Eloise

Chapter Five

Somewhere a sun had died, matter imploding, condensing; torrents of energy hurled into space, agglomerations of incredible forces which distorted the very fabric of the continuum. For eons, perhaps, they had drifted; some to be caught in the gravitational well of other suns, to destroy them in turn or to be absorbed if weak enough. Some had touched planets and left them charred cinders. Others had merged with alternate patches of drifting energies, to conglomerate into areas in which normal laws did not apply.

The Styast had touched one.

"A warp!" Shalout screamed again. "We're dead!"

Dumarest stepped forward, lifted his hand, sent the palm hard against the navigator's cheek. Twice more he struck; stinging slaps which shocked the man from his hysteria.

As the rheumed eyes cleared a little he snapped, "To the controls. Fast!"

He led the way, the ship jerking again as he ran down the passage: the walls seeming to close in, so that he looked down an edged tunnel which seemed to extend to infinity. He ran on, not looking down at his legs, his feet, the soft squashiness of the floor. And then it had passed and the passage was normal again; the instruments in the control room were a flashing, clicking mass of confusion.

The screens showed madness.

The stars were gone, the sheets and curtains of luminescence, the sombre patches of dust and the glowing nimbus of distant nebulae. Now there was a riot of color; swathes of green, red, yellow, savage blue, all twisting in dimensions impossible to follow, changing even as the eye caught them to adopt new, more baffling configurations.

"We can only barely have touched," said Dumarest.

"Shalout, check to see where the core lies. Change course to avoid it."

The room changed before the other could answer, the walls expanding, filled with eye-bright luminescence; the instruments changing into cones, cubes, tesseracts of brilliant crystal, rods of lambent hue. The mind and eye baffled by the impact of wild radiation, trying to make sense from distorted stimuli. Or an actual, physical change in which familiar items altered to fit new laws of perspective and construction.

No man had ever lived to determine the truth.

Dumarest dropped into the control chair as the room returned to normality. Beside him Shalout muttered as he checked his instruments, reading dials he no longer trusted, readings which carried little sense.

"There, I think, Earl. No, there!"

"Make up your mind!"

"I can't! The sensors are all gone to hell. Earl!"

Dumarest was not a captain, yet he knew something about ships. He had ridden in too many, worked in more, not to have learned something of what needed to be done. Seated in the chair, he gripped the controls. To turn the Styast needed delicate manipulation of the field. Lights blazed on the panel as he adjusted the levers and a dial flashed an angry red.

"The engines. They're losing phase. Damn Beint for a drunken fool. Arbush, see what you can do!"

The minstrel had followed them. He turned at the command and headed towards the engine room. Dumarest didn't see him go. Every nerve, every particle of his concentration was aimed at the controls.

Again he adjusted the levers. The screens flared, changed, showed the familiar universe.

"You did it!" Shalout babbled his relief. "Earl, you did it!"

"Maybe." Dumarest wasn't so sure. "We could have barely touched an extension of the warp. We must have, or we could never have pulled out of it."

And they weren't clear yet. Other ships had suffered narrow escapes, still more were lost after reaching apparent safety. Dumarest looked at the instruments, the scanners and sensors which should have guided them safely through space. Would have done, had Eglantine been at his post in order to read their warnings. Yet, perhaps, he could not wholly be blamed. A warp distorted all space in its immediate region. Instruments would have been delivering false information, and yet, a trained and skilled man might have been able to avoid the trap.

"Shalout?"

The man remained silent, shaking his head, a thin line of spittle running from the corner of his mouth.

"Shalout, damn you! Give me a course!"

The man changed. His arms vanished, his legs, his head became a truncated pyramid of gleaming facets; his body a mass of divergent angles glowing with red and blue and emerald. Beyond him the metal of the hull sprouted frosted icicles, the instruments soft and pouting faces.

Again the screens showed nothing but a Lambent confusion of writhing brilliance.

And then, again, things returned to normal.

"Dear God!" The navigator had found his voice. "We're trapped! We can't escape! We're dead!"

Ship and men, the vessel caught in a maelstrom of irresistible forces, swept like a chip of wood caught in a tumultuous stream; to be ripped and torn and crushed to individual molecules.

If the force was resisted.

It was natural to resist, to use the relatively minor power of their engines to pull away, to escape if there was a chance. But the engines of the Styast were almost useless, hovering on the edge of becoming lifeless lumps of metal and wire; ready to collapse and take with them the Erhaft field which was their life.

Dumarest said, tightly, "Get hold of yourself, Shalout We've still got a chance. See if you can determine the flow of the warp, its node."

"But-"

"Do it!"

