‘Not so fast,’ said the therapist. ‘I want hostages. Once I have hostages, you can go and get yourselves an organic rectifier.’
‘Then take me,’ said Justina, in a display of unexampled courage. ‘I’ll be your hostage.’
‘No,’ said the therapist. ‘I want the men. Pokrov and this one. The Ebby.’
‘I’m an Ebrell Islander, thank you very much,’ said Chegory coldly. ‘I have a name, too. Chegory Guy.’
‘An uppity Ebby, by the sound of it,’ said the therapist with open contempt. ‘Nevertheless, I will keep it. And Pokrov. Men make much better hostages than do women.’
‘And why is that?’ said Justina, bristling.
‘Because,’ said the therapist, ‘women have no testicles.’
Then it withdrew the tentacle which had imprisoned Olivia and Ingalawa.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Pokrov to his Empress.
‘Of course I do,’ said Justina.
She had no intention of bringing the therapist any captives. Instead, once she had the organic rectifier, she would take it to Jod so the Crab could be transformed. Then the Crab would surely come Downstairs with her. And, just as Chegory had threatened, the Crab would smash the therapist to bits.
‘So,’ said Pokrov, ‘you think you know what you’re doing. But does the therapist? Listen, class one. These people have no idea what an organic rectifier looks like. You’ll have to let me go. Else how can they find one? How can they even find their way out?’
‘I have summoned a dorgi,’ said the therapist languidly, speaking as if it had called upon one dorgi out of an army of many thousands.
It was hiding something from them: the fact that there was only one single dorgi left to summon. All the others had fallen into terminal disrepair a great many decades earlier.
‘And?’ said Pokrov.
‘And the obvious,’ said the therapist. ‘Work it out for yourself.’
While they waited for the dorgi to arrive, Chegory and Olivia did some earnest canoodling, which will not be described here because the like can be seen easily enough wherever young people gather together with basic addition on their minds. Many tender things they said to each other, pledging love undying and loyalty to the point of death and then beyond. Then Olivia suddenly said:
‘Take me,’ said Olivia. ‘Let Chegory go. Take me instead.’
‘No,’ said the therapist.
‘But you should,’ said Olivia. ‘You must!’
‘Should?’ said the therapist. ‘Must? Whence comes this should? Thi s must? Why should I thus delight him?’ ‘It wouldn’t delight him,’ sai d Olivia. ‘He’d — he’d be sick with worry. Every moment I was here. It would be sheer torture for him.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the therapist. ‘It would make him think himself a hero in an epic tradition, daring all manner of dangers to rescue his woman. He’d love every moment of it.’
The therapist had had young lovers in its clutches before.
It knew what it was talking about.
Olivia persisted with her argument, growing steadily more distraught until she finally burst into tears.
‘Hush,’ said Chegory, cradling her close. ‘Hush. Don’t worry, my love, my darling sweet, my sugar of sugars. I’ll come to no harm.’
Meanwhile, Justina was talking quietly with Artemis Ingalawa.
‘The sooner the Crab hears of this the better,’ said Justina. ‘It may need some time to — to prepare itself for its transformation.’
Nobody doubted the wisdom of that.
‘I’ll go, then,’ said Ingalawa.
‘Wait for the dorgi,’ said the therapist. ‘It’ll be far quicker. Besides, you’ll never find your way out of here alone.’
‘I am an Ashdan,’ said Ingalawa. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘I know what Ashdans believe it to mean,’ said the therapist. ‘Very well. If that’s how you want to play it, be my guest. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
So, with the therapist’s consent, Artemis Ingalawa set off through the underworld on her own to give the Crab advance warning of the advent of the organic rectifier. If she was afraid to travel alone through the underworld, through realms of black grass, ice-making machines, derelict bones and occasional nightmare, then she gave no sign of it as she strode away with every appearance of confidence.
Then all the others could do was to wait.
At last the dorgi arrived.
‘Come here,’ said the therapist.
‘Why?’ said the dorgi.
Pokrov understood the Code Seven in which therapist and dorgi conversed.
Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba did not understand, but were too busy canoodling to care.
And Artemis Ingalawa was gone, leaving only Justina Thrug to puzzle over this therapist-dorgi dialogue.
The Empress Justina could not understand a word of this conversation between machines, for she had no knowledge of Code Seven. The Empress was something of a linguist (despite her inability to comprehend Slandolin) but the multiple tongues of the Golden Gulag were entirely unknown to her.
As Justina struggled for comprehension (a fruitless struggle, this) the colloquy continued: ‘I said come here!’
‘But why?’ said the dorgi.
‘Because,’ said the therapist, ‘I have something for you.’ There was a high metallic whine. A slot opened amidst the therapist’s mechanisms. A mechanical arm was extruded from the slot. It held a needle of gleaming metal. Then two metal tentacles also emerged from the slot.
‘No,’ said the dorgi, starting to whine. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the therapist. ‘This isn’t to hurt you. It’s to educate you.’
‘Education hurts,’ said the dorgi.
It spoke with complete sincerity, for this proposition was, to the dorgi, a dearly held article of faith.
‘Whether it hurts or not,’ said the therapist, ‘you need an education. It will make you less stupid.’
‘But I want to be stupid,’ said the dorgi stoutly. Stupidity was i ntrinsic to its personality. It would not feel properly dorgi-ish if i t were to be anything other than stupid.
‘Relax,’ said the therapist. ‘Even with this education you’ll still be stupid enough. More than stupid enough.’ ‘But what do I need with an education?’
‘You need languages,’ said the therapist, brandishing the glittering needle. ‘So you can talk to these humans.’
‘I don’t need to talk to them. I can kill them without saying a word.’
‘You’re not going to kill them! You’re going to take them to the Stasis Store so they can get an organic rectifier.’
‘Won’t,’ said the dorgi.
‘You will, you know,’ said the therapist. ‘It’s a direct order. Understand? Come here. I’m giving you a direct order. Come here! Now! I am a class one. Obey!’
‘You are not a class one,’ said the dorgi. ‘You are a class two.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said the therapist. ‘But it makes no difference. You’re so low in the intellectual scale you don’t even have a class. You’d have to obey me even if I was a class nine. And you know it. Come here!’
The dorgi struggled to disobey. Against its will, its mechanisms jerked it toward the therapist. The dorgi whimpered as metal tentacles writhed across its integument. The tentacles opened a hatch. in the dorgi’s flank. The therapist’s mechanical arm lunged, plunged, sank the needle into the dorgi’s data-dart receptor. The dorgi screamed in psychic agony. Its mind (such mind as it had) was thrown into chaos as a full three dozen languages bubbled through its consciousness in full and frenzied life.
Long had the therapist studied the languages of Untunchilamon, interrogating its captives at length before it killed them. All this linguistic data had now been gifted to the dorgi. Not that the dorgi was grateful for the gift.
