A closed spiral staircase was now the sole way forward. Heart beating heavily, Marapper led them up it; the Control Room should be at the top if his diagram spoke truth.
At the top, a dim light showed them a small circular room, completely unfurnished, floor bare, walls also bare. Nothing else. Marapper flung himself at the walls, searching for a door. Nothing. He burst into furious tears.
‘They lied!’ he shouted. ‘They lied! We’re all victims of a monstrous… a monstrous…’
But he could think of no word big enough.
II
Roy Complain yawned boredly and changed his position on the cell floor for the twentieth time. Bob Fermour sat with his back to the wall, rotating a heavy ring endlessly round a finger of his right hand. They had nothing to say to each other; there was nothing to say, nothing to think. It was a relief when the pug-ugly on guard outside thrust his head round the door and summoned Complain with a few well-chosen words of abuse.
‘See you on the Journey,’ Fermour said cheeringly as the other got up to go.
Complain waved to him and followed the guard, his heart beginning to beat more rapidly. He was led, not to the room where Inspector Vyann had interviewed them, but back along the way he had first been brought, into an office on Deck 24, near the barricades. The ugly guard stayed outside and slammed the door on him.
Complain was alone with Master Scoyt. The alien investigator, under the increasing pressure of the trouble piling up about them, looked more eroded than ever. As if his cheeks ached, he supported them with long fingers; they were not reassuring fingers; they could be cruel with artistry, although at present, resting against that haggard countenance, they seemed more the hands of a self-torturer.
‘Expansion to you,’ he said heavily.
‘Expansion,’ Complain replied. He knew he was to be tested, but most of his concern went on the fact that the girl Vyann was absent.
‘I have some questions to ask you,’ Scoyt said. ‘It is advisable to answer them properly, for various reasons. First, where were you born?’
‘In Quarters.’
‘That is what you call your village? Have you any brothers and sisters?’
‘In Quarters we obeyed the Teaching,’ said Complain defiantly. ‘We do not recognize brothers and sisters after we are waist high to our mothers.’
‘To the hull with the T—’ Scoyt stopped himself abruptly, smoothing his brow as one who keeps himself in control only by effort. Without looking up, he said tiredly, ‘How many brothers and sisters would you have to recognize now if you did recognize them?’
‘Only three sisters.’
‘No brothers?’
‘There was one. He ran amok long ago.’
‘What proof have you you were born in Quarters?’
‘Proof!’ Complain echoed. ‘If you want proof, go and catch my mother. She still lives. She’d love to tell you all about it.’
Scoyt stood up.
‘Understand this,’ he said. ‘I haven’t time to coddle civil answers out of you. Everyone on shipboard is in a damn beastly situation. It’s a ship, you see, and it’s headed nobody-knows-where, and it’s old and creaking, and it’s thick with phantoms and mysteries and riddles and pain — and some poor bastard has got to sort it all out soon before it’s too late, if it’s not already too late!’ He paused. He was giving himself away: in his mind, he was the poor bastard, shouldering the burden alone. More calmly, he continued. ‘What you’ve got to get into your head is that we’re all expendable, and if you can’t make yourself out to be any use, you’re for the Long Journey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Complain said. ‘I might be more co-operative if I knew which side I was on.’
‘You’re on your own side. Didn’t the Teaching teach you that much? “The proper study of mankind is self”; you’ll be serving yourself best by answering my questions.’
Earlier, Complain might have submitted; now, more conscious of himself, he asked one more question: ‘Didn’t Henry Marapper answer all you wanted to know?’
‘The priest misled us,’ Scoyt said. ‘He has made the Journey. It’s the usual penalty for trying my patience too far.’
When his first stunned reaction to this news was over, Complain began to wonder about its truth; he did not doubt the ruthlessness of Scoyt — the man who kills for a cause kills almost unthinkingly — but he could hardly bring himself to believe he would see the garrulous priest no more. His mind preoccupied, he answered Scoyt’s questions. These mainly concerned their epic trek through Deadways; directly Complain began to explain about his capture by the Giants, the investigator, non-committal bill now, pounced.
‘The Giants do not exist!’ he said. ‘They were extinct long ago. We inherited the ship from them.’
Although openly sceptical, he then pressed as hard for details as Marapper once had, and it was obvious he slowly began to accept Complain’s narrative for truth. His face clouded in thought, he tapped his long fingers on the desk.
‘The Outsiders we have known for enemies,’ he said, ‘but the Giants we always regarded as our old allies, whose kingdom we took over with their approval. If they do shill live somewhere in Deadways, why do they not show themselves — unless for a sinister reason? We already have quite enough trouble piled up against us.’
As Complain pointed out, the Giants had not killed him when they might conveniently have done so; nor had they killed Ern Roffery, although what had become of the valuer remained a mystery. In all, their role in affairs was ambiguous.
‘I’m inclined to believe your tale, Complain,’ Scoyt said finally, ‘because from time to time we receive rumours — people swear they’ve seen Giants. Rumours! Rumours! We get our hands on nothing tangible. But at least the Giants seem to be no threat to Forwards — and best of all, they don’t seem to be in alliance with the Outsiders. If we can tackle them separately, that’ll be something.’
He lapsed into silence, then asked, ‘How far is it to this sea where the Giants caught you?’
‘Many decks away — perhaps forty.’
Master Scoyt threw up his hands in disgust.
‘Too far!’ he said. ‘I thought we might go there… but Forwards men do not love the ponics.’
The door burst open. A panting guard stood on the threshhold and spoke without ceremony.
‘An attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt!’ he cried. ‘Come at once — you’re needed.’
Scoyt was up immediately, his face grim. Half-way to the door, he paused, turning back to Complain.
‘Stay there,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll be back when I can.’
The door slammed. Complain was alone. As if unable to believe it, he looked slowly round. In the far wall, behind Scoyt’s seat, was another door. Cautiously, he went over and tried it. It opened. Beyond was another room, a small antechamber, with another door on the far side of it. The antechamber boasted only a battered panel containing broken instruments on one wall, and on the floor, four packs. Complain recognized them at once as his, Marapper’s, Bob Fermour’s and Wantage’s. All their meagre belongings seemed to be still there, although it was evident the kit had been searched. Complain gave it only a brief glance, then crossed the room and opened the other door.
It led on to a side corridor. From one direction came the sound of voices; in the opposite direction, not many paces away, were — ponics. The way to them looked unguarded. His heart beating rapidly, Complain shut the door again, leaning against it to decide. Should he try to escape or not?
Marapper was killed; there was no evidence he also would not be as coolly disposed of. It might well be wise to leave — but for where? Quarters was too far away for a solitary man to reach. But nearer tribes would welcome a hunter. Complain recalled that Vyann had mistaken his group for members of some tribe that was raiding Forwards; in his preoccupation with their capture, Complain had scarcely taken note of what she said, but it might well be the same gang that was besieging the barricades now. They should appreciate a hunter with a slight knowledge of Forwards.