" into a ship's company
where a farmer was considered important? But surely, a child's
future was worth more than an adult's! Dessie must be
considered—she must be!
"Carlee thinks she is quite a person, too." That was certainly
noncommittal enough. But, although he did not know Carlee, her
approbation was comforting to Dard. A woman, a woman with a little
girl of her own, would see that another little girl would get a
fair break. As for him—self-resolutely he refused to think ahead
for himself. Instead he began to watch the twilight-cloaked road
and think of the problem immediately before them.
"The 'copter park is at the back of the Temple. And you can't
fly over the building—nothing crosses the sacred roof."
"Then we circle. No use taking chances. Park well guarded?"
"I don't know. Only Peacemen get inside. But I'd think that in
the dark, and with this machine—"
"We could brazen it out? Let us hope they don't ask for any
recognition signals. I'm going to try to land as close to the edge
as I can and in the darkest part—unless they have
floodlights—"
"Town lights!" Dard interrupted, intent on the sparks of yellow.
"The Temple is on that rise to the south. See!!"
It was easy enough to see. The lights of the town houses were
small and sickly yellow. But above and beyond them were
concentrated bars of vivid blue and startling white, somehow garish
and out of place against the purple-blue of the sky. Kimber
circled.
The Temple occupied about a third of the rise which bad been
leveled off to form a wide platform. Behind the building itself was
a floodlit space in which they could see a row of 'copters.
"Ten down there," Kimber counted, the lighting of the instrument
panel showing the planes and hollows of his face. "You'd think they
would have more. This is a center for their control and they don't
do much raiding by night. Or at least they haven't in the
past."
"They may now. They struck our place at night."
"Anyway, the fewer the better. Look, that's a nice long
shadow—one of their floods must have burnt out. I'm going to see
if I can bring us down in it!"
They lost speed, it was something like coasting, much like
floating, Dard decided. Then the lights arose about them and a
second later the undercarriage made contact. They didn't bounce.
Kimber shook hands with himself vigorously, in congratulation.
"Now listen, kid," the pilot's voice was a faint murmur. "That's a stun gun you have in your belt. Ever use one?"
"No."
"It doesn't require training to point it and push the button.
But you're not to do that unless I give the word, understand? You
have only two charges and I have the same in mine—we can't afford
to waste them. Nothing—absolutely nothing must happen to prevent
our interview with the Voice!" There was a passionate determination
in that. It was an order, delivered not only to Dard, but to
Destiny or Fortune herself. "Afterward we may have to fight our way
out—though I hope not. Then the stun guns will be our hope. But
we've got to use bluff to get us in!"
The Peacemen hoarded the remains of pre-purge invention, Dard
noted as he matched his steps to Kimber's across the park at an
unhurried pace, but their maintenance of such appliances was not
promising. Several of the floodlights were out and there were
cracks in the concrete under his boots. There couldn't be too many
techneers left in the slave-labor camps of the Temple gangs. Some
day no 'copter would rise from this park, no light would burn. Had
the leaders of Pax thought of that, or didn't they care? The old
cities built by the techneers were rubble fit only for bats and
birds. Now there were only grubby villages slipping back and back,
with the wilderness edging down across the field to nibble at man's
building.
So far they had not met anyone, but now they approached the
western gate of the Temple and there was a guard. Dard straightened
his shoulders, lifted his chin summoned that arrogance of bearing
which cloaked a Peaceman as tightly as the gaudy uniform. Kimber
had the right presence. He strode along with a damn-devil air
suitable to a Laurel Wearer. Dard did his best to copy that. But
the boy couldn't quite suppress a half-sigh of relief when the
guard did not attempt to stop them and they crossed the threshold
unchallenged.
Of course, they were still far from the sanctuary of the Voice.
And Dard's knowledge of the place would not take them farther than
the second court.
Kimber stopped and touched his companion's sleeve. Together they
slipped out of the direct path of the light up to the shadowed
obscurity behind one of the massive pillars.
Before them lay the inner court where the commoners might
gather—in fact were expected to gather—to hear words of wisdom as
mouthed from the August Sayings of Renzi by one of the Laurel
Wearers. It was now deserted. After dark none of those not "Wedded
to the Inner Peace" dared enter the Temple. Which would make the
venture more precarious since they would be alone among the
Peacemen and might betray themselves by ignorance of custom. Dard's
hand twitched, but he kept it off the stun gun.
