Ever since early childhood, Eric remembered looking forward to
ceremonies of this sort. A Stranger would have been caught by one of
the warrior bands, and it would be determined that he was an outlaw.
Nine times out of ten, such a man was easy enough to identify. No one
but an outlaw, for example, would be wandering the burrows by himself,
without a band or at least a single companion to guard his back. The
tenth time, when there was the slightest doubt, a request for ransom
to his people would make the prisoner's position clear. There would
be a story of some unforgivable sacrilege, some particularly monstrous
crime that could be punished by nothing but complete anathema and the
revocation of all privileges as a human being. The man had escaped the
punishment being prepared for him. Do with him as you will, his people
would say. He is no longer one of us; he is the same as a Monster; he
is something non-human so far as we are concerned.
Then a sort of holiday would be declared. Out of the bits and pieces
of lumber stolen from Monster territory and set aside by the women for
this purpose, the members of the Female Society would erect a structure
whose specifications had been handed down from mother to daughter for
countless generations--all the way back to the ancestors who had built
the Record-Machines. It was called a Stage or a Theater, although Eric
had also heard it referred to as The Scaffold. In any case, whatever
its true name, most of the details concerning it were part of the
secret lore of the Female Society and, as such, were no proper concern
of males.
One thing about it, however, everyone knew. On it would be enacted a
moving religious drama: the ultimate triumph of humanity over the
wickedness of the Monsters.
For this, the central character had to fulfill two requirements. He had
to be an intelligent creature, as the Monsters were, so that he could
be made to suffer as some day Mankind meant the Monsters to suffer;
and he had to be non-human, as the Monsters were, so that every drop
of fear, resentment and hatred distilled by the enormous swaggering
aliens could be poured out upon his flesh without any inhibition of
compunction or fellow-feeling.
For this purpose, outlaws were absolutely ideal, since all agreed that
such disgusting creatures had resigned their membership in the human
race.
* * * * *
When an outlaw was caught, work stopped in the burrows, and Mankind's
warrior bands were called home. It was a great time, a joyous time,
a time of festival. Even the children--doing whatever they could to
prepare for the glorious event, running errands for the laboring women,
fetching refreshment for the stalwart, guarding men--even the children
boasted to each other of how they would express their hatred upon this
trapped representative of the non-human, this bound and shrieking
protagonist of the utterly alien.
Everyone had their chance. All, from the chief himself to the youngest
child capable of reciting the catechism of ancestral science, all
climbed in their turn upon the Stage--or Theater--or Scaffold--that the
women had erected. All were thrilled to vent a portion of Mankind's
vengeance upon the creature who had been declared alien, as an earnest
of what they would some day do collectively to the Monsters who had
stolen their world.
Sarah the Sickness-Healer had her turn early in the proceedings;
thenceforth, she stood on the structure and carefully supervised the
ceremony. It was her job to see that nobody went too far, that everyone
had a fair and adequate turn, and that even at the end there was some
life left in the victim. Because then, at the end, the structure had to
be completely burned--along with its bloody occupant--as a symbol of
how the Monsters must eventually be turned into ash and be blown away
and vanish.
"_And Mankind will come into its own_," she would chant, while the
charred fragments were kicked out of the burrow contemptuously. "_And
the Monsters will be gone. They will be gone forever, and there will be
nothing upon all the wide Earth but Mankind._"
Afterwards, there was feasting, there was dancing, there was singing.
Men and women chased each other into the dimmer side corridors;
children whooped and yelled around the great central burrow; the few
old folks went to sleep with broad, reminiscent smiles upon their
faces. Everyone felt they had somehow struck back at the Monsters.
Everyone felt a little like the lords of creation their ancestors had
been.
Eric remembered the things he himself had done--the things he had seen
others do--on these occasions. A tremendous tic of fear rippled through
his body. He had to draw his shoulders up to his neck in a tight hunch
and tense the muscles of his arms and legs. Finally his nerves subsided.
He could think again. Only he didn't want to think.
Those others, those outlaws in previous ceremonies of this sort in
auld lang synes long past--was it possible that they had experienced
the same sick, bewildered dread while waiting for the structure to be
completed? Had they trembled like this, had they also felt wetness
running down their backs, had they felt the same pleading squirm in
their intestines, the same anticipatory twinges of soft, vulnerable
flesh?
