The Brave Free Men (8 page)

The road forked; the pacer team swung toward the administration offices. A group of men came forward and, after a word with the driver, tugged the balloon guys down to sheaves anchored to concrete posts; the pacers, moving forward, drew the
Iridixn
to the ground.

Etzwane stepped from the gondola into a world of humidity and heat. Above him Etta, Sassetta, and Zael whirled through zones of color; the air over the wasteland quivered; mirages could not be differentiated from the myriad sloughs and ponds.

Three men came slowly forward; one tall, full-fleshed, with bitter gray eyes; the second stocky, bald, with an enormous chin and jaw; the third somewhat younger, lithe and supple as a lizard, with inappropriate black ringlets and flint-black eyes. They were part with the landscape: harsh humorless men without ease or trust. They wore wide-brimmed hats of bleached saw-grass cord, white tunics, gray trousers, ankleboots of chumpa
^[8]
-hide; at their belts hung small crossbows, shooting gandlewood splints. Each stared coldly at Etzwane, who could not understand the near-palpable hostility and so for a moment was taken aback. More than ever he felt his youth, his inexperience, and, above all, the precariousness of his position. He must assume control. In a neutral voice he said: "I am Gastel Etzwane, Executive Aide to the Anome. I speak with the Anome's voice."

The first man gave a slow ambiguous nod, as if at the confirmation of a suspicion. "What brings

you here to Camp Three? We are balloon-way people, responsible to balloon-way control."

Etzwane, when he sensed hostility, had developed a habit of pausing to inspect the face of his adversary; a tactic which sometimes upset the other's psychological rhythm and sometimes gave Etzwane time to choose among options. He paused now to consider the face of the man before him, and then chose to ignore the question altogether. "Who are you?"

"I am Chief Custodian of Camp Three, Shirge Hillen."

"How many men work at Camp Three?"

"Counting all personnel: two hundred and three."Hillen's tone was surly, at the very edge of truculence. He wore a torc with the balloon-way code; the balloon-way had been his life.

"How many indentured men?"

"One hundred and ninety."

"I want to inspect the camp."

The corners of Hillen's gray lips pulled back. "It is inadvisable. We have hard cases here; this is a camp for recalcitrants. Had you notified us of your coming, we would have taken proper precautions. At this moment I cannot recommend that you make your inspection. I will give you all relevant information in my office. This way, if you please."

"I must obey the Anome's instructions," said Etzwane in a matter-of-fact voice. "By the same token you must obey me or lose your head." He brought out his pulse-emitter and punched but- tons. "Candidly^ I do not like your attitude."

Hillen gave the brim of his hat a twitch. "What do you want to see?"

"I'll start with the work area." Etzwane looked at the other two men; the one bald and somewhat short, with immensely wide shoulders and long, knotted arms, which in some particular seemed twisted or deformed. This man's face was curiously still and composed, as if his thoughts occupied an exalted level. The other man, with the black ringlets and black eyes, was not ill-favored, save for a long, crooked nose, which gave him a devious, dangerous look. Etzwane addressed the two together: "What are your functions?"

Hillen allowed no opportunity for reply. "They are my assistants; I give orders, which they carry out."

As Etzwane confronted the three men, his purposes underwent a change. Shirge Hillen apparently had received advance warning of his coming. If so—from whom, to what effect, and why? First, a precaution. Turning on his heel, Etzwane went to where Casallo lounged beside the
Iridixn,
studying a blade of saw grass. "Something is very wrong here," said Etzwane. "Take the balloon aloft; don't bring it down unless I signal with my left hand. If I'm not back before sunset, cut your guys and trust to the wind."

Casallo's aplomb was disturbed by not so much as a raised eyebrow. "Certainly; indeed; just as you wish." He turned a glance of supercilious distaste over Etzwane's shoulder. Etzwane swung around to find Hillen standing with his hand close at his dart gun, his mouth twitching. . . . Etzwane took a slow step back, to where he could now hold Casallo in view. In a sudden, frightening dazzle came a new realization: Casallo had been assigned to the
Iridixn
by officials of the balloon-way. Etzwane could trust no one. He was alone.

Best to maintain the face of trust; Casallo after all might, not be party to the plot. But why had he not warned of Hillen's hand so close to his dart gun? Etzwane said in a voice of calm explication: "Be on your guard; if they kill both of us they'd blame one of the workers, and who could prove otherwise? Get into the balloon."

Casallo slowly obeyed. Etzwane watched him closely and could not read the meaning of Casallo's backward glance. Etzwane signaled the hostler: "Let the balloon go aloft." He waited until the
Iridixn
floated three hundred yards overhead, then walked back to the three men.

Hillen grunted a few words over each shoulder to his assistants, then faced Etzwane, who halt 'd at a distance of twenty feet. To the younger of the assistants Etzwane said: "Go, if you please, to your office and bring me here the roster of workers, with the record of their indentures."

The young man looked expectantly toward Hillen, who said: "Please address yourself to me; I alone 'give orders to camp personnel."

"I speak with the Anome's voice," said Etzwane. "I give orders as I choose, and I must be obeyed, otherwise heads leave necks." Hillen showed no trepidation. He gestured to his assistant. "Go fetch the records."

Etzwane spoke to the short man. "What are your duties?"

The man looked toward Hillen, his face bland and placid.

Hillen said, "He acts as my bodyguard when I walk among the workers. We deal with desperate men at Camp Three."

