doubt the ruthlessness of Scoyt — the man who kills for a cause kills almost unthinkingly — but he could hardly bring himself to believe he would see the garrulous priest no more. His mind preoccupied, he answered Scoyt’s questions. These mainly concerned their epic trek through Deadways; directly Complain began to explain about his capture by the Giants, the investigator, non-committal bill now, pounced.
‘The Giants do not exist!’ he said. ‘They were extinct long ago. We inherited the ship from them.’
Although openly sceptical, he then pressed as hard for details as Marapper once had, and it was obvious he slowly began to accept Complain’s narrative for truth. His face clouded in thought, he tapped his long fingers on the desk.
‘The Outsiders we have known for enemies,’ he said, ‘but the Giants we always regarded as our old allies, whose kingdom we took over with their approval. If they do shill live somewhere in Deadways, why do they not show themselves — unless for a sinister reason? We already have quite enough trouble piled up against us.’
As Complain pointed out, the Giants had not killed him when they might conveniently have done so; nor had they killed Ern Roffery, although what had become of the valuer remained a mystery. In all, their role in affairs was ambiguous.
‘I’m inclined to believe your tale, Complain,’ Scoyt said finally, ‘because from time to time we receive rumours — people swear they’ve seen Giants. Rumours! Rumours! We get our hands on nothing tangible. But at least the Giants seem to be no threat to Forwards — and best of all, they don’t seem to be in alliance with the Outsiders. If we can tackle them separately, that’ll be something.’
He lapsed into silence, then asked, ‘How far is it to this sea where the Giants caught you?’
‘Many decks away — perhaps forty.’
Master Scoyt threw up his hands in disgust.
‘Too far!’ he said. ‘I thought we might go there… but Forwards men do not love the ponics.’
The door burst open. A panting guard stood on the threshhold and spoke without ceremony.
‘An attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt!’ he cried. ‘Come at once — you’re needed.’
Scoyt was up immediately, his face grim. Half-way to the door, he paused, turning back to Complain.
‘Stay there,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll be back when I can.’
The door slammed. Complain was alone. As if unable to believe it, he looked slowly round. In the far wall, behind Scoyt’s seat, was another door. Cautiously, he went over and tried it. It opened. Beyond was another room, a small antechamber, with another door on the far side of it. The antechamber boasted only a battered panel containing broken instruments on one wall, and on the floor, four packs. Complain recognized them at once as his, Marapper’s, Bob Fermour’s and Wantage’s. All their meagre belongings seemed to be still there, although it was evident the kit had been searched. Complain gave it only a brief glance, then crossed the room and opened the other door.
It led on to a side corridor. From one direction came the sound of voices; in the opposite direction, not many paces away, were — ponics. The way to them looked unguarded. His heart beating rapidly, Complain shut the door again, leaning against it to decide. Should he try to escape or not?
Marapper was killed; there was no evidence he also would not be as coolly disposed of. It might well be wise to leave — but for where? Quarters was too far away for a solitary man to reach. But nearer tribes would welcome a hunter. Complain recalled that Vyann had mistaken his group for members of some tribe that was raiding Forwards; in his preoccupation with their capture, Complain had scarcely taken note of what she said, but it might well be the same gang that was besieging the barricades now. They should appreciate a hunter with a slight knowledge of Forwards.
He swung his pack up on to his shoulder, opened the door, looked left and right, and dashed for the tangle.
All the other doors in the side corridor were shut, bar one Instinctively, Complain glanced in as he passed — and stopped dead. He stood on the threshold, transfixed.
Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if it were merely sleeping, lay a body. It sprawled untidily, its legs crossed, its shabby cloak rolled up to serve as pillow; its face wore the melancholy expression of an over- fed bulldog.
‘Henry Marapper!’ Complain exclaimed, eyes fixed on that familiar profile. The hair and temple were matted with blood. He leaned forward and gently touched the priest’s arm. It was stone cold.
Instantly, the old mental atmosphere of Quarters clicked into place round Complain. The Teaching was almost as instinctive as a reflex. He snapped without thought into the first gesture of prostration, going through the ritual of fear. Fear must not be allowed to penetrate to the subconscious, says the Teaching; it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. Between bow, bemoan, obeisance, Complain forgot all zest for escape.
‘I’m afraid we must interrupt this efficient demonstration,’ a chilly female voice said behind him. Startled, Complain straightened and looked round. Dazer levelled, two guards at her side, there stood Vyann. Her lips were beautiful, but her smile was not inviting.
So ended Complain’s test.
It was Fermour’s turn to be ushered into the room on Deck 24. Master Scoyt sat there as he had done with Complain, but his manner was openly more abrupt now. He began, as he had with Complain, by asking where Fermour was born.
‘Somewhere in the tangles,’ Fermour said, in his usual unhurried way. ‘I never knew where exactly.’
‘Why weren’t you born in a tribe?’
‘My parents were fugitives from their tribe. It was one of the little Midway tribes — smaller than Quarters.’
‘When did you join the Greene tribe?’
‘After my parents died,’ Fermour said. ‘They had the trailing rot. By then I was full grown.’
Scoyt’s mouth, naturally heavy, had now elongated itself into a slit. A rubber cosh had appeared, and was lightly balanced between Scoyt’s hands. He began to pace up and down in front of Fermour, watching him closely.
‘Have you any proof of all this stuff you tell me?’ he asked.
Fermour was pale, tensed, incessantly twisting the heavy ring on his finger.
‘What sort of proof?’ he asked, dry-mouthed.
‘Any sort. Anything about your origins we can check on. We aren’t just a rag-taggle village in Deadways, Fermour. When you drift in from the tangles, we have to know who or what you are… Well?’
‘Marapper the priest will vouch for me.’
‘Marapper’s dead. Besides, I’m interested in someone who knew you as a child: anyone.’ He swung round so that they were face to face. ‘In short, Fermour, we want something you seem unable to give — proof that you’re human!’
‘I’m more human than you, you little –’ As he spoke, Fermour jumped, his fist swinging.
Nimbly, Scoyt skipped back and brought the cosh hard across Fermour’s wrist. Numbness shooting up his arm, Fermour subsided deflatedly, face sour with malice.
‘Your reflexes are too slow,’ Scoyt said severely. ‘You should easily have taken me by surprise then.’
‘I was always called slow in Quarters,’ Fermour muttered, clutching his sleeve.
‘How long have you been with the Greene tribe?’ Scoyt demanded, coming closer to Fermour again and waggling the cosh as if keen to try out another blow.
‘Oh, I lose track of time. Twice a hundred dozen sleepwakes.’
‘We do not use your primitive method of calculating time in Forwards, Fermour. We call four sleep-wakes one day. That would make your stay with the tribe… six hundred days. A long time in a man’s life.’
He stood looking at Fermour as if waiting for something. The door was pushed roughly open and a guard appeared on the threshold, panting.
‘There’s an attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt,’ he cried. ‘Please come at once — you’re needed.’
On his way to the door, Scoyt paused and turned back towards Fermour, grim-faced.
‘Stay there!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
In the next room, Complain turned slowly to Vyann. Her dazer had gone back in its holster at her waist.
‘So that tale about the attack at the barriers is just a trick to get Master Scoyt out of the room, is it?’ he said.
