Star Bridge (16 page)

“It is a strong man,” Lil said in a deep voice, “who recognizes his own weakness.”

“You, on the other hand,” Wu continued, “ignore the social forces and outrage them, and your strength has pitted you against an empire. And yet I like you, Mr. Horn. You are right; this is no time for admirable characters; and I am glad you recognize the historical necessities that mold and move us, willy-nilly.”

“I've been used and moved,” Horn said firmly. “No more. From this time on, I'm a free agent, moving but unmoved.” He chuckled; it was an odd sound in the darkness. “Let Eron and history beware.”

“It is a weak man,” Lil said in the same tone as before, “who knows only his own strength.”

“How do you know,” Wu said, “that in these decisions and these acts you are not an instrument still?”

“We're wasting time,” Horn said quickly. “What we need is not questions but answers. Someone must have the answers. The person who hired me, for one.”

“And if you find him,” Wu said, “and if you find out ‘why?'—how much better off will you be?”

“I'll know which way to move,” Horn said. “One thing that could be done, for instance: cut off the Tubes!”

Wu gasped and then chuckled appreciatively. “A master stroke! It would take a man like you to think of it.”

Horn thought he caught a note of mockery in Wu's voice. “Eron is dependent on the Tubes, totally dependent. She can't live more than a few days without fresh supplies from the Empire. And if fighting should start, the only chance for a successful rebellion would be if Eron were isolated. Without fresh troops—”

“You needn't list the advantages,” Wu broke in. “I appreciate them even more than you do. The Empire would be crippled, a wheel without a hub. But how do you propose to cut the Tubes? It isn't even known how they are activated.”

“The Directors should know,” Horn said.

“It comes back to them, doesn't it?” Wu mused. “I'm tempted to help you. Suppose we join forces temporarily. I say ‘temporarily' because I can't guarantee how long this quixotic spirit will last. I am an old, old man and easily tired. But we have no love for Eron, eh, Lil? We wouldn't be sorry to do the Empire an ill turn.”

“Good,” Horn said softly. He didn't underestimate the help that Wu and Lil offered; they hadn't lived so long without unusual talents and great cleverness. “We've wasted enough time,” he said. “Let's go.”

“Where? Like this? Blindly? Ah, youth, youth!”

“Well, where do you want to go?”

“Why, to the center of things, of course. But suitably attired and adequately prepared. Put these things on.”

Horn felt heavy cloth pressed into his hands. He sorted it into pants, a tunic, and a uniform cap. He hesitated a moment and then stripped off his coveralls.

“A little light,” Lil said impatiently.

In the brief flash Horn saw Lil clinging to the lock of the door. One claw ended in minute feelers which disappeared into the lock's tiny holes. Tumblers fell, clinking metallically. No wonder locks were no barrier!

Horn slipped into the clothing. It was a uniform, by the feel of it, and it fit surprisingly well. While he listened to Wu's sighs and rustlings, he had time to wonder where the clothing had come from. It could only have been that fabulous, inexhaustible container, Wu's battered suitcase, which was obviously much bigger on the inside than it was on the outside.

Wu sighed deeply and clicked the suitcase shut. “Here,” he said. He laid a heavy object in Horn's hand. Horn had no difficulty identifying it. It was a unitron pistol, complete with cord. “You need this for at least two reasons.”

“Disguise and defense,” Horn supplied. He slipped the cord around his left shoulder and followed Wu's footsteps through the open doorway. They walked along dark corridors for minutes. Wu stopped once to slip his suitcase, regretfully, into a hidden niche. The second time he flicked a light onto a smooth rock wall. His hand moved into the light. Horn noticed that it looked different, somehow, but he had no time to think about that.

The rock wall opened outward. Beyond was the dimly lighted interior of a tube car. Wu was outlined against it. He was dressed magnificently in rich orange synsilk and furs. A padded bosom stuck out above his rounded belly. Lil seemed to be gone. Horn looked down at his own uniform. It was orange, too.

Orange
, Horn thought.
Orange for the Directorship of Power.