For a moment the man hesitated, a victim of his terror, then he remembered the dead man lying in the salon, the blood, the knife which had reached his heart. Saw the hard, set line of Dumarest's features, the cruel line of the mouth.

Death would come, of that he was certain; but death delayed was better than death received at this very moment.

He studied his instruments, checking, noting; hard-won skills diminishing a little of his fear.

"Up and to the left," he said. "If these things can be trusted that is the direction of flow. Not that it means anything. Who can tell what happens in a warp? But you asked and that's the answer."

"And the node?"

"Anywhere. Directions don't mean anything."

"Try harder."

"Ahead, maybe. How can I tell?"

With instruments which could lie and eyes which couldn't be trusted-no way at all. Yet his instinct remained. That and luck.

As the screen flared again with the alien brilliance, Dumarest sent the vessel up and to the left. Towards the line of flow, riding with it instead of resisting it; sending the ship which was the Styast moving inward closer to the heart of the warp, the node it must contain.

* * * * *

At the sound of the bell Eloise woke to face yet another day. They were all the same, days and nights; segments of time divided by a bell, different only in the external light. Hours which brightened to fade, to brighten again. A sun which rose and set; the steady, relentless passage of time. The inescapable end-but it was best not to think of that.

Rising she bathed and dressed, a serviceable garment of dull green, more like a sack than a dress; but in the gardens, frills had no place.

For a moment she hesitated and then decided to eat alone; the canteen would be full of the usual vacuous faces, the empty chatter. Here, in her room, at least she could maintain the illusion of privacy.

Of the three choices she chose toast, fruit and a compote of pungent flavor together with a sweet tisane. The fruit was genuine, the compote a blend of mutated yeasts; the tisane a synthetic combination balanced as to essential vitamins and trace elements.

A meal containing the three essentials of any diet; bulk, variety and flavor. Camolsaer looked after them well.

A Monitor stood at its usual place, at the entrance to the gardens.

"Woman Eloise, you are three minutes late."

"So what?"

"It is noted. Proceed to bank 73. Remove all dead matter and observe for infection."

Yesterday it had been bank 395 to harvest the fruit, or to overseer, rather; machines did the work. And the day before that, it had been to replant bank 83. And last week she had worked in the kitchens. And the week before that at the laundry. Simple tasks all, any of which could have been done by an idiot.

She said, "My application to the nursery. Has it been approved?"

"It has been noted."

"I said approved."

"It has been noted," droned the Monitor again. "You are now six minutes late. Proceed at once to bank 73."

It was a wide, long, shallow tray filled with grit to hold the roots, nutrients to feed the plants. From above fell light rich in ultra-violet, and from speakers came a jumble of sound, vibrations designed to promote optimum growth.

Eloise walked along the edge, picking wilted leaves, dropped particles; fragments of vegetation from where they broke the symmetry of the growths. God working in his garden, she thought bitterly. But it was not a real garden; the work was trivial and she certainly was not God.

A woman lower down moved slowly towards her. As she came into earshot Eloise said, "Doesn't all this get you?"

The woman frowned. "What do you mean?"

"All this." Her gesture took in the tank, the wide expanse of the gardens. "We don't need it. The yeast and algae vats can supply all we eat. Flavor and shape can be added, so why all this?"

"It's for Camolsaer."

The answer she had expected and wondered why she had bothered. It was always the same. A lifetime of conditioning couldn't be negated by a few conversations. With an effort, she remembered the woman's name.

"Haven't you ever thought about it, Helen? I mean, all this wasted effort. We aren't really needed here."

"That isn't for us to decide, Eloise." The woman carefully plucked a leaf and dropped it into the bag she carried for later disposal. "But one thing is clear. I like to eat fruit, nuts and vegetables, so they have to be grown. If they have to be grown, then someone has to grow them. Who else but ourselves?"

The cold logic of a machine.

Eloise moved along the bank searching, for want of anything better to do, for signs of rust, blight, infection of any kind. She found none, as she had expected. When next they drew nearer to each other Helen said. "I've made application for nursery duty. It has been approved."

"When?"

"I start tomorrow. I-"

"When did you make the application?" Eloise was curt, careless of her interruption. Anger thinned her lips at Helen's answer. "I applied long ago. Before you did. I'm still waiting."

"I'm sorry." Helen looked into her bag. "Perhaps, well, you did act rather oddly after the Knelling. And it could be that-"

"I'm irrational," snapped Eloise. "I'm emotional. I'm not to be trusted. So your precious Camolsaer is making me pay for it." A plant fell to ruin beneath the grip of her hand. "Damn it, Helen, what can I do?"

But she knew the answer to that. To work hard, be humble, be stable; to forget that she had known a life outside of Instone.

To patiently wait and to die-no-be converted with a smile.