"The Voice?"
Dard pointed to the archway at the other end of the inner court.
What they sought lay beyond that, but where—he wasn't sure. Kimber
went on, flitting from pillar to pillar, and Dard followed on a
woodman's sure, silent feet.
Twice they stiffened into inanimateness as others tramped into
the open. Peacemen, two Laurel Wearers and, just as they had almost
reached the archway, a third party—two shuffling labor slaves
carrying a box under the malicious eye of a single lounging
guard.
Kimber leaned back behind a pillar and drew Dard in beside
him.
"Lot's of traffic." The whispered comment was tinged with
laughter and Dard saw that the pilot was smiling, an eager fire in
his eyes.
They waited until slaves and guard were gone and then stepped
boldly into the open and through the archway. They were now in a
wide corridor, not too well lighted, broken at regular intervals
with open doorways through which came solid blocks of illumination
to trap the passerby. But Kimber went on with the assurance of one
who had a perfect right to be where he was. He did not attempt to
steal a look at any of the rooms—it was as if he had seen their
contents a thousand times.
Dard marveled at his complete confidence. The Voice—where was
it housed in this maze? He never suspected all this to lie beyond
the inner court. They had neared the end of the corridor before
Kimber slackened pace and began glancing from right to left. With
infinite caution he tried the latch of a closed door. It gave,
swinging silently open to disclose a flight of stairs leading down.
Kimber's grin was wide.
"Down here! It has to be down—" his lips shaped the words.
Together they crept close to the edge of the stairway and peered
over into a cavern where the best lighting arrangements of the
Temple made little headway against a general gloom. The hollow went
deep, it was the heart of the eminence upon which the Temple stood.
And on the floor far below was the Voice—a bank of metal,
faceless, tongueless, but potent.
Two guards stood at the bottom of the staffs, but their
attitudes suggested that they had no fear of being called upon to
carry out any duties. And on a crowed bench before a board of dials
and levers lounged a third man wearing the crimson and gold tunic
of a second circle Laurel Wearer.
"The night shift," mouthed Kimber at Dard's ear, and then he sat
down on the platform and proceeded to remove his boots. After a
moment of hesitation Dard followed the pilot's example.
Kimber, boots swinging in one hand, started noiselessly down the
staircase, hugging the wall But he did not draw the gun at his belt
and Dard obediently kept his own weapon sheathed.
It was not entirely quiet in the chamber. A drowsy hum from the
internals of the Voice was echoed and magnified by the height and
width of the place.
Kimber took a long time—or what seemed to Dard a very long
time—to descend. When they were still on the last flight of steps
above the guard the pilot reached out a long arm and pulled Dard
tight against him, his lips to the boy's ear.
"I'll risk using my gun on that fellow on the bench. Then we
jump the other two with these—"
He gestured with the boots. Four steps—five—side by side they
crept down. Kimber drew his stun gun and fired. The noiseless
charge of the ray hit its mark. The man on the bench twisted,
turning a horribly contorted face to them before he fell to the
floor.
In that same instant Kimber hurled himself out and down. There
was one startled shout as Dard went out into space too. Then the
boy struck another body and they went to the floor together in a
kicking clawing fury. Dodging a blow, Dard brought his boots down
club fashion in the other's face. He struck heavily three times
before hands clutched his shoulders and wrenched him off the now
limp man. Kimber, a raw and bleeding scrape over one eye, shook him
out of the battle madness.
Dard's eyes focused on the pilot as the terrible anger drained
out of him. They tied the limp bodies with the men's own belts and
lacings before Kimber took his place on the bench before the
Voice.
He pulled a much-creased sheaf of papers from the breast of his
blouse and spread them out on the sloping board beneath the first
rank of push buttons. Dard fidgeted, thinking the pilot was taking
entirely too long over that business.
But the boy had sense enough to keep quiet as Kimber rubbed his
hands slowly together as if to clear them of moisture before
raising his eyes to study the row upon row of buttons, each marked
with a different symbol. Slowly, with a finicky touch and care, the
pilot pressed one, another, a third. There was a change in the hum
of the Voice, a faster rhythm; the great machine was coming to
life.
