be back at Earth now?’
‘We should,’ said the girl. Her face tilted up towards his as she added through clenched teeth, ‘We have evidence that twenty-two generations have passed since the ship left Procyon.’
For a moment he did not grasp her meaning, asking, ‘Then where are we?’
In the wide room her quiet answer, ‘Lost,’ was almost lost.
Steadying himself, Carappa said dully, ‘You may ask your men to kill me now.’
IV
For some while after the priest was taken from them, Tom Brandyholm and Bob Crooner sat quietly in their cell. Trepidation pinned Brandyholm where he was, slumped against one wall; his entire fibre seemed to have dissolved into a sort of watery paralysis. He did not recognise a form of nervous disease which had carried off a number of his acquaintances; in the unprecedented conditions of the ship, its circumscribed inhabitants perished easily from inner tensions.
He looked hopelessly at the book Carappa had left. Most of it consisted of unreadable diagrams and instructions, obviously of a technical nature. Here and there was a sentence – such as ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all inessential lighting, established to give an illusion of night, will be the period normally devoted to routine maintenance’ – which seemed to make sense without being really comprehensible. Realising how little he understood of the world, Brandyholm began to pace rapidly up and down. Confinement! It was killing him.
He flung himself violently at the door, hammering and scratching on it, screaming.
In a kind of daze, he felt Crooner pull him over onto his back.
‘Got to get away, got to get away, Bob!’ he cried. ‘Can’t we escape – get back to the tribe?’
‘Lie quiet and shut up,’ Crooner advised grimly. ‘Wait your chance. It’ll come, with luck.’
They waited, Brandyholm in a kind of stupor. When the guards came again and called for him, they had to haul him to his feet. He was dragged roughly along corridors and finally pushed into a small room. A uniformed man with a lean face confronted him.
‘I am Master Scott,’ the man said. ‘Expansion to your ego.’
Brandyholm, trying to focus on him through swimming vision, did not reply. A swung hand, catching him sharply on the cheek, cleared his head with remarkable efficiency.
‘Expansion to your ego,’ Master Scott repeated menacingly.
‘At your expense,’ replied Brandyholm feebly.
‘That’s better. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’
‘Migraine.’
‘You confess regularly?’
‘When my priest, Carappa, is at liberty.’
‘Then you should not suffer guilt-attacks which produce migraines,’ answered Scott, ignoring Brandyholm’s thrust. Changing his tone, he said, ‘I have to ask you some questions. It would be wise to answer carefully. First: where were you born?’
‘In Quarters.’
‘Proof of that?’
‘What do you call proof? Go and catch my mother: she’s still alive: she’ll tell you.’
‘Have you any reasons why your life should be spared?’
‘What reason have you to kill me?’
Master Scott made an impatient gesture. ‘I’m trying to be patient. Reasons, quickly. Have you any knowledge?’
‘What if I have?’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when his mouth was slammed shut by a palm under his chin. He was pinned against the wall, struggling, while a long finger flicked unpleasantly against his windpipe.
‘Understand this,’ Scott said, synchronising words with flicks, ‘Everyone on shipboard is in a damn beastly situation. It’s a ship, see, and it’s headed hell-knows-where, and there are some queer things going on aboard – never mind that – you wouldn’t understand. What you can understand, is that we’re all expendable, and if you can’t show you’re any use you’re bound for the Long Jump. Now – talk.’
Sick, sweating, Brandyholm said the first thing that came into his head: ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all unessential lighting, established to give a delusion of night, will be the period devoted to maintenance.’
He was instantly released. Instantly, he slumped to the floor.
‘What’s that?’ Scott asked, stirring him slightly with one foot. He wrote it down in a notebook while Brandyholm repeated it.
‘Is it important?’ Brandyholm asked.
‘Could be. Where did you get it from?’ He listened intently while the other explained about the book of circuits, which he had left in the cell.
The silence which followed was broken by the entry of an excited man who grabbed Scott’s arm and said, ‘You’re needed at once at the barricades! An attack is developing. Everyone is wanted.’
‘I’m coming,’ Scott said. Without another glance at Brandyholm, they ran from the room. The latter took no advantage of their disappearance beyond arranging himself more comfortably on the floor. So deeply had a feeling of defeat crept into him that he scarcely realised he was alone; when he did realise it, he was at first unable to do anything about it. Gradually, however, he fostered a strengthening rage in himself. He had been tricked, trapped, maligned, persecuted, bullied, he who deserved only kindness … Tears stood in his eyes, and he hauled himself to his feet. He was going to show them. An exhilarating urge to clamp his hands round somebody’s throat seized him.
The door by which Scott and the other man had left proved to be locked. The opposite wall also had a door, which opened into a sort of ante-room. Passing through this, Brandyholm came into a deserted corridor, at the far end of which, beyond a gap, he could see ponics growing. He had never been so grateful for the sight of those growths in his life. Once in among them, escape should be easy, and he could find his way back to Quarters. Here was the luck Crooner had spoken of.
He began to run down the corridor. There was one room to pass with an open door; he sprinted past it, glancing in as he did so. What he saw made him halt and turn back. Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if he were merely sleeping, lay Carappa. His huge body sprawled untidily, his legs were crossed, and face bore the expression of a well-fed bulldog – and blood was clotted over his hair and temple.
‘Carappa!’ Brandyholm exclaimed, leaning forward and touching the priest’s arm. It was stone cold.
The teaching laid down strict instructions on the ceremony to be observed over the dead. Death has a sting, said the Teaching, for those who observe it; it strikes fear into their hearts. This fear must not be allowed to permeate the subconscious: it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. So firmly had this principle been instilled
