Fatigue is a wonderful thing. They had to wake me up five minutes later—or maybe later than that; I did not check my watch—to get me to my feet, walk me along a white-washed galley with one side open to a stormy sky, down crooked stairs to a rectangle of hard-baked mud surrounded by lofty, cracked walls. The whole proceeding did not interest me much. As soon as they let go, I sat down hard. Somebody issued orders in a flat voice, like a bank examiner asking for the books, and businesslike hands pulled me to my feet again. It seemed that around here you only got your throat cut standing up. I wondered if the knife would be sharp, if it would hurt much; but the questions seemed academic. I had the feeling that must come to the stag at the end of a long run, an almost grateful relief that it was all over.
The hard hands on my arms bothered me. I made an effort, got my knees locked to take the weight. The walls seemed to be going around me in a smooth procession like the view from a merry-go-round. Dust choked me and I coughed. The sun was hot in the enclosed space where no breeze could move. The pleasant lassitude was wearing off while they talked, on and on. Suddenly I was shaking. I started to fall and my escort grabbed my arms again. In another second I was going to be a very sick man.
Then the hands were hauling at me, and somehow my legs were moving, and they were taking me away. It got shady and almost cool, and my feet scrabbled, trying to keep up. There was daylight again suddenly, and I hit my head on something and the pain pierced the fog long enough for me to get a glimpse of a car's interior, all gray leather and inlaid Circassian walnut. Someone shoved at me, and I was wedged in between two fattish men who smelled of sweat and curry. I felt the car start up, jolt a couple of times pulling out across rough ground. A voice that I had heard before was talking: " . . . . the instruction of the Primary."
"This one is of no importance. The space—"
"That is my decision."
Then it all dissolved into a glowing fog and I let go and sank into it. . . .
. . . . And awoke to the same old nightmare of hands that hauled me, made me walk with legs like broken soda straws down stairs, across pavements from which the heat of day glared, along echoing boards with the slap of water near. Then there was the smell of sea water and corruption, the lift and surge of a boat, the grumble and roar of engines, and spray that fell on my face in an irregular rhythm. Voices spoke around me, sometimes in English, sometimes in French or German or Russian, sometimes in dialects I had never heard before, weaving themselves into strange dreams of pursuit and revenge. My arms and legs and back ached with a screaming fatigue that was almost, but not quite enough, to shatter the drugged semi-consciousness that I clung to like a lost child hugging a teddy bear.
And then I was in a cool place, dim-lit, and the hands were lifting me, and I was lying on my back and cold indifferent hands were touching my face, my scalp, and there was the sting of cold steel against my arm and the sounds and sensations whirled away into a blackness filled with lights that swirled and died and I slept.
Someone was prodding my foot. I opened my eyes, saw a pale-faced man in immaculate whites standing over me. He had soft features, rimless glasses that caught the light, tufts of ginger hair over each ear.
"Your food is here," he said briskly. "You will feed yourself."
I caught a whiff of meat and vegetables from a tray on a cart by the bed. Beyond it were the plain white walls of a small room, a brown dresser with a square mirror, the corner of a narrow louvered door, another door half open on the stainless-steel bathroom fittings. I was still dizzy; the bed seemed to lift under me, pause, drop gently back.
"Where am I, in a hospital?" I was surprised to hear my voice come out in a high-pitched whisper.
"Sit up," the man in white commanded. I got my hands under me, pushed, and my attendant shoved pillows down behind me. Then he lifted the tray and placed it across my lap, supported on four wire legs. I did not wait for further urging—my stomach felt as hollow as Yorick's skull. My arm was a little heavy, but I managed to get a grip on the spoon, dig into the stew. Someone had left the salt out, but otherwise it was just what my tissues were screaming for. I ate it all, while the orderly stood by, saying nothing. When I had finished the last bite, he lifted the tray and disappeared without looking back.
I dozed some more, had another meal, watched the reddish light fade into gloom. I had a vague feeling there were things I was not doing, but I did not want to think about that just now. I had a bed, food, and solitude. For now, that was enough.
Light glared abruptly. The door thumped open and a man with a wrinkled brown face came through it, walked over to stare down at me. It was a face I had seen before, in unpleasant circumstances.
"Will you tell me where the woman is now?" he asked in the tone of a hash-house waiter taking an order.
"What woman?"
"The woman you abducted—you know quite well what I mean."
