The Past Through Tomorrow (68 page)

“Why… I guess I hadn’t thought about it any other way.”

“No!”

“But—look, Judith, the urgent thing, the thing that must be done at once, is to get you out of here. Two people trying to travel and hide are many times more likely to be spotted than one. It just doesn’t make sense to—”

“No! I won’t go.”

I thought about it, hurriedly. I still hadn’t realized that “A” implies “B” and that I myself in urging her to desert her service was as much a deserter in my heart as she was. I said, “We’ll get you out first, that’s the important thing. You tell me where your aunt lives—then wait for me.”

“Not without you.”

“But you
must
. The Prophet—”

“Better that than to lose you now!”

I did not then understand women—and I still don’t. Two minutes before she had been quietly planning to risk death by ordeal rather than submit her body to the Holy One. Now she was almost casually willing to accept it rather than put up with even a temporary separation. I don’t understand women; I sometimes think there is no logic in them at all.

I said, “Look, my dear one, we have not yet even figured out how we are to get you out of the Palace. It’s likely to be utterly impossible for us both to escape the same instant. You see that, don’t you?”

She answered stubbornly, “Maybe. But I don’t like it. Well, how do I get out? And when?”

I had to admit again that I did not know. I intended to consult Zeb as soon as possible, but I had no other notion.

But Judith had a suggestion. “John, you know the Virgin who guided you here? No? Sister Magdalene. I know it is safe to tell her and she
might
be willing to help us. She’s very clever.”

I started to comment doubtfully but we were interrupted by Sister Magdalene herself. “Quick!” she snapped at me as she slipped in beside us. “Back to the rampart!”

I rushed out and was barely in time to avoid being caught by the warden, making his rounds. He exchanged challenges with Zeb and myself—and then the old fool wanted to chat. He settled himself down on the steps of the portal and started recalling boastfully a picayune fencing victory of the week before. I tried dismally to help Zeb with chit-chat in a fashion normal for a man bored by a night watch.

At last he got to his feet. “I’m past forty and getting a little heavier, maybe. I’ll admit frankly it warms me to know that I still have a wrist and eye as fast as you young blades.” He straightened his scabbard and added, “I suppose I had better take a turn through the Palace. Can’t take too many precautions these days. They do say the Cabal has been active again.” He took out his torch light and flashed it down the corridor.

I froze solid. If he inspected that corridor, it was beyond hope that he would miss two women crouching in an alcove.

But Zebadiah spoke up calmly, casually. “Just a moment, Elder Brother. Would you show me that time riposte you used to win that last match? It was too fast for me to follow it.”

He took the bait. “Why, glad to, son!” He moved off the steps, came out to where there was room. “Draw your sword. En garde! Cross blades in line of sixte. Disengage and attack me. There! Hold the lunge and I’ll demonstrate it slowly. As your point approaches my chest—” (Chest indeed! Captain van Eyck was as pot-bellied as a kangaroo!) “—I catch it with the forte of my blade and force it over yours in riposte seconde. Just like the book, so far. But I do not complete the riposte. Strong as it is, you might parry or counter. Instead, as my point comes down, I beat your blade out of line—” He illustrated and the steel sang, “—and attack you anywhere, from chin to ankle. Come now, try it on me.”

Zeb did so and they ran through the phrase; the warden retreated a step. Zeb asked to do it again to get it down pat. They ran through it repeatedly, faster each time, with the warden retreating each time to avoid by a hair Zeb’s unbated point. It was strictly against regulations to fence with real swords and without mask and plastron, but the warden really was good…a swordsman so precise that he was confident of his own skill not to blind one of Zeb’s eyes, not to let Zeb hurt him. In spite of my own galloping jitters I watched it closely; it was a beautiful demonstration of a once-useful military art. Zeb pressed him hard.

They finished up fifty yards away from the portal and that much closer to the guardroom. I could hear the warden puffing from the exercise. “That was fine, Jones,” he gasped. “You caught on handsomely.” He puffed again and added, “Lucky for me a real bout does not go on as long. I think I’ll let you inspect the corridor.” He turned away toward the guardroom, adding cheerfully, “God keep you.”

“God go with you, sir,” Zeb responded properly and brought his hilt to his chin in salute.

As soon as the warden turned the corner Zeb stood by again and I hurried back to the alcove. The women were still there, making themselves small against the back wall. “He’s gone,” I reassured them. “Nothing to fear for a while.”

Judith had told Sister Magdalene of our dilemma and we discussed it in whispers. She advised us strongly not to try to reach any decisions just then. “I’m in charge of Judith’s purification; I can stretch it out for another week, perhaps, before she has to draw lots again.”

