Dumarest placed one foot on the head of the stair then paused, shivering.
Men had built this place. The Cyclan perhaps, a nagging doubt; but if men had made it, then it could be used. And there were things he needed to know.
Sitting in the chair, he rested the flat of his palm on the plate inset into one of the arms.
"Dumarest. Who built you?"
A fraction of a pause and then a cold, flat, emotionless voice.
"The Larchi. A band of men who held the belief that technology could solve all human problems."
"Not the Cyclan?"
"An unfamiliar term."
"Search your banks. Find relative associations." Dumarest described a cyber in detail, the organization to which he belonged. "Could they be the Larchi?"
"No."
Dumarest relaxed a little, yet he had to be sure.
"Are you in contact with anyone on or off this planet?"
"No."
"Is anyone in contact with you?"
"No."
A pounding came from the door by which he had entered. Turning, he saw the panel bulge from the impact of heavy blows. The Monitors, frustrated for a while by the welds, but they wouldn't be frustrated for long.
He said, quickly, "Withdraw all Monitors from the immediate vicinity."
"That directive cannot be obeyed."
"Tell them to cease all activity."
A moment, and then the pounding stopped. At least he had gained a little time. Glancing again at the screens, he saw that more now showed fire and smoke. Arbush and the others were doing a good job.
"The upper installations of the city are in danger. Send all available help to confine the destruction."
"Sufficient help has been provided."
"Send more."
"Sufficient has been provided."
It was like arguing with an echo. Dumarest looked at the door, sensing the Monitors beyond, the others who would be waiting. If he was to escape there was little time and yet, he felt there was more he could do. A trick, perhaps? He remembered something a computer man had once told him. Machines are idiots; by a simple paradox they can be totally incapacitated. And Camolsaer was no more than a machine.
He said, "The next thing I say to you will be the truth." A pause, then he added. "Everything you have learned or heard is a lie."
If the truth, then the penultimate sentence had to be a lie. But if it was a lie, then the ultimate sentence could not be the truth.
A paradox which would not have occupied the attention of a man for longer than he cared; but for a machine based on the iron rules of logic it presented a problem which had to be solved.
And while the thing was occupied, he would add to the confusion.
Torch in hand he ran down the stairs, slamming the trap shut behind him. Welded, it would stay firm. Breath vaporing from the cold, Dumarest ran down the stairs to the platform, eyes searching for points of greatest potential damage. That conduit, cut, would drop to touch that machine and reduce it to molten ruin. A hole burned in the container would release the coolant and perhaps destroy some of the memory banks. A strut burned free would sag and weaken the balance of a support, which might yield a fraction to ruin the arrangement of a monitoring device.
And, above all, he had to find a way out.
* * * * *
The noise was nothing he had ever heard before; the panic totally outside his experience. Adara stood, dazed, frightened at what they had done, the chaos all around.
"Here!" Eloise thrust a bundle of burning rag into his hands. "Set some more fires. Hurry!"
She was a woman possessed, hair bound with a strip of golden braid, her face smudged with soot and ashes. In the daubed mask her eyes burned with a savage intensity, a horrible gloating which he had never seen before. A woman taking her revenge on the place which had held her for so long.
The city which had saved her life.
But she was beyond thinking of that. Remembering all the good things of the past. The wine and talk and loving which had come to fill his days. Now all that was over, as was the calm routine he had known; the smooth tide of life broken only by the Knelling. And, without her, he would have accepted even that. Met it with tranquility, accepting conversion as the due price to be paid for a lifetime of cosseted ease.
"Hurry, you fool!" She screamed at him as he stood, the burning rag in his hands, a distant expression on his face. "More fires! Burn every room you can reach! Send this damned prison to ashes!"
A wish which she knew would never be realized. The fires were too small for that, more smoke than flame; the fabrics smoldering, treated fibers resisting the heat. And the fire she had started with bared wires and a scrap of cloth hadn't done what she'd hoped. The Monitors had been too quick, too fast with their extinguishers. If it hadn't been for the panic, they wouldn't have stood a chance.
That had saved them. Men and women, terrified, running without aim or purpose, thinking only to escape the unknown. The people had blocked the Monitors, provided cover under which they had worked, setting fire after fire; moving from room to room, spreading smoke and flame even into the assembly rooms, some of the work areas.
"Eloise!" Arbush came bustling towards her. A man blocked his path and he slammed him aside with the heel of his hand. "More distraction to the south. The Monitors are still guarding the store."
"You're sure?"
"I've seen them." The minstrel glared at Adara. "What's the matter with him? Doped?"
"Dazed. We're destroying his world." Eloise snatched the rag from his hands before he could be burned. Deliberately, she slapped his face. "Adara! Listen to me. You work with us or we'll leave you behind. You understand? Well leave you to the Knelling. Now get some more rag and set some more fires."
A room stood to his left, the door open, the chamber deserted. From the bed he stripped the covers, wadded them into a rough cylinder, and ignited the end from the smoldering embers she had knocked to the floor. Back in the room he fired the bed, the curtains; retreating from the wisps of flame, the rising smoke. In the corridor, a Monitor was waiting.
"Man Adara. You will drop what you are holding."
A padded foot trod out the flames.
"Man Adara, explain."
"I saw fire," he babbled. "I thought-that is I tried-I mean-" He broke off, helpless to lie, to break the conditioning of a lifetime. Numbly he waited for the Monitor to seize him, to carry him to a deserved punishment.
"Run!" Flame rose before the painted mask, the glowing lenses. Arbush had thrown burning fabric over the bead. "Run, you fool!"
Run to where? The Monitor had known him, how could there be escape? He felt a hand clamp his wrist; a face, eyes slitted, teeth bared thrust close to his own.
"Listen," snapped Arbush. "We're fighting for our lives, understand? You've already done enough to be torn apart on some worlds I could name. No matter what you do now, it can't be worse. And remember Earl. He's relying on us. Now, damn you, get to work before I break your stupid neck!"
A hard man, as Eloise was a hard woman. Animals the both of them, but neither as hard as Dumarest. In the societies from which they came, how could he hope to survive? Adara felt the constriction of his stomach; the familiar, pre-Knelling trepidation, and forcibly squared his shoulders. The minstrel was right. He was committed. Now he had no choice but to continue.
And, oddly, it became easy.
It was almost a game; the defiance of the Monitors, the spreading of the fire. He felt a strange superiority over the others who ran, screamed and stood waiting for guidance. They didn't know what was happening to them their safe, ordered world had fallen apart.
"The tools!" Arbush was at his side. "Don't forget the tools."