Alcatraz Asteroid was a separate world, an island of rock,
wedge-shaped, eighteen miles long, and roughly the same in the
circumference of its larger end. The interior was not hollow, but was
honey-combed with habitable caverns like large bubbles, connected by
a maze of passages. Outer levels had all been converted into a prison
without guards and without bars. Life was easy, the social structure
simple, idyllic or primitive depending upon the point of view.
Though not completely self-sufficient--since enlightened penology
provided lavish supplies--the convict community would have gone on much
the same if the rest of the Solar System had suddenly ceased to exist.
Elementary machinery for the basic trades had been provided; its use or
neglect was left up to the prisoners. By artificial illumination, food
could be grown in subsurface hydroponic gardens, and limited animal
husbandry was encouraged. But lack of usable fuels and raw materials
limited manufacturing to safely low levels, which prevented even
gifted technicians from getting ideas. Potentially fissionable ores
were present in the deep interior, and under pressure someone might
have found ingenuity to process it. Air and water were hermetically
sealed-in, automatically purified and reclaimed at need.
Convicts were self-governed, which meant a rule of claw and fang since
weapons were crude and hand-made. Dwelling in caves, the prisoners
returned to an archaic way of life and became cave men. Life was
brutal, direct, and usually brief. Cowards rarely got there, and the
weak and unfit were quickly weeded out by living conditions intolerable
to endure. Survivors were a tough, rangy breed who would survive
anywhere. The few women were rank weeds, not delicate flowers; if they
did not thrive, they persisted. Some children were born, and those who
lived grew up as sinewy, strong and poisonous as desert snakes.
At the time the asteroid had been converted to a prison, it was assumed
that it was uninhabited. But laired deep within the poisonously
radioactive caverns was a small colony of the legendary lost race of
Pit Men.
Underworld legends told in whispers that these eery creatures sometimes
came from their lairs and mingled with the human convicts of Alcatraz.
Actually, prisoners rarely encountered them, for the Pit Men were shy,
nervous beings, harmless unless provoked, and did not issue from their
caverns except by stealth for provisions. The aboriginal dwellers were
neither man nor bird, though they resembled both superficially. They
were non-human, non-animal, being plants, mobile and intelligent,
a variety of animated fungus so alien that contact on any but the
simplest levels was impossible. Even so, they were the one fly in the
ointment--
Outside of rumors, Wilding knew little of the Pit Men. But he had given
them much thought, and wondered if he might find a use even for them
in his escape plans. For the moment, though, he must confine himself
to building up an organization. Breaking out of Alcatraz was no simple
matter, and the escape he had in mind was definitely not a solo effort.
He would need good technicians and a host of willing workers. For now--
There was Tichron and the challenge.
Word had gone out, and the convicts were assembling to enjoy the sport.
A newcomer had challenged Tichron.
Wilding let his new-found friends lead him through an involved series
of caverns. Accustomed as he was to varied atmospheres and gravities
on many worlds, Wilding had difficulty in adjusting here. Air pressure
was kept high, and artificial gravity set low, which made breathing
and balance precarious. With a little additional effort, he felt that
he could shove himself free of the rock floor and swim in the dense
air. He must remember that in his encounter with Tichron, who would be
accustomed to conditions in Alcatraz.
So interested was Wilding in his surroundings that the arena was
reached almost before he realized it.
Dimensions of an immense hollow sphere lost themselves in murky light.
Tiers of stone seats climbed the concave, curving walls, and a noisy
crowd swarmed into the spectators' sections. Wilding's companions led
him down an arched ramp to the low-walled pit at the bottom center.
Tichron had not yet arrived, and in the interval of waiting, Concor the
Martian and Grouth the spidery Mercurian worked over Wilding feverishly
to massage the stiffness from his limbs. Amyth retreated into sullen
silence, but Tiny leaned close to Wilding's ear and whispered.
"I like your guts, young man. But why so soon? You should've waited
to get back your strength, and choose a time when you have studied
Tichron's style."
Wilding wished profanely that the woman would stop calling him "young
man." She was old enough, though life on Alcatraz might have aged her
prematurely, but no older, surely, than a Martian Pzintar idol, which
by atomic timetable is something less than two million years. At times,
Wilding felt older, less human, more fouled by life.
* * * * *
Wilding braced himself for Homeric struggle and turned to smile coolly
at his strange cohorts.
"Waiting would be fatal," he told them grimly. "I need quick authority,
and the unquestioned compliance of workers. In about two Earth-weeks
the supply ship will be back. By that time I want the lighter ready for
space. I want it supplied and powered for a longer run than picking up
a miserable cargo of supplies."