I said, “We’ve got to act before then!”

Judith seemed over her fears, now that she had laid her troubles in Sister Magdalene’s lap. “Don’t worry, John,” she said softly, “the chances are my lot won’t be drawn soon again in any case. We must do what she advises.”

Sister Magdalene sniffed contemptuously. “You’re wrong about that, Judy, when you are returned to duty, your lot will be drawn, you can be sure ahead of time. Not,” she added, “but what you could live through it—the rest of us have. If it seems safer to—” She stopped suddenly and listened. “Sssh! Quiet as death.” She slipped silently out of our circle.

A thin pencil of light flashed out and splashed on a figure crouching outside the alcove. I dived and was on him before he could get to his feet. Fast as I had been, Sister Magdalene was just as fast; she landed on his shoulders as he went down. He jerked and was still.

Zebadiah came running in, checked himself at our sides. “John! Maggie!” came his tense whisper. “What is it?”

“We’ve caught a spy, Zeb,” I answered hurriedly. “What’ll we do with him?”

Zeb flashed his light. “You’ve knocked him out?”

“He won’t come to,” answered Magdalene’s calm voice out of the darkness. “I slipped a vibroblade in his ribs.”

“Sheol!”

“Zeb, I had to do it. Be glad I didn’t use steel and mess up the floor with blood. But what do we do now?”

Zeb cursed her softly, she took it. “Turn him over, John. Let’s take a look.” I did so and his light flashed again. “Hey, Johnnie—it’s Snotty Fassett.” He paused and I could almost hear him think. “Well, we’ll waste no tears on
him
. John!”

“Yeah, Zeb?”

“Keep the watch outside. If anyone comes, I am inspecting the corridor. I’ve got to dump this carcass somewhere.”

Judith broke the silence. “There’s an incinerator chute on the floor above. I’ll help you.”

“Stout girl. Get going, John.”

I wanted to object that it was no work for a woman, but I shut up and turned away. Zeb took his shoulders, the women a leg apiece and managed well enough. They were back in minutes, though it seemed endless to me. No doubt Snotty’s body was reduced to atoms before they were back—we might get away with it. It did not seem like murder to me then, and still does not; we did what we had to do, rushed along by events.

Zeb was curt. “This tears it. Our reliefs will be along in ten minutes; we’ve got to figure this out in less time than that. Well?”

Our suggestions were all impractical to the point of being ridiculous, but Zeb let us make them—then spoke straight to the point. “Listen to me, it’s no longer just a case of trying to help Judith and you out of your predicament. As soon as Snotty is missed, we—all four of us—are in mortal danger of the Question. Right?”

“Right,” I agreed unwillingly. “But nobody has a plan?”

None of us answered. Zeb went on, “Then we’ve got to have help…and there is only one place we can get it. The Cabal.”

“
THE CABAL
?” I repeated stupidly. Judith gave a horrified gasp.

“Why…why, that would mean our immortal souls! They worship Satan!”

Zeb turned to her. “I don’t believe so.”

She stared at him. “Are
you
a Cabalist?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“And how,” I insisted, “can
you
ask them for help?”

Magdalene answered. “I am a member—as Zebadiah knows.”

Judith shrank away from her, but Magdalene pressed her with words. “Listen to me, Judith. I know how you feel—and once I was as horrified as you are at the idea of anyone opposing the Church. Then I learned—as you are learning—what really lies behind this sham we were brought up to believe in.” She put an arm around the younger girl. “We aren’t devil worshipers, dear, nor do we fight against God. We fight only against this self-styled Prophet who pretends to be the voice of God. Come with us, help us fight him—and we will help you. Otherwise we can’t risk it.”

Judith searched her face by the faint light from the portal. “You swear that this is true? The Cabal fights only against the Prophet and not against the Lord Himself?”

“I swear, Judith.”

Judith took a deep shuddering breath. “God guide me,” she whispered. “I go with the Cabal.”

Magdalene kissed her quickly, then faced us men. “Well?”

I answered at once, “I’m in it if Judith is,” then whispered to myself, “Dear Lord, forgive me my oath—I must!”

Magdalene was staring at Zeb. He shifted uneasily and said angrily, “I suggested it, didn’t I? But we are all damned fools and the Inquisitor will break our bones.”