* * * * *
The thought had never crossed his mind before. He'd seen them as things
completely outside humanity, the compressed symbol of all that was
alien. One worried about their feelings no more than about those of the
roaches scurrying madly about here in the storage burrow. One squashed
them slowly or rapidly--at one's pleasure. What difference did it make?
You didn't sympathize with roaches. You didn't identify with them.
But now that he was about to be squashed himself, he realized that it
did make a difference. He was human. No matter what Mankind and its
leaders now declared him to be, he was human. He felt human fears; he
experienced a desperate human desire to live.
Then so had the others been. The outlaws whom he'd helped tear to
pieces. Human. Completely human.
They'd sat here, just as he did now, they'd sat and waited for the
festival and its agonies....
Only twice in his memory had members of Mankind ever been declared
outlaw. Both cases had occurred a long time ago, before he'd even been
a warrior-initiate. Eric tried now to remember what they had been like
as living people. He wanted to reach out and feel companionship, some
sort of companionship, even that of the dead. The dead were better than
this beaten, bloody man next to him who had subsided into half-insane
mumbles, his battered head on his torn and wound-scribbled chest.
What had they been like? It was no use. In the first case, memory
brought back only a picture of a screaming hulk just before the fire
was lit. No recollection of a man. No fellow-human in Mankind. And in
the second case--
Eric sat bolt upright, straining against his bonds. The second man to
be declared an outlaw had escaped! How he had done it Eric had never
found out: he remembered only that a guard was severely punished, and
that bands of warriors had sniffed for him along far-distant corridors
for a long time afterward.
Escape. That was it. He had to escape. Once declared an outlaw, he
could have no hope of mercy, no remission of sentence. The religious
overtones of the ceremony being prepared were too highly charged to be
halted for anything short of the disappearance of its chief protagonist.
Yes, escape. But how? Even if he could get free of the knots which so
expertly and so strongly tied his hands behind his back, he had no
weapon to hand. The guard at the entrance would transfix him with a
spear in a moment. And if he failed, there were others outside, almost
the entire warrior strength of the people.
How? _How?_ He forced himself to be calm, to go over every possible
alternative in his mind. He knew there was not much time. In a little
while, the structure would be finished and the leaders of the Female
Society would come for him.
* * * * *
Eric began working on the knots behind him. He worked without much
hope. If he could get his hands loose, perhaps he might squirm his way
carefully to the entrance, leap up suddenly and break into a run. So
what if they threw a spear through him--wouldn't that be better and
quicker than the other thing?
But they wouldn't, he realized. Not unless he were very lucky and some
warrior forgot to think straight. In cases like this, when it was a
matter of keeping, not killing a prisoner, you aimed for the legs.
There were at least a dozen men in Mankind with skill great enough to
bring him down even at twenty or twenty-five paces. And another dozen
who might be able to catch him. He was no Roy the Runner, after all.
Roy! He was dead and sewered by now. He found himself regretting the
fight he'd had with Roy.
A Stranger passed by the storage burrow entrance, glancing in with
only a slight curiosity. He was followed in a moment by two more
Strangers, going the same way. They were leaving, Eric guessed, before
the ceremony began. They probably had ceremonies of their own to
attend--with their own people.
Walter the Weapon-Seeker, Arthur the Organizer--were they at this
moment sitting in similar storage burrows awaiting the same slow death?
Eric doubted it. Somehow he couldn't see these men caught as easily as
he and his uncle had been. Arthur was too clever, he was certain of
that, and Walter, well, Walter would come up with some fantastic weapon
that no one had ever seen or heard of....
Like the one he had in his knapsack right now--that red blob the
Weapon-Seeker had given him!
Was it a weapon? He didn't know. But even if it wasn't, he had the
impression it could create some kind of surprise. "It should make them
sit up and take notice," Walter had said back in Monster territory.
Any kind of surprise, any kind of upset and he might have a diversion
under cover of which he and his uncle could escape.
But that was the trouble. His uncle. With his hands bound as thoroughly
as he could now ascertain they were, he needed his uncle's help to do
anything at all. And the Trap-Smasher was obviously too far gone to be
at all useful.
He was talking to himself in a steady, monotonous, argumentative
mutter, his upper body slumping further and further across his own lap.
Every once in a while, the mutters would be broken by a sharp, almost
surprised moan as his wounds woke into a clearer consciousness of
themselves.