Kimber picked up speed, stopping only now and again to consult
his scrawled notes. His fingers were racing now. The hum deepened
to a throb which, Dard feared, must certainly be noticeable in the
Temple overhead.
The boy withdrew to the stairway, his attention as much on the
door at the top as on Kimber. He drew his gun. As Kimber had said,
the mechanism of the arm was childishly simple—one pointed it,
pushed the button on the grip—easy. And he had two charges to use.
Caressing the metal he looked back at the Voice.
Under the light Kimber's face displayed damp drops, and now and
again he rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was waiting—his part
of the job finished—waiting for the Voice to assimilate the data
fed it and move in its ponderous way to solve the problem. But
every minute they were forced to linger added to the danger of
their position.
One of the captives rolled over on his side, and, over the gag
they had forced into his jaws, his eyes blared red hate at Dard.
The hum of the Voice faded to a lulling murmur. There was no other
sound in the cavern. Dard crossed to touch Kimber's shoulder.
"How long?" he began.
Kimber shrugged without taking his eyes from the screen above
the keyboard. That square of light remained obstinately empty. Dard
could not stand still. He had no time-keeper, and he believed that
they had been there too long—it might be close to morning. What if
another shift of watcher and guards was due to come on
presently?
A sharp demanding chime interrupted his thoughts. The screen was
no longer blank. Across it slowly crawled formula, figures,
equations. And Kimber scrambled to write them down in frantic
haste, checking and rechecking each he scribbled. As the last set
of figures faded from the screen the pilot hesitated and then
pushed a single button far to the right on the board. A moment of
waiting and five figures flashed into being on the screen.
Kimber read them with a sigh. He thrust the sheets of
calculations back into safety, before, with a grin playing about
his generous mouth, he leaned forward and pushed as many buttons as
he could reach at random. Without pausing for the reply, though the
Voice had gone into labor again, he joined Dard.
"That will give them something to puzzle out if they try to
discover what we were after," he explained. "No reading that back.
Not that I believe any of these poor brains would have the
imagination to guess what brought us here. Now—speed's the thing!
Up with you, kid."
Kimber took the steps at a gait Dard had a hard time matching.
It was not until they stood directly before the corridor door that
the pilot stopped to listen.
"Let us hope that they've all gone to bed and are good sound
sleepers," he whispered. "We've had a lot of luck tonight and this
is no time for it to run out."
The corridor was as empty as it had been on their first trip.
Some of the blocks of light from the rooms were gone. They had only
three such danger spots to cross now. Two they negotiated without
trouble, but as they stepped into the third, it was broken by a
moving shadow, a man was coming out of the room. He wore a scarlet
and gold tunic, with more gold on it than Dard had ever seen
before—plainly one of the hierarchy. And he stared straight at
them with annoyance and the faint stirrings of suspicion.
"Pax!" the word was hardly the conventional and courteous
greeting, it carried too much authority. "What do you here,
brothers? These are the night watches—"
Kimber drew back into the shadows and the man unconsciously
followed him, coming out into the corridor.
"What—" he began again when the pilot moved. Both his dark
hands closed, about the other's throat, cutting off voice and
breath.
Dard caught the hands clawing at Kimber's hold and together they
dragged the struggling captive through the archway into the dimly
lighted inner court.
"Either you come quietly," Kimber hissed, "or you don't come at
all. Make your choice quick."
The struggles ceased as Kimber pulled him on.
"Why try to take him?" Dard wanted to know.
Kimber's grin was no longer pleasant, it was closer to a wolfish
snarl. "Insurance," he returned concisely. "We aren't out of this
place yet. Now move!" He gave the captive a vicious shove, keeping
one hand clamped on the nape of the other's neck, as the three
moved on toward the outer door and freedom.
DARD SURVEYED the country over which the 'copter flew. It required
only a few minutes to cover the same rugged miles across which he
and Dessie had fought their way. And he was sure that he saw traces
of that trip left on the snow below.
The machine skimmed over the heights which concealed the cave.
And then, for the first time in crowded hours, Dard remembered
Sach. It was down this very slope that the messenger had led the
chase.
"You've heard from Sach?" He was anxious to be reassured
concerning that small, wary man.
But Kimber didn't reply at once. And when he did, Dard was aware
of the reservations in his tone.
