Shadow of Heaven

Chapter Eight

The village occupied the southeast corner of the He, and housed some two hundred people. Women made up about a fourth of the population; but, although the majority of them had paired off with men, Stirling had seen no children during his brief survey. He guessed that even rebel women would be too practical to take off into the blue without packing a lifelong supply of oral contraceptives. At a rate of one pill a month, a small handful would be enough to secure permanently the doors of life. Yet, the rigid control of the birth rate was one of the most irksome features of life in the Compression—Stirling thought briefly of the anonymous couple whose bodies in the river had indirectly triggered the events which brought him to Heaven—and he would have expected those restraints to be the first to go. He made up his mind to ask someone about it before he left the He for good.

His fourth morning on the raft was exactly like the previous three: an affair of achingly pure blue sky, pastel mists, the sober green geometries of the soil beds, sunlight splintering through transient treasures of dew. Stirling filled his lungs with it gratefully as he crawled out of his personal burrow and began to prepare for the day’s work.

The people of the He built no real houses, partly through lack of structural materials, partly because of the risk of attracting the attention of transatlantic jet crews.

Because its air was comparatively warm and moist, a milky canopy of water vapor was usually drawn across the underside of the He’s shell field; but there was always the chance that some sharp-eyed pilot would penetrate the screen. Transatlantic air travel had never regained the peak it had achieved before the War, before the country had curled up on itself like a wounded animal; but International Land Extension, U.S. 23, was close to the main trade arteries. The daily freighter, carrying the token food gifts from India, seemed to take a particular pleasure in coming in low over the raft and freezing the people of the village in their tracks. Stirling had considered signaling to one of the planes; but he would have been more likely to attract the attention of the people around him; and this was the last thing his plans required.

It had taken every shred of his self-control not to run in blind panic when Johnny told him there was no going back. He had shrugged, admitted the validity of Johnny’s analysis of his motives, and asked for a job. The gamble had been that a man, who was sufficiently unbalanced to choose to live on the He, would accept the story.

“Hi there, Vic. Ready for the day’s work?”

Stirling nodded and smiled as Pete Biquard approached. Every man on the lie was lean and brown, Stirling had noticed; but Biquard was stringier than most, and his skin was almost chestnut in color. His tattered but functional clothing, slitted eyes and loose, easy walk made him look like a re-creation of the classical frontiersman. Stirling was sure Biquard had been specially appointed to work with him because of his loyalty to Johnny and the Council, but he found himself liking the other man.

“How far are we going today, Pete?”

Biquard screwed up his face in thought. “We oughtta go right up to the northeast corner—I ain’t been up that way in nearly a week. Do you think you could drag that overweight carcass of yours that far?”

“I could do it with your skinny carcass on my back,” Stirling replied in mock belligerence. “How long will it take us?”

“Depends on how much stuff we get. Allow two hours to reach the corner, mebby three coming back. If we get a haul of structural plastic, it could take even longer.”

“What sort of plastic?”

“We call it structural because it’s good for building huts and roofing burrows. Actually it’s covers from the shell-field booster units around the perimeter. They’re on the outside of the wall. So you can’t see them from here. Some of them get crisped up a bit by lightning strikes, and the maintenance robots dump them in a salvage depot in the northeast corner.”

“Aren’t the quantities that go back for salvage checked?”

“We don’t take complete covers—just some ribs and odd pieces of skin. You’re nearly as nosy as that brother of yours was when he first got here.” Biquard studied Stirling’s face with inquisitive blue eyes.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Stirling said.

A sheltered area under a raised water tank housed the communal soup kitchen at which the foraging and scavenging teams ate before setting out. As they walked towards it, Stirling calculated his chances of a successful break. He and Biquard were going out on a five-hour trip. If they traveled north for an hour, they should be just about on the He’s longitudinal axis, at which point—if Stirling broke free—he would have a straight fifteen-mile slog to the transit area. With the sort of start he would have, his chances of reaching the elevator were excellent. It was difficult to imagine even Johnny’s tireless, weather-beaten lieutenants catching him if he got so much as a single hour’s lead.

The smell of the now familiar soup distracted Stirling as he and Biquard reached the water tower. A dozen men were standing or squatting around, eating from crudely formed plastic plates. They greeted Biquard enthusiastically; most of them included Stirling in their welcome, but with varying degrees of reserve. He had no way of telling how much his reception had been influenced, one way or the other, by his relationship to Johnny. None of the men ever discussed “Jaycee” in Stirling’s presence, and he had not seen his brother, except at a distance, since the night he arrived. Each time Johnny had waved with ironic courtesy and gone his way, accompanied by Dix and other Council members. It seemed that the break between the brothers had been as clean as it was sudden. Johnny apparently spent most of his time in discussions—unimaginable to Stirling—which he treated with all the seriousness of a statesman controlling the destinies of billions. There were moments when Stirling found it difficult to realize that this fantastic holiday from reality was taking place within sight of the East Coast conurbation. Did all the other Des scattered around the coast have their own little colonies? Their own petty dictators parading minute armies across microscopic dominions?