"You've got a one-track mind. I thought you were having my throat cut. What happened, lose your nerve?"
"My instructions were overruled. You are to receive special interrogation. You will save yourself from acute discomfort if you speak up now."
"Don't scare me; I'm a sick man."
"You are quite recovered from the concussion. Your scalp wound has been dressed and drugs have been administered to hasten healing of the decompression damage. You are now able to withstand prolonged questioning."
"How long have I been here?"
"I will answer no questions."
"You want answers, don't you?"
"Yes. Where—"
"I said how long have I been here?"
He looked at me; wheels seemed to be turning behind his unremarkable face. "Three days."
"Where am I?"
"Aboard an ocean-going vessel."
"Bound where?"
"I will answer no more questions. Now, where did you land the woman?"
"What woman?"
"You implied that you would cooperate if I answered your questions."
"I'm tricky."
He turned and walked out of the room and I noticed the sharp snick! of the lock behind him. He had told me more than he thought. Three days had passed and they had not yet found Ricia. The decompression tank on Carmody's boat was a home-built job; at a glance it looked like what it had started life as, a five-hundred-gallon auxiliary fuel tank. If you did not know about the hatch at the aft end, you would never think to look inside for a sick woman. From what I had seen of the deadly little men who were hunting her, they were curiously lacking in the imagination department.
But even if they had not found her, that did not mean she was in the clear. She had been as weak as a new-born fawn when I left her. Assuming she had lain low, weathered the search, let herself out of the tank—then what? She had no clothes but an oversized coverall, no money, could not speak any language she would be likely to encounter in North Africa. And she was still a sick girl, lacking the cozy comforts I had been enjoying.
That was the kind of thinking that can break you out in a cold sweat, while producing no useful results. I had done my best, and it had not been good enough. At least she was not in the hands of these reptile-blooded goons. I would have to settle for that for now.
Meanwhile, I had problems of my own. Prune Face had said we were aboard ship; that was something to check. I pushed back the sheet, discovered I had no clothes. I swung my legs over the side and stood up, swaying a little, but feeling better than I had expected. The medicine was doing its job.
It was a long walk to the porthole eight feet away. I made it, looked out at swift-moving dark waves, the reflections of lights shining somewhere above. The story checked, as far as it went, and it ended right here.
I went back to bed puffing like a mountain climber. When my next meal came, just after daylight, I ate it all and asked for more. My waiter this time was a lath-thin lad of about eighteen with a pulpy complexion and the dead, unquestioning eyes of a carp. He shook his head to my question, reached for the tray. I grabbed his wrist.
"I want more food, Bright Eyes," I told him. He pulled, and I held on.
"Bring me more chow or I'll raise hell."
"You have had the meal prepared for you."
"The Big Boy wouldn't like it if I raised hell, would he? He might think you were at fault. In fact, I'll tell him you were. I'll tell him you made a deal with me and then reneged."
"That is not true." He did not seem very strong; weak as I was, I held him.
"You know it's not true and I know it's not true, but the Big Boy won't. He'll believe me. I wouldn't be surprised if he had your throat cut. That's what he does with people he doesn't need."
"I will tell him it is not true."
"Don't you care if he kills you?"
The boy thought it over. "I have not yet propagated," he said.
"Tough—and you never will—unless you bring me some more of this nice breakfast slop. You can work it; just ask for it."
"Very well. Let go of my arm."
I dropped his wrist, leaned back and watched the little bright lights whirl round and round. This was a funny bunch I was mixed up with. I had met some cold fish in my time, but never before whole schools of them.
He came back in ten minutes with the food. I ate it—not that it was good—then gave the boy a nasty smile.
"If I tell old Prune Face you brought me more rations than you were ordered to, he'll dump you overboard without waiting to cut your throat."
"You will tell him?" The kid stared at me.
"Not unless I have to. All I want is the answers to a few little questions. Like where's this tub bound?"
"I can answer no question." He reached for the tray.
"Better think it over," I said. "What will it hurt if I know where we're going?"
"I can tell you nothing." He took the tray and turned to the door.
"Think about it. I'll give you till lunch time. If you don't answer my question I'll yell for the big shot and tell him the whole story. He'll see to it you never propagate."
He hesitated, went on out. I flopped back and watched the door close behind him.
He was a little late with the lunch tray. I waited until he had placed it just so, then braced him.