Most other men in his condition, Eric judged, would have been dead by
now. Only a body as powerful as the Trap-Smasher's could have lasted
this long. And--who knew?--if they could escape, it was possible that
his uncle's wounds, given care and rest, might heal.
If they could escape.
* * * * *
"Uncle Thomas," he said, leaning toward him and whispering urgently. "I
think I know a way out. I think I've figured out a way to escape."
No response. The bloody head continued to talk in a low, toneless voice
to the lap. Mutter, mutter, mutter. Moan. Mutter, mutter.
"Your wives," Eric said desperately. "Your wives. Don't you want to get
revenge for your wives?"
That seemed to be worth a flicker. "My wives," said the thick voice.
"They were good women. Real good women. They never let Franklin near
them. They were real good women." Then the flicker was over and the
mutters returned.
"Escape!" Eric whispered. "Don't you want to escape?"
A thin, coagulating line of blood dripped out of his uncle's slowly
working jaws. There was no other answer.
Eric looked towards the entrance of the storage burrow. The guard
posted there was no longer turning from time to time to glance at the
prisoners. The structure outside was evidently nearing completion, and
his interest in the final preparations had caused him to take a step
or two away from the entrance. He was staring off to the left down the
great central burrow in absolute fascination.
Well, that was something. It gave them a chance. On the other hand, it
also meant that they had scant moments left to their lives. Any time
now, the leaders of the Female Society would be coming to drag them to
the torture ceremony.
With his eyes on the guard, Eric leaned against the rough burrow wall
and began scraping the imprisoning knapsack thongs against the sharpest
edges he could find. It wouldn't be fast enough, he realized. If there
were only a spear point in this place, something sharp. He looked
around feverishly. No, nothing. A few tumbled bags of food, over which
lazy roaches wandered. Nothing he could use to help him get free.
His uncle was his only hope. Somehow he had to rouse the man,
get through to him. He squirmed up close, his mouth against the
Trap-Smasher's battered ear.
"This is Eric, Eric the Only. Do you remember me, Uncle? I went on the
Theft, Uncle Thomas, I went on the Theft with you. Third category.
Remember, I asked for a third category theft, just like you told me to?
I did my Theft, I was successful, I made it. I did just what you told
me to do. I'm Eric the Eye now, right? Tell me, am I Eric the Eye?"
Mutters, mumbles and moans. The man seemed beyond intelligibility.
"What about Franklin? He can't do this to us, can he, Uncle Thomas?
Don't you want to escape? Don't you want revenge on Franklin, on
Ottilie, for what they did to your wives? Don't you? _Don't you?_"
He had to cut through his uncle's confused mist of gathering delirium.
In complete desperation, he lowered his head and sank his teeth into a
wounded shoulder.
* * * * *
Nothing. Just the steady flow of argumentative gibberish. And the thin
blood dripping from the mouth.
"I saw Arthur the Organizer. He said he'd known you for a long time.
When did you meet him, Uncle Thomas? When did you first meet Arthur the
Organizer?"
The head drooped lower, the shoulders slumped further forward.
"Tell me about Alien-science. What is Alien-science?" Eric was almost
gibbering himself now in his frantic efforts to find a key that would
unlock his uncle's mind. "Are Arthur the Organizer and Walter the
Weapon-Seeker very important men among the Alien-sciencers? Are they
the chiefs? What was the name of the structure they were hiding in?
What is it to the Monsters? They talked about other tribes, tribes
I never heard of. How many other tribes are there? Are these other
tribes--"
That was it. He had found the key. He had gotten through.
Thomas the Trap-Smasher's head came up waveringly, dimness swirling in
his eyes. "Other tribes. Funny that you should ask about other tribes.
That _you_ should ask."
"Why? What about them?" Eric fought to hold the key in place, to keep
it turning. "Why shouldn't I ask about those other tribes?"
"Your grandmother was from another tribe, a real strange tribe in a
faroff burrow. I remember hearing about it when I was a little boy."
Thomas the Trap-Smasher nodded to himself. "Your grandfather's band
went on a long journey, the longest they'd ever taken. And they caught
your grandmother and brought her back."