Stirling went under the tower with Biquard and was served a generous helping of the thick, aromatic soup by a middle-aged woman dressed in the usual makeshifts of black plastic and faded textiles. As he stood, scooping the hot food into his mouth, he caught sight of Melissa Latham moving through the shade beyond the line of cooking fires. Her mass of jet-black hair was loosely brushed back, and her slim body was snake-like in its glistening wrappings of black plastic. She glanced hi his direction, and he instinctively raised his hand in a half-salute. Instantly, she turned away, and he felt an odd flicker of pleasure at having been recognized. Watch it, Stirling, he thought. This is no time to try the “What’s-a-nice-kid-like-you-doing-in-a joint-like-this?” routine.

“You can’t have her, Vic.” Biquard spoke into Stirling’s ear from close up and startled him.

“I understand Jaycee has spoken for her.”

“He has. But that ain’t the reason. Her old man ain’t letting her pair off with anybody.”

“Not even with Jaycee?” Stirling probed gently, surprised at the extent of his own interest.

“Not even with Jaycee. Judge Latham’s daughter is a cut above any of the men around these parts.” Biquard snorted into his soup. “Still, there’s no need for you to worry none, Vic. Not all the women are so stand-offish. A handsome, big guy like you won’t have no trouble. I’ll introduce you to a couple of real friendly girls tonight—you should have mentioned it sooner.”

“I haven’t mentioned anything yet,” Stirling pointed out drily, then brought the conversation back to the point which interested him most.

“If Melissa has such a high opinion of herself, why does she let Johnny order her around so much?”

Biquard looked knowing. “The judge is a sick man. Melissa’s scared to kick up too much fuss in case Jaycee turns real nasty and frightens the old man to death. And mebby she don’t want to put Jaycee right off her. When the Judge goes, there’s going to be a big rush for that dame. She’d be better off with Jaycee than with some of the cave men we have around here, even if he does play it a bit rough at times.”

When they had finished eating, Stirling and Biquard began walking north along the margin, but skirted the fertilizer pits and raised tanks of water and agricultural chemicals. Twice they had to get out of the way as the big robots trundled clear of the soil beds to let their arms and hoses scoop up supplies. A complex of metal tracks ran the length of the margin at right angles to the main rails. This enabled the robots to be diverted to other strips. Here and there stood bright red scarecrows, all identical to the one which had gone for Stirling on his arrival in the transit area. With their heat-sensitive receptors deactivated, the lurid machines stood quietly in the morning sunlight, their multiple arms hanging at their sides. It occurred to Stirling that some of the rebels must have a fair amount of electronic knowledge.

On the way north, finding Biquard still in the mood to talk, he returned to the subject of Melissa Latham and Johnny. As near as he could determine it from the other man’s deliberately oblique answers, the situation on the He was that most of the villagers had acquiesced to Johnny’s abrupt take-over. It made little difference to them whether their infrequent orders came from Judge Latham or Jaycee, as long as they had enough time between jobs to sit about and drink their homemade liquor. But there was a sizable group which had objected to Jaycee and the men he had chosen as his Council. Stirling got the impression that, while Johnny had become an enthusiastic proponent of power politics in his microcosm, he would find “marriage” to Melissa a valuable asset.

For perhaps the thousandth time since his arrival on the Be, he marveled at its self-contained, clinical demonstration of man’s inability to live in any sort of a community without someone claiming the right to be in command. Or, perhaps, Johnny had no positive desire to give orders, just the need to escape receiving them. If Judge Latham had not “assessed” him, things might have turned out differently. As Johnny had said, other people had been assessing him all his life and coming up with the wrong answers. Stirling made up his mind on the spur of the moment that, when he got back down on the ground, he would keep quiet about the rebel colony. He could claim he had taken the trip as a stunt, which would make some excellent news copy. And it would, too, if the F.T.A. ever let it get into print.

As they walked, Stirling took every opportunity to step up onto tank support structures and look along the varicolored strips tapering away into the distance, like threads gathered into perspective’s fist. Gradually, the shimmering, white oblong of the lie’s central power station moved across his field of vision until he judged he was right on the longitudinal axis.

Biquard had set a cracking five miles an hour for the walk and had grown used to his companion constantly lagging behind. Stirling unhitched the coil of high-tensile plastic which had been provided for lashing anything the scavenging expedition produced. He closed the gap between himself and Biquard, and got ready to loop the coil over Biquard’s head and shoulders, then regretfully decided it could be too risky. The rangy oldster moved as though he was powered by steel springs; and, if he got the chance to ran, Stirling would never catch him. There was too much at stake.