"No news yet. He hasn't reported at any of our contacts. Which
reminds me—"
Under the pilot's control the 'copter swung to the right and
headed away from the path Dard had followed into the hills. He was
unreasonably glad that they were not going to wing over the charred
ruins of the farmhouse.
Instead, within a short space, they were circling another farm,
one in much better condition than the farm which had sheltered the
Nordis family. In fact, the buildings gave such an air of
Pax-blessed landsman prosperity that Dard wondered at Kimber's
visiting the place. Only a man with the brightest of prospects
under the new rule would dare to keep his buildings in such good
repair. And the volume of smoke curling fatly from the chimney
spoke of unlimited warmth and food, better conditions than anyone
but a staunch supporter of the Company of Pax could attain.
Yet Kimber set the 'copter down without hesitation on a stretch
of packed snow not too far from the house. Once down however the
pilot made no move to leave the machine.
The house door opened and a man wearing the good farm homespun
of an "approved" landsman—another Folley by all outward
signs—crossed the yard. For one wild moment Dard was inclined to
doubt the man beside him, being still more uneasy when the round
plump face of the landsman was thrust close to the window of the
'copter.
Pale blue eyes in a weather-beaten face flicked over them both,
and Dard did not miss the fact that they widened a fraction as they
passed from Kimber's impassive face to his flashy uniform. The
landsman turned and spat at a hound that approached, showing white
teeth and growling.
"Time?" he asked.
"Time," Kimber returned. "Get moving on tonight if you can,
Harmon."
"Sure we've been packin' some stuff already. Th' boy's got th'
road cleared—"
Then those blue eyes slid back to Dard. "Who's th'
youngster?"
"Nordis' brother. He got in with the Nordis girl. Lars is
dead—raid."
"Yeah. Heard a rumor they all were—that th' roundup got 'em.
Glad to know that ain't th' truth. Well—be seein' you—"
With a wave of the hand he headed back to the house. And Kimber
took them aloft.
"I didn't think—" Dard began. Kimber chuckled.
"You didn't think a man such as Harmon would be one of us? We
have some mighty odd contacts here and there. We have men who drove
ground trucks and men who were first rank scientists—before the
purge. There's Santee—he was a non-com of the old army—he can
read and write his name—and he's an expert with weapons—to us
he's as important a part of the Cleft as Tas Kordov, who is one of
the world's greatest biologists. We ask only one thing of a
man—that he believes in true freedom. And Harmon is going to be
more important in the future. We may know how to grow
hydro-style—you had a meal or two with us and know that—but an
honest dirt farmer will be able to teach us all better tricks.
Added to that Harmon's been our biggest ace in the hole all along.
He and his wife, their son, and their twin girls—they've been
playing a mighty hard role for more than five years—doing it
splendidly, too. But I can well believe that he welcomed my news
that it is over. Double lives are tough going. Now, back to
work."
The 'copter wheeled and flew due west into a sky now painted
with sunset colors. It was warm inside the cabin, and the clothing
about his thin body was the finest he had worn in years. Dard
relaxed against the padded cushion, but far inside him was a
warming spark of excitement, an excitement no longer completely
darkened by fear—Kimber's confidence in himself, in the eventual
success of their mission was comforting.
Below ran a ribbon of road, and by the churned snow, it was a
well-traveled one. Dard tried to identify landmarks. But, never
having seen the country from above, he could only guess that they
were now being guided to town by that same artery which had tied
Folley's holding and the tumbledown Nordis place to the overgrown
village which was the nearest approach to a pre-Burn city.
Another farm road, rutted and used, cut into the main road and
its curve was familiar. It was Folley's! And it had seen
considerable travel since the storm. He thought briefly of
Lotta—wondered if she had gone back to the message tree with some
food for Dessie as she had promised. Dessie!
Dessie!
Hoping he could keep from revealing to Kimber his own secret
problem, the one which had gnawed at him ever since he had seen the
star ship, he asked a question:
"I didn't see any children in the Cleft."
Kimber was intent upon flying; when he answered it was with a
faint touch of absent-mindedness:
"There're only two. Carlee Skort's daughter is three and the
Winson boy—he's almost four. The Harmon twins are—ten, I
think—but they don't live in the Cleft."
"Dessie is six—almost seven."
