"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."