Wu turned his face back toward Horn. Horn drew back, startled. It wasn't Wu's face; it was the fat, golden, jowly face of an Eron noble. Tawny eyes peered out at him over puffy folds of flesh. The hair was stiff, reddish.

The pistol was in Horn's hand. He knew that face. He had seen it, close, not long ago. It was the face of Matal, Director for Power.

“Ah,” Wu's voice said. “Then the disguise is effective?”

Horn was startled again. His hand relaxed. The gun flew back against his chest. “But—” he began.

“Another of Lil's many talents,” Wu said.

“The clothes, the disguise,” Horn said. “It's obvious that you had this planned.”

“Planned?” Wu echoed judiciously. “I am always prepared, let us say, for opportunity.”

“It seems to me that I am being used,” Horn said gloomily. “What are you after?”

“We all are used. If I am using you, you, in turn, are using me. The question is: are we going where you want to go?”

“Where are we going?”

“To a meeting of Eron's Directors,” Wu said softly. “They must elect a new General Manager. It is the most crucial meeting since the foundation of the Company. We will be there. We will take part in the decision, I as the Director for Power and you as my personal guard.”

“Yes,” Horn said. It was the right place to go; he could feel it intuitively. “But the real Matal will be there.”

“Matal is dead.”

“Dead?” Horn echoed.

“He was always a careless man. Greed and death caught up with him. Duchane's assassin found him alone. He was hurrying to a meeting with his head engineers. Power was shining in front of him, the power over men that is real power, and it blinded his eyes. He died at the south Terminal cap, clutching his belly. It was a poor substitute for an empire.”

“Does Duchane know it?”

“Even Duchane wouldn't dare receive such a message. No, the assassin must make his way to the Director for Security as best he can, evading capture. He must come a long way, but if we delay much longer he may be there before us.”

“How did you know about this car?” Horn asked.

“There are few things about Eron I don't know,” Wu said placidly. “It is difficult to keep secrets from a man who has outlived civilizations. I was here when the Directors' private tubeway was built. Another thing I know, for instance, is that the car is meant for one person but two can squeeze in. I will let you have the chair.”

Horn hesitated and stepped into the car. He sat down and strapped the belt across his legs. Wu painfully maneuvered his bulky, padded figure past Horn's knees. He squeezed and panted and complained, but finally he was wedged into the space at Horn's feet, his back against the wall under the control panel, his feet planted solidly under the chair.

“Close the door,” Wu sighed. “This is extremely uncomfortable for an old man of my size and shape. Already I can feel my enthusiasm waning.”

Horn looked down. There was something naggingly familiar about the way his face was shadowed. It eluded him; Horn shook his head and slowly closed the door. The click was followed by darkness and the nudge of the sliding inner door. Once more the many-colored disks floated in front of Horn.

“Which one?” he asked.

“Black.”

Horn felt a shiver start up his spine. He frowned. “Duchane?”

“That's where the meeting is,” Wu said. The colored disks cast an eerie, motley pattern over his reddish hair, but his face was dark. “To the center of things. Quickly.”

Horn reached out and palmed the black disk. He felt again that uneasy sensation of free fall; there is no direction but outward. Perhaps it was half due to that, the suspicion that swept over him.

It was obvious, however, that Wu knew too much and he knew too little. All he knew about Wu was what the old man had told him; that could easily be lies and evasions. Wu could be anyone; he could be working for Duchane himself. He could be leading Horn into a trap. He had to have some organization behind him; he couldn't have all the information he displayed without it, not even with the help of Lil.

“You know a great many things,” Horn said in the darkness. “Things that Duchane doesn't know: me and my location, Matal and his fate. And things that no one but Directors know: the secret tubeway and the meeting and its location. It is a wonder how you have learned so much.”

“I am—”

“I know,” Horn said impatiently. “You are an old man, and you have learned many things.”

He started. Shadows over Wu's face. Put a hood over it. The resemblance clicked into place.

“You!” Horn said hoarsely. “You were the priest with the embroidered symbol on your robe.”