"I have learned where we are bound," he said. "If I tell you, you will not report my deviation from instructions?"
"I won't tell him about the extra bowl of gruel."
"Our destination is Gonwondo."
"Where's that? Somewhere in Africa?"
"No."
"Come on, don't stall me, Junior. Where is it?"
"We sail south for nine days."
"South? We've passed Suez?"
"Yes."
"Nine days south—that takes you past the Cape, out into open sea. There's nothing down there but icebergs and penguins. Unless. . . ." I stopped babbling and stared at him. He stared back.
"Sure," I said. "It figures. Antarctica."
I did not push my new contact too hard. The evening meal went by with no quiz session; he watched me but did not comment. When he was gone, I climbed out of bed and paced the cabin until the singing started up in my head again, then slept like a corpse until breakfast. When I was almost finished with the mess—like a soupy oatmeal—I looked up and caught the boy's eye.
"Who runs this ship?"
He made an uncomfortable motion. "We do."
"Who are 'we'?"
"You are not one of us."
"Who are you, then?"
He gave me the cold eye. I tried a new tack. "Why are they after the girl?"
"I know nothing about a girl."
"What do they expect me to tell them?"
"I cannot speak of these things."
"Ah-ah, I'll tell Prune Face all about how we're going to dock in Antarctica in nine days. He'll be annoyed with you. Your only chance to propagate is to tell me what I want to know."
He was getting a glazed, resigned look. He turned, started for the door.
"Hold it," I called after him. "Think about it before you put your head on the block. What does it matter if you answer a few questions? As soon as we get there, I'll know where we are, and I'll know how long it's taken. What's the big secret?"
He turned to look at me. "My instructions are to speak no more than is necessary."
"For you, boy, it's necessary to speak to me."
He had to think that one out. "Yes," he announced. "That is true."
"They aren't shanghaiing me halfway across the globe just to ask me where I hid the girl; they could beat that out of me and we all know it. If she's not clear of where I left her now, she never will be. So what's the real interest in me?"
"I do not know."
"Find out."
"That is not possible."
"I said find out."
The fish eyes blinked at me.
"I will try."
He had news for me at lunch. "You will be taken to the hidden place for questioning."
"About what? And why don't they question me here?"
"You will tell them how you knew the location of the Secret Place. There are machines at Gonwondo which will force you to speak."
"Machines, huh? Thumbscrews? The iron maiden?"
The boy made motions indicating large size. "Great machines. They have no name."
"All right, you're doing fine, Junior. I think you may get to propagate after all, if you keep it up. Now I want to know all about the landing procedure: where this ship will dock, what kind of country, how far inland they plan to take me—the works."
"I know nothing of these things."
"Sure, but you can learn. And, by the way, you can spread the word that I'm pretty weak. It's all I can do to make it to the head and back."
He took the tray and left. I put in another half hour of pacing, then tried a few arm-swinging exercises. The soreness was going out of my joints gradually; the right knee was the worst. Aside from a little lost weight, shaky hands, and a tendency for my head to ache, I was pretty well recovered from a harrowing weekend.
At the evening feeding Junior gave me a little more data: we would drop anchor offshore and go in by landing craft. It would be a half a day's run over land to the Hidden Place.
"How big are these landing craft? How many men will they carry?"
He did not know. Junior had a lot of objectionable qualities, but curiosity wasn't one of them. When he left this time, I checked the door. The lock was not much—just a thumb latch that had had the lever removed from the inside. I pried a strip of walnut veneer from the edge of the bureau, used it to jimmy the mechanism, then jam it open. I eased the door open, took a quick look out, saw a narrow passage, red lights gleaming on polished wood paneling, closed doors. There was no sound but the thud of faraway engines. It looked like as good a time as any for a little scouting expedition. I slid out, barefooted it along to the next door, reached for the knob, then rattled my knuckles on the panel instead, ready to run at the first sound. No response. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was another bare little room, with a bare mattress on the bunk, bare hangers in the closet. I ducked out, tried the next, found it locked. So were the next three.
The last cabin on the right was a big room with two beds, a wide closet with more empty hangers and a dusty felt hat on the shelf. The bedside table yielded hairpins, a pencil, some hard chewing gum. The dresser drawers were empty. In the bathroom I looked into an empty medicine cabinet, a laundry box with one sock forgotten in the bottom, a paper carton on the floor that had once contained soap. A slot beside the sink caught my eye; I poked carefully with one of my hairpins, lifted out two reasonably rusty double-edged blades for an old-type manual razor.