There was no more chance to talk until the next day. I woke from bad dreams of the Question and worse, and heard Zeb’s shaver buzzing merrily in the bath. He came in and pulled the covers off me, all the while running off at the mouth with cheerful nonsense. I hate having bed clothes dragged off me even when feeling well and I can’t stand cheerfulness before breakfast; I dragged them back and tried to ignore him, but he grabbed my wrist. “Up you come, old son! God’s sunshine is wasting. It’s a beautiful day. How about two fast laps around the Palace and in for a cold shower?”

I tried to shake his hand loose and called him something that would lower my mark in piety if the ear picked it up. He still hung on and his forefinger was twitching against my wrist in a nervous fashion; I began to wonder if Zeb were cracking under the strain. Then I realized that he was tapping out code.

“B-E—N-A-T-U-R-A-L,” the dots and dashes said, “S-H-O-W—N-O—S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E—W-E—W-I-L-L—BE—C-A-L-L-E-D—F-O-R—E-X-A-M-I-N-A-T-I-O-N—D-U-R-I-N-G—T-H-E—R-E-C-R-E-A-T-I-O-N—P-E-R-I-O-D—T-H-I-S—A-F-T-E-R-N-O-O-N”

I hope I showed no surprise. I made surly answers to the stream of silly chatter he had kept up all through it, and got up and went about the mournful tasks of putting the body back in shape for another day. After a bit I found excuse to lay a hand on his shoulder and twitched out an answer: “O-K—I—U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D”

The day was a misery of nervous monotony. I made a mistake at dress parade, a thing I haven’t done since beast barracks. When the day’s duty was finally over I went back to our room and found Zeb there with his feet on the air conditioner, working an acrostic in the New York
Times
. “Johnnie my lamb,” he asked, looking up, “what is a six-letter word meaning ‘Pure in Heart’?”

“You’ll never need to know,” I grunted and sat down to remove my armor.

“Why, John, don’t you think I will reach the Heavenly City?”

“Maybe—after ten thousand years penance.”

There came a brisk knock at our door, it was shoved open, and Timothy Klyce, senior legate in the mess and brevet captain, stuck his head in. He sniffed and said in nasal Cape Cod accents, “Hello, you chaps want to take a walk?”

It seemed to me that he could not have picked a worse time. Tim was a hard man to shake and the most punctiliously devout man in the corps. I was still trying to think of an excuse when Zeb spoke up. “Don’t mind if we do, provided we walk toward town. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

I was confused by Zeb’s answer and still tried to hang back, pleading paper work to do, but Zeb cut me short. “Pfui with paper work. I’ll help you with it tonight. Come on.” So I went, wondering if he had gotten cold feet about going through with it.

We went out through the lower tunnels. I walked along silently, wondering if possibly Zeb meant to try to shake Klyce in town and then hurry back. We had just entered a little jog in the passageway when Tim raised his hand in a gesture to emphasize some point in what he was saying to Zeb. His hand passed near my face, I felt a slight spray on my eyes—and I was blind.

Before I could cry out, even as I suppressed the impulse to do so, he grasped my upper arm hard, while continuing his sentence without a break. His grip on my arm guided me to the left, whereas my memory of the jog convinced me that the turn should have been to the right. But we did not bump into the wall and after a few moments the blindness wore off. We seemed to be walking in the same tunnel with Tim in the middle and holding each of us by an arm. He did not say anything and neither did we; presently he stopped us in front of a door. Klyce knocked once, then listened.

I could not make out an answer but he replied, “Two pilgrims, duly guided.”

The door opened. He led us in, it closed silently behind us, and we were facing a masked and armored guard, with his blast pistol leveled on us. Reaching behind him, he rapped once on an inner door; immediately another man, armed and masked like the first, came out and faced us. He asked Zeb and myself separately:

“Do you seriously declare, upon your honor, that, unbiased by friends and uninfluenced by mercenary motives, you freely and voluntarily offer yourself to the service of this order?”

We each answered, “I do.”

“Hoodwink and prepare them.”

Leather helmets that covered everything but our mouths and noses were slipped over our heads and fastened under our chins. Then we were ordered to strip off all our clothing. I did so while the goose bumps popped out on me. I was losing my enthusiasm rapidly—there is nothing that makes a man feel as helpless as taking his pants away from him. Then I felt the sharp prick of a hypodermic in my forearm and shortly, though I was awake, things got dreamy and I was no longer jittery. Something cold was pressed against my ribs on the left side of my back and I realized that it was almost certainly the hilt of a vibroblade, needing only the touch of the stud to make me as dead as Snotty Fassett—but it did not alarm me. Then there were questions, many questions, which I answered automatically, unable to lie or hedge if I had wanted to. I remember them in snatches: