“I fought off Elonie’s hypnotism last night,” I remembered.
“Because your knowledge of its danger remained in your subconscious. After that, you were placed outside—naked, without memory or knowledge. And a speaking device brought what would sound like a cosmic voice of destiny. After that, all was prepared to draw you into their plot as a tool.”
I groaned. It had been as simple and raw as all that. “But the legend of Yandro?” I asked.
She waved it aside. “Someone named Yandro did exist, in the old days when Dondromogon was not Council-ridden. When he died, it was suggested that he would return again in time of need. Many a time did Gederr inspire some better-than-ordinary fighting man to face you, Barak, by telling him that the soul of Yandro had wakened in him. But when you fell into their hands and they decided to use you, they twisted the legend to suit your coming—even with a picture and your own thumb print to help convince you.” She sighed. “Very few had seen your capture. Only Rohbar and the two guards you saw die would recognize you. Those three men, and myself, were in the farce.”
“You!” I said, and gazed at her. That lost former life was creeping back, like a dream becoming plain and fusing into reality.
“You, Doriza! I—remember you—”
“You should,” she murmured, pink-cheeked. “We used to say kind things to each other. With the Newcomers—remember?”
“You were one of us—a year ago! A technician in the synthetics department! But you vanished—and now you’re here! Why?”
“I—I—oh, don’t ask me that!”
I clutched her elbow, so fiercely that she whimpered. “Did you turn traitor? Answer me, Doriza!”
“You hurt me—don’t—Barak, before you call me a traitor, answer this. Are you wholly for destruction of this people of Dondromogon? Haven’t you changed?”
“Why—why—” And I paused. “I want to crush the Council, but the people—”
“Barak, I want to help them, too! The people—and you, Barak!” She looked at me beseechingly. “Can’t you trust me?”
My heart flopped over and over, like a falling leaf, but I could not steel myself against her. “You were sweet once, Doriza, though you went away from me.” As if by long practice, my arm encircled her.
“Believe me, I’m not a traitor,” she whispered against my shoulder. “I want to save you—and others—and myself—”
I shook my head. “They want to kill you. They shan’t. Let’s defend ourselves.”
For answer, she pointed to the door. A quiet humming sounded. I saw that a panel bulged and vibrated.
“Disintegrator,” she whispered in my ear.
I thrust her into a corner and moved close to the doorjamb. A moment later the rayed panel fell away in flakes, and a man stepped through, the officer who had tried to arrest Doriza.
I clutched the wrist of the hand that held his disintegrator pistol, and almost tore his head off with an uppercut. He went down, and Doriza caught up his weapon as it fell. There was a spatter of sparks as someone fired through the hole with electro-automatic pellets, but already Doriza was using the ray to knock a lock from a door beyond.
“One side,” I heard Gederr growl from the corridor. “I have a disintegrator, too. I’ll open a hole too big for him to defend!”
But we had hurried through the door Doriza opened. Beyond was a vehicle, the same that had carried us earlier in the day. “In,” she said, took the controls.
We rumbled away, not daring to speed and thus attract too much attention. Doriza drove us toward the point where conflict was being centered, and at a deserted stretch of the tunnelway braked us to a halt.
“We must know what they’re doing about us,” she said, and began to tune the televiso apparatus.
Figures leaped into view on the screen. I stared. Members of the Council—I recognized them—were marshalled against a wall, as if for a firing squad. And a firing squad faced them. Someone lifted a hand as a signal. The line of soldiers lifted their electro-automatics. I saw the play of sparks, heard the whip and thud of pellets. A form fell, another, another.
“They’re rebelling!” I cried. “Overthrowing the Council! Somehow,” and my heart sang wildly, “they know the truth!”
But Doriza put her hand on mine, and it trembled. “No, Barak. Watch.”
One of the riddled forms floundered and tried to rise. Elonie, no longer lovely, but an agonized and gory victim. Someone stepped forward and cooly shot her through the head. It was Gederr.
He faced forward. They brought broadcasting equipment to him, and he suddenly grew huge on the screen.
“Attention,” he bawled, “all true people of Dondromogon! We do not hesitate to kill traitors, even the highest of rank! Those false folk who made up the Council—they have died!”
He paused, glared, and swallowed. “I, Gederr, have discovered their plot! They foisted off upon us a man of the Newcomers as Yandro—caused us to accept him as a hero, when he was only the tool of their plan to betray and sell us!”
A cheer came from somewhere, and he went on.
“They are dead! I remain to lead and protect you! And my command is, find the false spy we accepted as Yandro! Search for him, find him and kill him!”
Doriza and I looked at each other. “Where now?” she asked.
“Toward the battle zones,” I replied. She closed a circuit and steered us away.
The main corridor was almost deserted—apparently noncombatants had been cleared out in anticipation of the battle. Again the speaker began to yammer, Gederr speaking again:
“All defenses on alert! Watch for this man, falsely called Yandro—very tall, strongly made, dark, young, scar on chin. He wears a red cloak. With him is a woman of medium height, young, light brown hair, blue eyes, more robust than common—”
“Not flattering, are they?” Doriza said, and smiled.
Up ahead, two guards gestured and bawled. One pressed a wall-button, and a folding barrier crept across our way. “Vehicles out of
