Flat? “Aten! I have the answer!”
He scraped feverishly at the hole, this time extending it upward. Soon he had a narrow, high excavation. He set his tablet brick upright into this, so that its sides paralleled the cracks. Now it could work with the flaws instead of across them. This should make it much easier to break through; it would have to dislodge a much smaller column of sand, since the section pressing down from above would be smaller—he hoped. And the flaws would inhibit material from caving in at the sides. He hoped again.
He placed another brick upright behind the tablet, and a third. Once more he braced his foot, leaped—And accomplished nothing.
His soft foot and inadequate weight simply could not provide the necessary force. If only he possessed a heavy hammer, to drive it in like a stake—And of course he did. He lifted one of the extra bricks, assessing its weight. Yes—it would do.
But it was awkward to handle. The necessary vertical position and the lowness of the excavation and the heft of the brick itself combined to make his task exceedingly difficult. He tried bending over, but was drawn off balance before he could make an effective swing. He tried kneeling, but could propel the brick only a short clumsy distance in that position.
Finally he straddled the projecting brick, faced away from the wall, bent over, grasped his brick hammer, and swung it down between his spread legs. The weight of it sent him sprawling again, as his rear banged into the wall when it tried to compensate for balance. But he found that he did have room this way for a complete, powerful and accurate swing.
He moved out from the wall just far enough for proper balance, aligned the hammer, lifted it high in a long stiff-armed arc, and swung it down as hard as he could.
The noise of contact was horrendous—but he felt give in the column at last! He struck again, and again. Yes—the projecting brick was retreating slowly but steadily into the wall. Success!
Suddenly he heard the running tread of Dishon.
Oops! The noise had given him away! How could he have forgotten that?
But inspiration came, Aten-sent.
“I can’t stand it any more!” he screamed, knowing that the torturemaster would stop and listen with professional satisfaction. “I’ve got to break out of here!” He threw his body against the cell door so that the dull impact was plainly audible. He paused, panting and rubbing his shoulder.
Dishon called: “Now are you ready to recant!”
“Never!” Enkidu crashed painfully against the door again, this time managing to make a sound roughly similar to that of the hammer.
“I have seen it before,” Dishon asserted. “You are becoming crazed from your aloneness. Were I to unbar the door at this moment you would charge me like a maddened bull. But you will tire soon, and then you will recant. Your spirit is broken.”
“Never!” Enkidu cried again, hoping that his voice cracked with the proper note of desperation.
He listened joyfully as the torturemaster’s tread diminished up the hall. Then he returned to his hammering, assured that the noise would go ignored. Perhaps once the channel had been opened it would be possible to force the bricks through by hand, silently. Already the chore seemed easier.
He inserted another brick and repeated the performance. He was getting the knack of it now. Two bricks behind the tablet should do it, three at the most, assuming the other man could pull it free from the other side. Too bad there would be no way to remove the intervening bricks from the tunnel thus formed—but they would be out of reach and could only be pushed out by other bricks, leaving it blocked. No direct talking would be possible.
The third brick went in more easily. Had he broken through? He straightened stiffly and rested against the wall.
If the transfer were successful, and if the sand had not scraped away his wedge-marks, and if the man could read—why then he had established communication. If the other were not a spy for Sargan.
A spy! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Suppose his message were turned over to the chief inquisitor—He heard muted sounds, as of a tablet-brick being hauled out. He was powerless to stop the transfer now!
NK-2 was no less alarmed. He had thought host-host communication would be safe, but now he realized that if the enemy occupied the other host the result would be disastrous. No ordinary prisoner would have attempted such a message.
He might just as well have tried penumbra contact. That would have settled the matter far more expeditiously. Now—he would just have to wait, letting the host handle it, while NK-2 conserved his strength for the battle to come.
All day Enkidu waited in anguish, regretting his impetuous action. What had he really expected to gain by contact with another prisoner? His freedom? Hardly. Information? What could the other know that Enkidu did not?
His fingers found the bracelet of Ishtar. Ishtar! Was he wrong to cling to Aten? Why not embrace the goddess, and perhaps be freed to embrace also this mysterious wife of his? Surely he had more evidence of the power of Ishtar than of Aten—and her way was certainly more intriguing.
Yet there was that in him that refused the joys of such a goddess, irrationally. One could not change gods simply because of convenience—not if one’s faith were real.
Dishon brought the evening meal. So he was not to be summoned for interrogation today! Was that good or bad? Surely they would have acted by now, if they had the tablet… unless they wanted him to incriminate himself further.
He ate and slept. What was to be, was to be.
The next day was long and silent. But towards the end the tapping came. Without pausing for further consideration, Enkidu yanked out the lined bricks. He had to know!
All bricks were clear now except the ones beyond his reach. He could see nothing. The column should move more easily now that he had rammed through the first tablet, and maybe the foot-pushing technique would be sufficient. Unless the other man had been weakened by long confinement.
Presently motion came. The brick edged toward him, touching his fingers. Enkidu clutched at it, pulled, and brought it out of the depths. It was not the tablet-brick; that would be back in the line, two or three bricks.
Bit by bit the second brick advanced until it too was free. The other seemed to have barely strength enough to make the push, but movement continued. The third brick came, and finally the fourth. This one had to be the tablet.
It was! He felt the mud coating. He grasped it with shaking fingers and carefully withdrew it. He tapped on the wall to signify his receipt.
He could not read it, for it was dark. But he could not wait. His fingers told him that there were different wedges in it—larger and deeper, as though the man had fashioned a clumsier tool. Literate! Against all odds: another scribe!
Or was this evidence that Amalek was at the other end? The odds against that were not so great.
But he had to read it. The marks had set, their squared-off bases directed toward the left in standard format.
He set his own stylus against the tablet, sliding it along until it dropped into the larger indentations there. This was a clumsy mechanism, but he was able to determine the configuration of the wedge-marks, and so to read.
The message itself, so deviously come by, astonished him. He checked and double checked, making certain of it.
ENKIDU-OF-TIGRIS: MY NAME IS AMYITIS, OF BABYLON. I WORSHIP ISHTAR, GODDESS OF PASSION. I HAVE BEEN INTERROGATED TWICE BUT NOT RAPED YET. I KNOW AMALEK BUT DO NOT UNDERSTAND SARGAN. DISHON HAS NOTHING FOR ME. ANYBODY WHO WORSHIPS ATEN DESERVES TO BE TORTURED. THERE IS ONLY ONE ESCAPE: RECANT. YOU MAY NOW ENTER MY CELL WITH IMPUNITY, SINCE I HAVE NO CRAYFISH IN MY HAND.
His neighbor was a woman!