But as she raised her weapon she was seized from behind, held in a viselike grip which did not allow her the slightest movement. And she heard the softest of whispers close to her ear:
“Not this time, you fool! This is no game for our playing.”
Sandar! How he had got there—or why— Roane writhed but was unable to move any more than he allowed her. Using his superior strength, he forced her backward, so she could no longer see the cave of the Crown.
She continued to fight his hold until they reached a wider stretch of passage. There he slammed her against the wall, hold- ing her pinned by his weight against her. There was no light, but she could hear the cold menace in his voice.
“Do you want to be stun-rayed and dragged back? I will do it if necessary. You’ve played the fool and worse. But you’re through now with such tricks. What happens to these puppets is no concern of yours. They are puppets, we’ve seen enough to know that. They are programed just like Adrianian androids to do exactly what the machines back in that chamber tell them to do. What does it matter what games puppets play? We’ve learned a lot from those installations—”
“They are not puppets!” Roane denied in a burst of real rage. “Any more than we are when we are Cram-briefed. If they did not have the crowns—if those machines weren’t running—they would be free— They are human!”
“But they are not.” He continued to hold her in that bruising grip which hurt her. ‘They are acting out the lives the machines decide for them. And it is none of our concern. If the Service decides later to interfere, when they have our report, that is another matter. But it is not for us to worry about. Now—are you going to walk—or do I stun and drag you?”
12
There was no struggling with Sandar. She knew he would do exactly as he threatened.
“I will come,” she said dully.
He did not release his hold on her right shoulder, and so linked, they returned to the wider passage, where they were caught in the ray of a beamer. She heard her uncle give a sigh of relief.
“Hurry!” He did not ask where Sandar had been, nor what Roane had done. The beamer swung around, pointed their way to the entrance. Her cousin gave her a savage push.
As they emerged into the open a haze of mist lay in clots of shadow beneath the trees, seeping out over the country. Neither of the men hesitated, but struck a direct path back to camp, passing without note the man Roane had stunned, Sandar still holding her as if he expected her to break for freedom.
“Distorts out—all except one.” Sandar had taken a reading on his belt instrument.
“To be expected. They have not been recharged,” her uncle replied tersely. “The sooner we get off-world the better. I don’t know how much of an impression your stupid actions have made here.” He favored Roane with one of those icy stares which he had used to subdue her for so long. “We can only hope that we can lift without fully blowing cover—”
“What about the installation?” For the first time since she could remember, Roane dared to ask a question in the face of his quelling. “Are we going to—will the Service—just leave it running? San-dar says that all the people here are tied to it, that it makes them puppets. That’s against the Prime Four ruling—”
“Closed planets, as you well know, do not come under the Prime Rules. What the Service chooses to do once our report is in is none of our concern.”
He spoke as if that was the final word on the subject, and Roane knew the folly of further argument. But her cold fear of the installation stayed with her.
The Psychocrats had once forced men on unknown worlds into experiments. And when their horrible reign had been finally broken, their mind-slaves freed, the results of both the meddling and the liberation had been, for two generations now, a dire warning to all humankind. Even if she had not known Ludorica or the Colonel, had not been herself sucked into the web which enmeshed Clio, Roane would still have been aroused to anger by this discovery. Just as the people of Clio were conditioned to obey the machines their enslavers had set up generations ago, so was she armed to fight such influences. Sandar might name them puppets, which perhaps technically they were, but Roane had lived with them. And they were real people, far warmer of nature than the two now hustling her along.
Leave all major decisions to the Service—the safe, sane cry. But if this was left to the deliberation of men half the galaxy away, how soon would they interfere, if at all? Certainly not in time to save the Colonel! She had no doubts that Reddick would do exactly as he promised and make very sure Nelis Imfry was removed.
And the Princess with the Crown—she had been a changed per- son, almost evil. Ludorica deserved better than such slavery. Roane’s thoughts circled round and round the same cheerless path as she trotted along. She did not believe that she was now under that curious influence the Princess had exerted on her. But neither could she turn aside from the probable dark future of Reveny and the new Queen.
Sandar pushed her into the shelter on his father’s heels and then went to gather up the distorts. Uncle Offlas paid no attention to her, but went straight to the com to look for any messages recorded during their absence. He put out a finger to flick across the top of the machine, as if that gesture could summon an answer. Roane guessed that nothing had been received.
Uncle Offlas sat down and drew out the recorder. He was about to plunge in the button when he had a clear view of the reading. Then, for the first time since they had left the cave, he turned to look at her.
“There has been a recording made.” Though that was a statement rather than a question, she answered him:
“I made it, when I returned here.” And Roane knew a very small flash of triumph. He could not erase what she had done, for that tape was locked with the sequence of others.
But he was not frowning. In fact there was a trace of interest in his expression, almost as if she had as much value as some small find.
“And what did you record—your meddling?” Still no coldness in his tone. It was as if he honestly wanted to know. Her spirits rose a little. It could well be that what she had fed into the records might have some influence on the momentous future decision. Though that could not possibly help what was passing now. She moved restlessly—the thought of Imfry as she had last seen him, wounded, bound, very much in the power of his enemy, was a constant prod to action. But how, when, and where?
“What happened to me,” she replied. Then she gathered what courage she had recently gained—to stand against a lifetime of domination—and made her plea a second time:
“They—the Duke Reddick—is going to have the Colonel killed. The Princess is under controls. It is all like the tales of the story tapes, the ones about evil spells. The Colonel is her friend, but she ordered him executed. Only she could not mean it—it was that machine! We can’t let her do it—”
She expected him to dismiss her summarily. Instead he continued to watch her with deepening interest. But what had been at first encouraging no longer seemed so. It was as if she were a part of the installation and he was fascinated by her reactions. And at that moment she was convinced that if anything could be done to break the black pattern now being woven, she alone must do it.
“You like these people, feel a certain kinship to them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you had recently come from intensive briefing. That might explain why you would be more susceptible to the influence of a strong conditioning broadcast, even if it were alien. There is good evidence that the installation here maintains Basic as well as special directional broadcasts. I think, Roane, that perhaps once you are debriefed, you will find the Service will accept such an explanation for your extraordinary conduct. In fact”—he was warming to this disagreeable train of thought—”you could well provide them with an additional check here. But as for any more interference on our part—you must understand that that is completely out of the question.
“In the first place, to stop—if we could find a method of doing so—any of those machines would disrupt the patterns they have been weaving for a couple of centuries, and the people of Clio may be so tied to their influence that failure of control would be fatal. Have you thought of that?”