Stirling got in close, chopped downwards behind Biquard’s ear, and sent him down on one knee. He threw the rope around Biquard’s arms and a second later found himself struggling with a sinewy ball of fury—like a trout angler who had hooked a shark.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Stirling grunted. “I was trying to avoid this.” He punched Biquard under the ribs, this time putting his full weight into it. A full two minutes went by before Biquard’s eyes began to open, and by then Stirling had trussed him securely. He dragged the older man into the shadow of a tank and made him as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

“You’re a fool,” Biquard wheezed. “Nobody has ever made it. And you won’t.”

“Only one way to find out, Pete. I’m sorry about hitting you. Tell Jaycee I’m not going to give away any secrets down below.”

“You bet you ain’t. There’s a …”

Stirling ran across the lateral tracks and plunged into a green alley of bean plants, which immediately shut out most of the mid-morning light. He kept up his speed for several hundred yards, then realized he was likely to sprain an ankle on the closely spaced rails. Giving in to the fact that he was not built for long-distance running anyway, he slowed down to a fast walk, occasionally stumbling as he misjudged the interval between the sleepers.

At first a fierce sense of urgency drove him on, but the minutes stretched out in safety. By the time he had been traveling through the green blankets of summer silence for half an hour, he began to relax a little. After another thirty minutes he climbed up to soil bed level and took his bearings. The power station marking the He’s central point was only a little over a mile ahead and slightly to his right. Behind him, Heaven’s broad acres slumbered in utter peace. Even the random, yellow flecks of the robots seemed to be at rest.

Stirling kept his elation in check until he had passed the featureless block of the power station; then he began to grin furiously as he struggled to maintain speed. He did not know how many villagers would be traveling the eastern margin; but even if they had found Biquard almost right away, it would have taken them some time to organize a pursuit party. A group would be necessary because Stirling felt adrenalin boost his muscle power—having got this far, he was not going to be stopped by one, two or three men.

He became aware of the rail beneath his left foot thrumming slightly; it meant a robot was approaching from the direction of the transit area. Stirling kept a wary eye ahead and saw the massive yellow structure in good time. Feeling pleased with his newly acquired expertise in the ways of Heaven, he climbed into the soil bed on his right and nestled down into the cool green stalks. The robot swept by, its turret hanging impassively from the hundred-foot beam, and disappeared to the east, moving at a ponderous fifty miles an hour. He remembered with a feather-flick of unease that the only other time he had seen a robot do its maximum speed was on his first eventful day, but he was unable to pin down any reason why some part of his mind should feel alarm over the fact. The halfway mark was well behind him now, and he was moving as fast as when he had set out.

Ten minutes later he passed the robot tending the strip to his right. The spider legs moved listlessly below its turret and hissed chemicals into their submissive charges while the servos hummed faintly in the downy air. By the time the robot had dwindled out of sight in the leafy vee behind him, Stirling was beginning to tire. He had covered upwards of fourteen miles since leaving the village—most of them under difficult walking conditions, and his thighs were protesting at each step. But this was the last lap, and the structures of the transit area would soon be looming up, hi front. Once he got in view of the monitor cameras, Johnny and the others would have to let him go down and take their chance on his keeping silent. He began to think about the He in past tense. Heaven! Stirling found it almost impossible to make his mind bridge the gap between the fairy tale vision of his childhood and the hard, practical reality. Think of it this way. You ‘re not gaining a father, but losing a brother. Yet, the excursion had paid off in some respects. The discovery that he was not his brother’s keeper had been an important one. All his life he had been climbing a long, steep hill; then someone had told him there was no need, that he should turn back; now he was running downhill, traveling fast and free.

The rail under his left foot began to vibrate. Stirling frowned as he tried to quicken his pace. The robot which had passed him was corning back, still moving at top-speed. There was no denying that this was an unusual amount of activity for one of the big machines; but, perhaps, his presence was upsetting some receptor network. He kept glancing back over his shoulder until the familiar yellow angularities appeared, flaring in the brilliant light; then he rolled into the soil bed on his right and lay still. A green, private universe. It would be so pleasant to rest here among the cool stalks and sleep. The vibrations coming up through the soil reached their climax, and his green cave darkened momentarily as the robot’s superstructure blotted out the light.

“There he is!” The voice seemed to come from the sky.

Stirling barely had time to glimpse the black, tattered, flying silhouettes against the sky’s blue canopy. Something hard and heavy smashed down on him with irresistible force. His face was driven down into the dark soil, in which he had once found a human skull.