I dumped my loot in the hat, made it back to my cubicle without getting caught. Finding a hiding place gave me a little trouble; I tucked it all under the mattress finally, dropped on the bed and panted like a mile runner. I was not as strong as I thought I was.
I made my next foray after midnight, had a bad moment when feet clumped past in the hall while I flattened myself against the wall of a four-man cell forty feet along the corridor from my own room. They faded out and nothing happened. I resisted the impulse to dash back and pull the covers up to my chin, checked the closet instead. The shelf and bar were empty, and in the darkness I almost missed the coat wadded into a ball and kicked into a back corner. It was a heavy, dark-blue waterproof, much worn and blotched with salt-water stains. It was a few sizes small for me, but better than nudity in a pinch. Nobody nabbed me getting to my room with it. I spread it under the mattress and went to sleep to dream of dramatic escapes in which overcoats, chewed gum, and bare feet played vital roles.
Junior seemed to be even more listless than usual the next morning.
"Cheer up," I urged him. "You're a cinch to propagate now; I'm not asking any more questions, so all you have to do is carry on in your usual light-hearted fashion."
He did not answer. I did not like the beaten look on his face. He was going to need his morale boosted to shape him up for my next demands.
"Yes, sir, Junior, you should follow my example: you have propagating to look forward to—that's more than I can say. I don't suppose I'll last long once those machines get their gears on me."
He gave me a furtive, almost puzzled look. That was better than no reaction at all. I pursued the line I had taken.
"Yep, there you'll be, propagating like mad, and I'll be feeding the fish. You'll be way ahead of me, Junior. I never propagated myself, but I'm sure that to a fellow with an interest in that sort of thing, a family is hard to beat.
"You have never propagated?"
"Not even once."
His mouth opened and closed. "You are aware that your existence will soon end," he said. He seemed to be talking to himself, not to me. "It is for that reason that you behave as you do."
"I guess you're right."
"Even now, you weaken when you should regain your strength. It is because your hope of propagation is lost."
"You've put your finger on it, Junior," I encouraged him. "Whereas you—"
"I must inform my Secondary of these conclusions," he said abruptly, and started for the door—the first time he had turned his back on the tray. I whipped the spoon under the sheet and called, "Just a minute, Junior, don't do anything hasty. You want to think this thing all the way through first."
He hesitated, with his hand on the doorknob.
"If you tell him, he'll want to know how you found out. He'll discover you've been talking to me, and the next thing you know, skrtt!" I made a slashing motion across my throat.
He thought that over. "That is true. But it is my duty to report this information."
"Your duty to whom?"
"I must report to my Secondary." He turned the knob.
"What about propagating?" I was just stalling now; the situation had suddenly slipped out of hand. If I could get him close enough to jump him, I might be able to brain him and then sell the Big Boys a story that he had fallen and cracked his skull. If he reported our little talks, my last hope of pulling a surprise was gone.
"Yes, I have also the duty to propagate. . . ." His voice sounded a little faint; I followed up my advantage.
"Sure, it's your duty to propagate! And that's a higher duty than this other thing. You've got to do everything in your power to succeed in propagating! Spilling the beans to Big Boy right now is the worst thing you could do!"
"I must report to my Secondary—but I must also propagate." Junior's loose lower lip was working like a worm on a hook. I had a feeling his wiring would burn through any moment.
"But there's a solution," I said.
"What is the solution?"
"First propagate; then tell your Secondary!"
Again the pause to consider. The lip was limp now, catching its breath. Junior gulped hard. He was a very upset lad.
"The information will be of no value unless—"
"Details," I cut him off. "You're going to report, just as soon as you've attended to the more important duty of propagating. That's all you need to think about."
"Yes." Junior was almost brisk now. "That is all I need to think about."
That night I made a reconnoiter beyond the end of the corridor, following a fore-and-aft passage that ended in a companionway leading up. At the top, I found a small room where clothes hung on pegs. I helped myself to a wool cap, a set of formerly white dungarees, a pair of knee-high plastic boots, turned to start back down and heard voices coming closer. There was a dark corner at the end of the hanging clothes. I slid into it, much aware of my pale, bare legs showing below the garments.