Another plant pulped to ruin, a third, and then the Monitor was at her side; the hateful voice droning above the susurration from the speakers.

"Woman Eloise, you are disturbed-"

"Yes."

"Your reason?"

"I want something. It has been denied me."

"Your application has been noted, as you were told. Is there something else?"

"Yes, I-" She looked around at the gardens, the massed vegetation, the blank faces of those busy at their tasks. "I'm an artist. I dont belong here. I want to do something more creative."

"You are relieved, Woman Eloise. Report to the medical center for tests and examination."

* * * * *

The doctor was a robot, its attendant a man. He read the printout and thoughtfully pursed his lips.

"There is clear evidence of inner conflict, Eloise. Physically you are in perfect condition, but the mental symptoms are disturbing. Of course I realize that you are a stranger; but you have been here long enough to have become assimilated into the culture of Instone. Is there anything I could do to help?"

"I want to be with the children."

"Of course. Natural enough for any woman, and you have a strong survival index which means a highly developed maternal instinct. If it were possible for you to have a child, it is probable that your inner tensions would be resolved."

Quickly, too quickly perhaps, she said, "No. I don't want a child. Not here."

"Then that is one conflict which need not concern us."

He had missed her meaning. "What else is left? The monotony of essential employment? Perhaps something could be done about that. Have you any special preference? The engraving of glass, for example; or, at least, the fabrication of designs for ornamentation? You did say you were an artist."

"Not that kind."

"Well, then, let us probe a little deeper. Clothing is standard for work, of course; but that worn during leisure hours is capable of wide variety. Would you be interested in fashion? Or perhaps…"

His voice droned on, but she wasn't listening. Seated in the chair, the attachments of the robot diagnostician hanging like a skein of hair before the cabinet, she berated herself for having been a fool.

How many times must she remind herself to forswear the luxury of emotion?

A score of times, at least, she thought dully; and now she had done it again. Anger was always futile, a self-indulgence which achieved nothing aside from the alienation of friends. Outside it was bad enough; here in the city it was toying with suicide. Did she want to die?

An escape, she thought bleakly, but the final one. And she couldn't be sure that it was an escape at all. It could be the preliminary to something worse than she had now.

And, while there was life, there was hope.

Where had she heard that? Sitting, her hands lax in her lap, she threw her mind back to the past. A tavern, or a place like it. A man, a little the worse for drink, who had thrown a handful of coins at her feet. A dying man with a seared face and lungs which vented blood when he coughed. But stubborn, fighting to the last, refusing to take the black pill the medics had offered.

"Eloise?" The attendant was looking at her, a frown creasing the smooth skin of his forehead. "Is there anything wrong?"

"No." With an effort she smiled. "I am sorry, but I was thinking. I have acted very foolishly."

"You realize that?" His relief was obvious. "That is good. Once a problem is accepted and faced, then it can be resolved. We are all prone to tension, it is a part of the human condition; but such tension can be negated by an acceptance of reality. Here, in Instone, you are fed, housed and protected. In return, you work at things which have to be done. A fair exchange, as I think you will agree."

"Yes."

"The very act of living is a demand. A universal concept which cannot be denied. Organisms must die to provide your body with sustenance and, as you make demands, so demands are made of you. To grow food, to maintain the city, to cooperate in order to survive."

Repetition which, even when she had first heard it had created a vague disquiet. Life was more than just living. A child born should do more than just grow, live, pass on. That was the destiny of animals, not men.

She said, slowly, "Life is a continual act of violence."

"Yes," he admitted. "I suppose you could put it that way. On the animal level certainly; but we are more than animals."

"Are we?"

A question which disturbed him. Sharply he said, "You doubt it?"

"No." Already she had skimmed too near the edge. Continue and there would be drugs, more tests, observation and discussion. It was time to end her dangerous play. "I feel better now. Talking to you has done me a great deal of good. I was upset, disturbed, my thoughts unclear. The Knelling-you know how it is."

"It disturbed you?"

"There were friends, people who were close; it is foolish, I know, but I was afraid."

"And now?"

"Not now." Was anger, fear? Frustration, terror? "I have made mistakes," she admitted. "I regret them. I shall not bother you again."

"It is no bother, Eloise. I am here to help. Call on me at any time. And now, I suggest that you take up some therapeutic activity for a while."

"Thank you."

"A moment." He stepped back beyond her range of vision and she heard a soft hum, the murmur of voices. Returning he said, "Corridor 53. Continue the refurbishing."

* * * * *

Adara stretched, feeling the muscles tighten across back and shoulders, dropping his hands in time to catch the heavy ball thrown at him by one of the others in the ring. Bikel was spiteful, hurling the hard mass of plastic with savage force, smiling a little as Adara fumbled the catch.