Kimber grinned. "Bright little trick, too, isn't she? Took to
Carlee right away—after we had persuaded her you were going to
recover. Last I heard she'd taken command in the nursery quarters.
Carlee was surprised at how sensible she was."
"Dessie's a pretty big person," Dard said slowly. "She's old for
her years. And she has a gift, too. She makes friends with
animals—not just tame ones—hut the wild things. I've seen them
come right up to her. She insists that they talk."
Had he said too much? Had he labeled Dessie as one so far
outside the pattern that she would not "fit" into a ship's company
where a farmer was considered important? But surely, a child's
future was worth more than an adult's! Dessie must be
considered—she must be!
"Carlee thinks she is quite a person, too." That was certainly
noncommittal enough. But, although he did not know Carlee, her
approbation was comforting to Dard. A woman, a woman with a little
girl of her own, would see that another little girl would get a
fair break. As for him—self-resolutely he refused to think ahead
for himself. Instead he began to watch the twilight-cloaked road
and think of the problem immediately before them.
"The 'copter park is at the back of the Temple. And you can't
fly over the building—nothing crosses the sacred roof."
"Then we circle. No use taking chances. Park well guarded?"
"I don't know. Only Peacemen get inside. But I'd think that in
the dark, and with this machine—"
"We could brazen it out? Let us hope they don't ask for any
recognition signals. I'm going to try to land as close to the edge
as I can and in the darkest part—unless they have
floodlights—"
"Town lights!" Dard interrupted, intent on the sparks of yellow.
"The Temple is on that rise to the south. See!!"
It was easy enough to see. The lights of the town houses were
small and sickly yellow. But above and beyond them were
concentrated bars of vivid blue and startling white, somehow garish
and out of place against the purple-blue of the sky. Kimber
circled.
The Temple occupied about a third of the rise which bad been
leveled off to form a wide platform. Behind the building itself was
a floodlit space in which they could see a row of 'copters.
"Ten down there," Kimber counted, the lighting of the instrument
panel showing the planes and hollows of his face. "You'd think they
would have more. This is a center for their control and they don't
do much raiding by night. Or at least they haven't in the
past."
"They may now. They struck our place at night."
"Anyway, the fewer the better. Look, that's a nice long
shadow—one of their floods must have burnt out. I'm going to see
if I can bring us down in it!"
They lost speed, it was something like coasting, much like
floating, Dard decided. Then the lights arose about them and a
second later the undercarriage made contact. They didn't bounce.
Kimber shook hands with himself vigorously, in congratulation.
"Now listen, kid," the pilot's voice was a faint murmur. "That's a stun gun you have in your belt. Ever use one?"
"No."
"It doesn't require training to point it and push the button.
But you're not to do that unless I give the word, understand? You
have only two charges and I have the same in mine—we can't afford
to waste them. Nothing—absolutely nothing must happen to prevent
our interview with the Voice!" There was a passionate determination
in that. It was an order, delivered not only to Dard, but to
Destiny or Fortune herself. "Afterward we may have to fight our way
out—though I hope not. Then the stun guns will be our hope. But
we've got to use bluff to get us in!"
The Peacemen hoarded the remains of pre-purge invention, Dard
noted as he matched his steps to Kimber's across the park at an
unhurried pace, but their maintenance of such appliances was not
promising. Several of the floodlights were out and there were
cracks in the concrete under his boots. There couldn't be too many
techneers left in the slave-labor camps of the Temple gangs. Some
day no 'copter would rise from this park, no light would burn. Had
the leaders of Pax thought of that, or didn't they care? The old
cities built by the techneers were rubble fit only for bats and
birds. Now there were only grubby villages slipping back and back,
with the wilderness edging down across the field to nibble at man's
building.
So far they had not met anyone, but now they approached the
western gate of the Temple and there was a guard. Dard straightened
his shoulders, lifted his chin summoned that arrogance of bearing
which cloaked a Peaceman as tightly as the gaudy uniform. Kimber
had the right presence. He strode along with a damn-devil air
suitable to a Laurel Wearer. Dard did his best to copy that. But
the boy couldn't quite suppress a half-sigh of relief when the
guard did not attempt to stop them and they crossed the threshold
unchallenged.
Of course, they were still far from the sanctuary of the Voice.