Feet clumped up the stair; grunting voices spoke to each other in a strange dialect. I practiced not breathing. An outer door opened and icy, blustery wind whipped the skirts of a plastic slicker against my legs. Someone came in, stamping his feet. The closing door cut off the howl of the wind.
"There is much ice," a new voice said.
Someone answered in the gobbling language they had been speaking before the interruption.
"The Primary directs that the landing craft be brought on deck tomorrow."
More gibberish. The tone suggested a half-hearted complaint.
"It will be necessary to conduct the transfer within the ice field. The vehicles must be available for prompt landing."
Again the reply, this time a long harangue. The English-speaking one cut it off with a curt order: "See that the vehicles are in place on Number Two hatch within twelve hours."
There were a few mutters, then sounds of feet thumping down the companionway. I waited five minutes, then ducked out and reached my cabin just as voices sounded at the far end of the passage. There was no time to hide my new finds. I tossed the bundle into the closet, leaped for the bunk, got the sheet up to my chin as the door banged wide. Junior was there, with a fattish, middle-aged man with wide-set pale eyes and thin lips like a chimpanzee.
"What has this one told you?" he asked me. He did not sound as though he cared much.
"Told me?" I registered the astonishment. "Nothing. He wouldn't even give me the time of day. I figured the damned fool couldn't talk."
"He did not speak to you of our destination?"
"You must be mixed up. I talked to him about our destination. I know what it is, too. You fellows can't fool me."
"What is our destination?"
"Australia," I said promptly. "Only place it could be."
"This one said nothing to you of. . . . other matters?"
"How could he? He doesn't speak English."
"Verstehen Sie Deutsch?" he said quickly.
"Huh?"
"Est-ce-que vous parlez français?"
I frowned darkly. "Don't horse around. Talk American."
"You speak only English?"
"Why not? It's the best language there is. I—"
"And you are certain this one told you nothing?"
"Look, I tried to get him to tell me his name; he wouldn't even do that."
"Why did you wish to know his name?"
"So I could call him by it."
"Why was it necessary for you to call him by a specific name?"
"That way he'd know who I was talking to."
"But if he were alone here with you there would be no possibility of confusion."
"That's why I call him Junior."
"Explain that."
"He knows I mean him, because he's the only one here."
The wide, pale eyes blinked at me, the apelike lips twitched thoughtfully. Then both callers turned and walked out. I stared at the door after it closed, wondering what sort of idiot's conversation I had stumbled into. Then I remembered Carmody, lying on deck with his face blasted away, and Rassias, and the blank look on Sethys' face as he turned his gun on me, and the others—all the way back to Greenleaf, Georgia. If they were maniacs, they were of the homicidal variety.
My next meal was brought by a new man who looked like a CPA retired after forty years with the company.
"What happened to Junior?" I asked him. He did not seem to hear me. I let it pass, ate my bowl of mush and watched him leave. On the way out he checked the latch, seemed satisfied, went on. I had not liked him much. Maybe he was a plant, sent in to see what kind of questions I was likely to ask. Maybe Junior would be back on duty for the next meal. I hoped so; I had plans for him.
But again there was a new face. This one could have belonged to a small-town mail carrier. I did not say a word to him, and he did not break the silence. After dinner, I did my regular stint of pacing. Nobody interrupted me; no feet passed in the corridor. I had an eerie sensation that they had all left the ship, that I was here alone—but I did not stick my head out to find out. Instinct said this would be a good time to lie low and play dumb.
Sometimes during the night I was flung awake by a tremendous rumbling crash that nearly pitched me out on the floor. I hit the deck expecting to see green water pouring through the door, but aside from a few running feet in the distance, there was no reaction. It was an iceberg, I decided. Half an hour later there was another impact, not as bad as the first. I listened at the door, heard a few shouts, some distant thumps, more feet. The ship seemed to be coming to life; we were arriving somewhere, two days ahead of Junior's schedule. It was time for me to make a move.
I dug out my odds and ends of garments, used the blanket from the bed to wrap my feet before putting on the boots, pulled on the coverall, the coat and the wool hat. I tucked my other things away in a pocket—the hairpins and spoon and razor blades, not forgetting the Wrigley's Triple-mint, listened at the door to be sure the coast was clear, opened it and stepped out into the muzzle of a machine pistol in the hands of Prune Face.