“The Prophet,” Wu corrected gently.

 

THE HISTORY

The pecking order.…

Among men, as among chickens, it is a necessity.

Hen A can peck hen B; hen B can peck hen C; hen C can peck hen D. Until the pecking order is established, there can be no peace in the henyard.

What chickens know instinctively, men must learn for themselves: power is indivisible.

Garth Kohlnar learned that rule well as he fought his way up the dangerous ladder of power politics from an impoverished nobility. Power is indivisible, and there are no means alien to it: intrigue, corruption, exposure of corruption, deals, betrayals.…

The management of the Company had been set up as a check-and-balance. The five Directors were chosen by competitive examination from all qualified engineers among the Golden Folk. Their duties: to establish policy, elect the General Manager, and preserve the secret of the Tube.

The General Manager was merely an executive. It had never worked that way. Kohlnar had ruled the Company with an iron hand.

His death shattered the peace of the henyard. The pecking order had to be rediscovered.…

 

 

12

STALEMATE

“Do you think,” Wu asked, “that a man could live as long as I have with just the aid of his own senses?”

“Then the Cult exists only for your protection,” Horn said sardonically.

“For my protection,” Wu agreed, “and the consolation of the miserable. And possibly for other reasons which we can't go into at the moment. For we are there.”

The car came to a stop. The door swung open. Outside it was a large, bare room with glistening, black marble walls. Wu motioned him out of the car. Horn unsnapped the belt and cautiously stepped out, his pistol in his hand. The room was empty.

Wu led the way to one black wall. A section of it slid aside as they approached. Behind it was a small, square room; its walls were black mirrors. It was lighted by hidden sources near the ceiling. Dark, disquieting faces peered out of the walls at them. As they turned around, the door slid shut and the floor pressed heavily against their feet.

“I have more eyes and ears than you think,” Wu said, “but it is better to say no more. So does Duchane, and this car is probably tapped.”

“It is.” The heavy, powerful voice came from a side wall. Duchane was staring blackly out of it at them. “Welcome, Matal.” His voice was impassive and unsurprised. “We've been waiting for you.”

The car stopped. The door opened. Wu preceded Horn down a long hall. Like the other room below, it was walled in black marble. Even the heavy carpet underneath their feet was black.

“Your tastes run to the macabre,” Wu said. His voice had changed; there was a bubbling breathlessness to it.

“Thank you,” Duchane said. His voice came from near the ceiling. It was an unnerving experience, as if the building itself were alive, a part of Duchane. “It is, after all, my job.”

They approached a door. Two impassive, black-uniformed guards stood on either side of it. It slid open in front of them. Beyond it was another short hall, two more guards, a second sliding door. And then a large, hexagonal room. It was black, as usual, but it was better lighted than any of the others. Horn watched the door close behind them. There was no visible seam. He tried to mark the spot.

The table was a polished, black hexagon to match the room. Three sides were occupied. Duchane had the door to his right; Fenelon was facing it; Ronholm had his back to it. A single guard stood behind Ronholm and Fenelon; each was dressed in the blue or green of the Directorship.

Duchane didn't have a human guard. Crouching beside his chair was a gigantic black hound. It was twin to the one Horn had seen dead upon the platform in front of the Victory Monument. Duchane's hand rested affectionately on the monster's head.

“You're late,” Duchane said casually. “But now we can begin.”

“I was—detained,” Wu said breathlessly. “Where is the Director for Communications, the lovely Wendre?”

“She, too, is—detained. I expect her later—”

“I object to this entire air of intimidation,” Ronholm broke in with quick, youthful anger. “I move that we hold our meeting, as usual, in the Directors' Room at the residence of the General Manager.”

Duchane looked at Ronholm mildly. “There are obvious reasons why that is impractical. First, the General Manager is dead; we must respect this period of official mourning. Second, and more important, these are troubled times. Kohlnar has been assassinated. One of us may be next. The lower levels are muttering, and the word they use is ‘revolt.' This is the only place whose absolute safety I can guarantee.”