And Dard's knowledge of the place would not take them farther than
the second court.
Kimber stopped and touched his companion's sleeve. Together they
slipped out of the direct path of the light up to the shadowed
obscurity behind one of the massive pillars.
Before them lay the inner court where the commoners might
gather—in fact were expected to gather—to hear words of wisdom as
mouthed from the August Sayings of Renzi by one of the Laurel
Wearers. It was now deserted. After dark none of those not "Wedded
to the Inner Peace" dared enter the Temple. Which would make the
venture more precarious since they would be alone among the
Peacemen and might betray themselves by ignorance of custom. Dard's
hand twitched, but he kept it off the stun gun.
"The Voice?"
Dard pointed to the archway at the other end of the inner court.
What they sought lay beyond that, but where—he wasn't sure. Kimber
went on, flitting from pillar to pillar, and Dard followed on a
woodman's sure, silent feet.
Twice they stiffened into inanimateness as others tramped into
the open. Peacemen, two Laurel Wearers and, just as they had almost
reached the archway, a third party—two shuffling labor slaves
carrying a box under the malicious eye of a single lounging
guard.
Kimber leaned back behind a pillar and drew Dard in beside
him.
"Lot's of traffic." The whispered comment was tinged with
laughter and Dard saw that the pilot was smiling, an eager fire in
his eyes.
They waited until slaves and guard were gone and then stepped
boldly into the open and through the archway. They were now in a
wide corridor, not too well lighted, broken at regular intervals
with open doorways through which came solid blocks of illumination
to trap the passerby. But Kimber went on with the assurance of one
who had a perfect right to be where he was. He did not attempt to
steal a look at any of the rooms—it was as if he had seen their
contents a thousand times.
Dard marveled at his complete confidence. The Voice—where was
it housed in this maze? He never suspected all this to lie beyond
the inner court. They had neared the end of the corridor before
Kimber slackened pace and began glancing from right to left. With
infinite caution he tried the latch of a closed door. It gave,
swinging silently open to disclose a flight of stairs leading down.
Kimber's grin was wide.
"Down here! It has to be down—" his lips shaped the words.
Together they crept close to the edge of the stairway and peered
over into a cavern where the best lighting arrangements of the
Temple made little headway against a general gloom. The hollow went
deep, it was the heart of the eminence upon which the Temple stood.
And on the floor far below was the Voice—a bank of metal,
faceless, tongueless, but potent.
Two guards stood at the bottom of the staffs, but their
attitudes suggested that they had no fear of being called upon to
carry out any duties. And on a crowed bench before a board of dials
and levers lounged a third man wearing the crimson and gold tunic
of a second circle Laurel Wearer.
"The night shift," mouthed Kimber at Dard's ear, and then he sat
down on the platform and proceeded to remove his boots. After a
moment of hesitation Dard followed the pilot's example.
Kimber, boots swinging in one hand, started noiselessly down the
staircase, hugging the wall But he did not draw the gun at his belt
and Dard obediently kept his own weapon sheathed.
It was not entirely quiet in the chamber. A drowsy hum from the
internals of the Voice was echoed and magnified by the height and
width of the place.
Kimber took a long time—or what seemed to Dard a very long
time—to descend. When they were still on the last flight of steps
above the guard the pilot reached out a long arm and pulled Dard
tight against him, his lips to the boy's ear.
"I'll risk using my gun on that fellow on the bench. Then we
jump the other two with these—"
He gestured with the boots. Four steps—five—side by side they
crept down. Kimber drew his stun gun and fired. The noiseless
charge of the ray hit its mark. The man on the bench twisted,
turning a horribly contorted face to them before he fell to the
floor.
In that same instant Kimber hurled himself out and down. There
was one startled shout as Dard went out into space too. Then the
boy struck another body and they went to the floor together in a
kicking clawing fury. Dodging a blow, Dard brought his boots down
club fashion in the other's face. He struck heavily three times
before hands clutched his shoulders and wrenched him off the now
limp man. Kimber, a raw and bleeding scrape over one eye, shook him
out of the battle madness.
Dard's eyes focused on the pilot as the terrible anger drained
out of him. They tied the limp bodies with the men's own belts and
lacings before Kimber took his place on the bench before the
Voice.