* * * * *
"My grandmother?" For the moment, Eric forgot what was being prepared
for him outside. He'd known there was some peculiar secret about his
grandmother. She had rarely been mentioned in Mankind. Up to now, he'd
taken it for granted that this was because she'd had a son who was
terribly unlucky--almost the worst thing a person in the burrows could
be. A one-child litter, after all, and being killed together with his
wife in Monster territory. Very unlucky.
"My grandmother was from another tribe? Not from Mankind?" He knew, of
course, that several of the women had been captured from other peoples
in neighboring burrows and had the good fortune now to be considered
full-fledged members of Mankind. Sometimes one of their own women would
be lost this way, when she strayed too far down an outlying burrow and
stumbled into a band of Stranger warriors. If you stole a woman from
another people, after all, you stole a substantial portion of their
knowledge. But he'd never imagined--
"Dora the Dream-Singer." Thomas's head waggled loosely: he dribbled
words mixed with red saliva. "Did you know why your grandmother was
called the Dream-Singer, Eric? The women used to say that the things
she talked about happened only in dreams, and that she couldn't talk
straight like other people--she could only sing about her dreams. But
she taught your father a lot, and he was like her. Women were a little
afraid to mate with him. My sister was the first to take a chance--and
everyone said she deserved what she got."
Abruptly, Eric became conscious of a change in the sounds outside the
burrow. More quiet. Were they coming for him now?
"Uncle Thomas, listen! I have an idea. Those Strangers--Walter, Arthur
the Organizer--they gave me a Monster souvenir. I don't know what it
does, but I can't get at it. I'll turn around. You try to reach down
into my knapsack with the tips of your fingers and--"
The Trap-Smasher paid no attention to him. "She was an
Alien-sciencer," he rambled on, mostly to himself. "Your grandmother
was the first Alien-sciencer we ever had in Mankind. I guess her tribe
were all Alien-sciencers. Imagine--a whole tribe of Alien-sciencers!"
Eric groaned. This half-alive, delirious man was his only hope of
escaping. This bloody wreck who had once been the proudest, most alert
band captain of them all.
He turned for another look at the guard. The man was still staring
down the length of the great central burrow. There was nothing to be
heard now but a terrifying silence, as if dozens of pairs of eyes were
glowing in anticipation. And footsteps--were not those footsteps? He
had to find a way to make his uncle co-operate.
* * * * *
"Thomas the Trap-Smasher!" he said sharply, barely managing to keep his
voice low. "Listen to me. This is an order! There's something in my
knapsack, a blob of sticky stuff. We're going to turn our backs to each
other, and you're going to reach in with your fingers and fish it out.
Do you hear me? That's an order--a warrior's order!"
His uncle nodded, completely docile. "I've been a warrior for over
twenty auld lang synes," he mumbled, twisting around. "Six of them a
band captain. I've given orders and taken them, given them and taken
them. I've never disobeyed an order. What I always say is how can you
expect to give orders if you don't--"
"_Now_," Eric told him, bringing their backs together and hunching down
so that his knapsack would be just under his uncle's bound arms. "Reach
in. Work that mass of sticky stuff out. It's right on top. And hurry!"
Yes. Those were footsteps coming up outside. Several of them. The
leaders of the Female Society, the chief, an escort of warriors. And
the guard, watching that deadly procession, was liable to remember his
duties and turn back to the prisoners.
"_Hurry_," he demanded. "I told you to hurry, dammit! That's an order,
too. Get it out fast. Fast!"
And, all this time, as the Trap-Smasher's fumbling fingers wandered
about in his knapsack, as he listened with fright and impatience to the
sounds of the approaching execution party--all this time, somewhere in
his mind, there was wonderment at the orders he was rapping out to an
experienced band captain and the incredible authority he had managed to
get into his voice.
"Now you're wondering where your grandmother's tribe have their
burrow," Thomas began suddenly, reverting to an earlier topic as if
they were having a pleasant conversation after a fine, full meal.
"Forget it! Get that stuff out. Just get it out!"
"It's hard to describe," the other man's voice wandered on. "A long
way off, their burrow is, a long way off. You know the Strangers call
us front-burrow people. You know that, don't you? The Strangers are
back-burrowers. Well, your grandmother's people are the bottom-most
burrowers of all."
Eric sensed his fingers closing in the knapsack.
The three women who ruled the Female Society came into the storage
burrow. Ottilie the Omen-Teller, Sarah the Sickness-Healer and Rita the
Record-Keeper. With them was the chief and two band captains, heavily
armed.