"We won't need him," said Etzwane. "Go to the office and stay there until you are summoned."

Hillen made an indifferent gesture; the short man departed.

Hillen and Etzwane waited in silence, until the younger of the assistants returned with a thick gray ledger, which Etzwane took. "You may now return to the office and wait there; we will not need you."

The aide looked questioningly at Hillen, who gave his head a shake and signaled the man to the office. Etzwane watched with suddenly narrowed eyes: the two had betrayed themselves. "Just a moment," he said. "Hillen, why did you shake your head?"

For a moment Hillen was nonplused. He shrugged. "I meant nothing particular."

Etzwane said in a measured voice: "At this moment we reach a critical phase in your life. Either you cooperate with me, to the exclusion of all else, or I will impose a harsh penalty. You have your choice; which is it to be?"

Hillen smiled a patently insincere smile. "If you are the representative of the Anome, I must obey you. But where are your credentials?"

"Here," said Etzwane, handing over a purple protocol bearing the Anome's sigil. "And here." He displayed the pulse-emitter. "Tell me, then: why did you shake your head to this man? What did you warn him against?"

"Insolence," said Hillen in a voice so neutral as to be an insult in itself.

"You were notified of my coming," said Etzwane. "Is this not correct?"

Hillen gave the brim of his hat a twitch. "No such notification reached me."

Around the corner of the stockade came a group of four men carrying rakes, shovels, and leather sacks of water. What if one threatened with his shovel and Hillen, in aiming his dart gun, struck Etzwane instead?

Etzwane, who held absolute power in Shant, was also absolutely vulnerable.

The garden gang shambled across the compound without menace. No threat here. But perhaps on another occasion?

Etzwane said, "Your dart guns are unneeded. Drop them to the ground, if you please."

Hillen growled, "To the contrary, they are constantly necessary. We live and work among desperate men."

Etzwane brought forth the broad-impulse tube, a destructive weapon of cruel potential, which exploded every torc within its range and could as easily destroy a thousand as one. "I make myself responsible for your safety, and I must see to my own. Drop the dart guns."

Hillen still hesitated. "I will count to five," said Etzwane. "One. . . ."

With dignity Hillen placed his weapon on the ground; his assistant followed suit. Etzwane moved back a pace or two and glanced into the ledger. Each page detailed the name of a worker, his torc code, a resume
¹
of his background. Figures indicated the fluctuating status of his indenture.

Nowhere did Etzwane see the name
Jerd Finnerack.
Odd. "We will visit the stockade," he told Hillen. "You may return to the office." This last was for Hillen's assistant.

They marched through the afternoon glare to the tall stockade, the portals of which stood open. Flight would have little appeal for a man in this soggy land of chumpa, blue-black humph, swamp vermin.

Inside the stockade the heat was concentrated and rose in shimmering waves. To one side were tanks and racks, to the other was a great shed where the withe was peeled, scraped, graded, hardened, and packed. Beyond were the dormitories, the kitchens and refectory. The air smelled sour; a rancid odor which Etzwane assumed to derive from withe processing.

Etzwane went to the shed and looked along the line of tables. About fifty men worked here, with a peculiar listless haste. They watched Etzwane and Hillen from the side of their faces.

Etzwane looked into the kitchens. Twenty cooks, busy at various tasks—peeling vegetables, scouring earthenware pots, boning the carcass of a gray-fleshed beast—turned aside expressionless glances

which implied more than glares or hoots of derision.

Etzwane slowly returned to the center. of the compound, where he paused to think. The atmosphere at Camp Three was oppressive in the extreme. Still: what else could be expected? Indenture and the threat of indenture guaranteed that each man fulfilled his obligations; the system was acknowledged to be a useful social force. No denying, however, that under extreme circumstances, great hardship was the result. Etzwane asked Hillen, "Who cuts the withe?"

"Work parties go out into the thickets. When they cut their quota they come back in."

"How long have you been here yourself?"

"Fourteen years."

"What is the turnover in personnel?"

"They come, they go."

Etzwane indicated the ledger. "Few of the men seem to diminish their obligations. Ermel Gans, for instance, in four years has reduced his debt only two hundred and ten florins. How is this possible?"

"The men run up irresponsible charges at the canteen—drinking, for the most part."

"To the extent of five hundred florins?" Etzwane pointed to an entry.

"Gans committed an unruly act and was put into a disciplinary cell. After a month Gans decided to pay a fine."

"Where is the disciplinary annex?"

"It is an annex behind the stockade," Hillen's voice had taken on a rough edge. "We will inspect this annex."

Hillen strove to keep his voice pitched in a tone of calm rationality. "This is not a good idea. We have serious disciplinary problems here. The interference of an outsider can create a turmoil."

"I am sure this is true," said Etzwane. "On the other hand, abuses, if such exist, come to light only when someone notices them."

"I am a practical man," said Hillen. "I merely enforce company regulations."

"Conceivably the regulations are unreasonable," said Etzwane. "I will inspect the annex."

Etzwane said in a stifled voice: "Get these men out into the air at once."

Hillen's face was like a stone. "What are your plans here at Camp Three?"

"You'll learn in due course. Bring the men up from those holes."

Hillen gave a terse order to the guards. Etzwane watched as fourteen haggard men came forth from the annex. He asked Hillen: "Why did you remove the name
Jerd Finnerack
from the roster?"

Hillen apparently had been waiting for the question. "He is no longer on the work force."