He pulled a much-creased sheaf of papers from the breast of his
blouse and spread them out on the sloping board beneath the first
rank of push buttons. Dard fidgeted, thinking the pilot was taking
entirely too long over that business.
But the boy had sense enough to keep quiet as Kimber rubbed his
hands slowly together as if to clear them of moisture before
raising his eyes to study the row upon row of buttons, each marked
with a different symbol. Slowly, with a finicky touch and care, the
pilot pressed one, another, a third. There was a change in the hum
of the Voice, a faster rhythm; the great machine was coming to
life.
Kimber picked up speed, stopping only now and again to consult
his scrawled notes. His fingers were racing now. The hum deepened
to a throb which, Dard feared, must certainly be noticeable in the
Temple overhead.
The boy withdrew to the stairway, his attention as much on the
door at the top as on Kimber. He drew his gun. As Kimber had said,
the mechanism of the arm was childishly simple—one pointed it,
pushed the button on the grip—easy. And he had two charges to use.
Caressing the metal he looked back at the Voice.
Under the light Kimber's face displayed damp drops, and now and
again he rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was waiting—his part
of the job finished—waiting for the Voice to assimilate the data
fed it and move in its ponderous way to solve the problem. But
every minute they were forced to linger added to the danger of
their position.
One of the captives rolled over on his side, and, over the gag
they had forced into his jaws, his eyes blared red hate at Dard.
The hum of the Voice faded to a lulling murmur. There was no other
sound in the cavern. Dard crossed to touch Kimber's shoulder.
"How long?" he began.
Kimber shrugged without taking his eyes from the screen above
the keyboard. That square of light remained obstinately empty. Dard
could not stand still. He had no time-keeper, and he believed that
they had been there too long—it might be close to morning. What if
another shift of watcher and guards was due to come on
presently?
A sharp demanding chime interrupted his thoughts. The screen was
no longer blank. Across it slowly crawled formula, figures,
equations. And Kimber scrambled to write them down in frantic
haste, checking and rechecking each he scribbled. As the last set
of figures faded from the screen the pilot hesitated and then
pushed a single button far to the right on the board. A moment of
waiting and five figures flashed into being on the screen.
Kimber read them with a sigh. He thrust the sheets of
calculations back into safety, before, with a grin playing about
his generous mouth, he leaned forward and pushed as many buttons as
he could reach at random. Without pausing for the reply, though the
Voice had gone into labor again, he joined Dard.
"That will give them something to puzzle out if they try to
discover what we were after," he explained. "No reading that back.
Not that I believe any of these poor brains would have the
imagination to guess what brought us here. Now—speed's the thing!
Up with you, kid."
Kimber took the steps at a gait Dard had a hard time matching.
It was not until they stood directly before the corridor door that
the pilot stopped to listen.
"Let us hope that they've all gone to bed and are good sound
sleepers," he whispered. "We've had a lot of luck tonight and this
is no time for it to run out."
The corridor was as empty as it had been on their first trip.
Some of the blocks of light from the rooms were gone. They had only
three such danger spots to cross now. Two they negotiated without
trouble, but as they stepped into the third, it was broken by a
moving shadow, a man was coming out of the room. He wore a scarlet
and gold tunic, with more gold on it than Dard had ever seen
before—plainly one of the hierarchy. And he stared straight at
them with annoyance and the faint stirrings of suspicion.
"Pax!" the word was hardly the conventional and courteous
greeting, it carried too much authority. "What do you here,
brothers? These are the night watches—"
Kimber drew back into the shadows and the man unconsciously
followed him, coming out into the corridor.
"What—" he began again when the pilot moved. Both his dark
hands closed, about the other's throat, cutting off voice and
breath.
Dard caught the hands clawing at Kimber's hold and together they
dragged the struggling captive through the archway into the dimly
lighted inner court.
"Either you come quietly," Kimber hissed, "or you don't come at
all. Make your choice quick."
The struggles ceased as Kimber pulled him on.
"Why try to take him?" Dard wanted to know.
Kimber's grin was no longer pleasant, it was closer to a wolfish
snarl. "Insurance," he returned concisely. "We aren't out of this
place yet. Now move!" He gave the captive a vicious shove, keeping
one hand clamped on the nape of the other's neck, as the three
moved on toward the outer door and freedom.