"You're getting old," he said. "Maybe you should give all this up?"

Old, perhaps; but not so old that he couldn't hold his own in the gymnasium. Adara hefted the ball, feinted, sent it with the full force of his arms and shoulders to where the man stood. He heard the grunt as the hands slipped, the meaty smack as the ball hit the other's stomach, and felt a warm satisfaction.

"Not bad," said Sagen. The instructor had smooth skin, unbulged by overdeveloped muscle. He lifted his hand as Bikel poised the ball, the throw. "That's enough for now."

"Let's continue."

"No. Exercise as much as you want, but not with the ball." He had sensed the rising antagonism. "Into the pool now, all of you."

The water was deep, green, ringed by naked figures. Adara dived, swam underwater until his lungs felt like bursting, then surfaced with a mist of spray. The exercise had stimulated him and he reveled in the joy of the moment. A couple to one side dived, swam and rose laughing, the girl lifted on the man's hands; water dripping from her hair, the uptilt of her breasts.

Vivien and Dras, selected for breeding, soon to have a child.

The thought ruined his pleasure and he swam to the side, to heave himself up from the pool.

Rhun called to him as he dressed.

"We're having a challenge match tonight, care to join in?"

"I don't think so."

"Two teams at multiple chess. The losers to pay forfeit."

"No." Adara had no interest in the movements of pieces on a board, the pitting of his intellectual skill against that of others. Still less in the ridiculous penalties demanded of the losers. "Some other time, maybe."

"Think again, Adara. Bring Eloise with you. She could enjoy it."

Mention of the name brought a touch of guilt. He had been avoiding her, he realized; not consciously, but with an instinctive caution. Impulsively, he strode to a terminal.

"Adara. Where is Eloise?"

Without hesitation came the answer. "In her room."

She was wearing a dress of orange laced with streaks of brown; green paint on lips and nails, her hair a rippling waterfall over the smooth roundness of her shoulders. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

"Adara! How did you know I was thinking about you?"

"Were you?"

"Of course, my friend. Who else in this place is as close? Some wine?"

A decanter stood on a low table, next to the deep chair which had been turned so as to face the window. The curtains were withdrawn, the darkening blue of the sky already showing the cold points of stars. She had, he guessed, been sitting, brooding; and he felt a momentary shame.

"Eloise, I'm sorry."

"For what, being careful?" Shrugging she lifted a glass half full of wine. Green wine, he noted, chosen, perhaps, to match her lips. "I'm dangerous, Adara. Bad company. Others know it, so why not you?"

"No!"

"Yes," she corrected. "At times I go too far. Today, I was sent to the medics."

"And?"

"Nothing. I realized that I was wrong and said so. Camolsaer gave me a job refurbishing a corridor."

To revive old paint with new. To set fresh pigment on faded designs; work which required no skill, but did need concentration.

She said, "There was a place on my home world where they did things like that. Set people to make mats or weave tapestries on a loom. Insane people. Adara, am I insane?"

"No!" His protest was almost a shout. "No," he said again, more quietly. "You are not insane and never think that you are. Your values are different from ours and that is all."

"All?" She shrugged. "What else is insanity but a different set of values? An inability to accept what the majority regard as the norm? Tell me, my friend, when I use the words 'breaking point,' do you know what I mean?"

"The point at which any material, under stress, can no longer resist the pressure."

"Or the pull of opposing forces."

"Yes. You are precise, my dear."

"I'm a fool." She poured him wine and handed him the glass, refilling her own and gulping it down. As she again tilted the decanter she said, "I'm drinking too much, but what the hell? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

"Your analogy escapes me."

"As do so many other things."

He said, to change the subject, "I saw Vivien and Dras in the pool. They're going to have a child."

"I know."

"And Rhun asked me to bring you to the chess match. He made a point of it."

"So?"

"You still have friends, Eloise. You're not alone."

"That is a matter of opinion." Immediately she softened. "I'm sorry, Adara, I know you and the others mean well, but-why the hell can't you understand?"

A question he had asked himself many times in the years he had known her. He had tried and, at times, imagined that he had succeeded. Then, as now, she would change into something almost alien.

He reached towards her where she stood, turned away from him, her face towards the window, Her hair was soft with a delicate sheen: yielding tactile pleasure to his questing hand, his stroking fingers.

"Adara!"

His hand fell from the tresses, a coldness at his heart, but she hadn't rejected him.

It was something else.

High in the sky something glowed; a cloud of vivid blue, bright against the darkening night. A lambency which flickered, died, flared again as it swept across the heavens.

"A meteor," he said. "A big one, by the look of it. It should land fairly close."

"A meteor?" Her voice rang high, excited. "Hell, that's no meteor! It's a ship!"