Redblade slid across the wide desk and hit him. The gun spun away. The Warden staggered back. He recovered quickly. He was fully as tall as Redblade and perhaps even heavier. It was not all fat, either. They came together like wild bulls. The impact shook the room. Their arms worked for a hold. The Warden's knees came up like pistons, but Redblade twisted his body aside and got one ma.s.sive arm around the Warden's waist. The other was under the Warden's chin, pushing backward, the outstretched fingers working into the Warden's face, reaching toward the eyes.

The Warden's fists thundered against Redblade's chest and belly for a moment, but the pirate ignored them. He pulled the man close with his arm while he pushed the chin away with the other hand. The Warden grabbed desperately for the hand under his chin, clamped it in two big hands and yanked at it, but he was off-balance now, his back arched, his feet straining to stay on the floor. It was too late. A moment later his neck snapped.

Redblade let the body fall away. It fell like a doll stuffed with rags and poorly stuffed, at that, because it was all crooked. He looked down at it for a moment while his chest heaved once. He looked up and laughed; it was a joyous bellow.

"I've dreamed about that," he shouted. "He always hated a big man. Maybe he was afraid one of them would be bigger and stronger than he was."

The fortress was almost quiet. The sounds of fighting had died away. Quickly Horn explained what had to be done.

"Try to get the men organized. Get as many as you can who will follow us to Eron and take our orders. Any of them who won't, let them stay here. If you have any trouble, shoot straight."

Redblade nodded; Horn whirled and started away.

Sair was sitting in the little room. It was bare of everything except necessities: a metal-framed bed, a chair, a table, toilet facilities starkly in sight. A slot at the bottom of the door provided s.p.a.ce for a food tray to be pa.s.sed through. The Warden had allowed the old man paper and pen; several sheets on the table were covered with hieroglyphics of some kind. As Horn entered, Sair was eyeing the three silent guards with suspicion. He swung toward Horn, grabbed the sheets of paper, folded them, and thrust them away inside his flimsy coat.

The three men were on their feet.

"It's all over," Horn said. "Report to Redblade in the Tube room."

"d.a.m.n you, Horn," one of them said bitterly, "you made us miss all the fun."

"Don't complain," Horn told them. "Two of you would be dead by now. Out."

He motioned with the gun. They left quickly, and Horn was alone with Sair. The old man's head was shaking. It looked like a senile tremor.

"Who are you?" Sair asked. His voice was soft, hesitant, and old.

"Alan Horn. A prisoner, like you. We've conquered Vantee. We've taken the fortress."

"I shall write an epic," Sair said. "And now?"

"We're going back to Eron."

"Ah-h-h," Sair sighed. He folded his veined, wrinkled hands across his paunch.

"We want you to come with us."

Sair looked up slowly. "What is there for an old man on Eron?"

"Rebellion," Horn said. "Only you can unite it, make it work, keep it from reducing the Empire to savagery."

Sair shook his head, and it rocked back and forth until Horn thought it would never stop. "My fighting days are over. I'm an old man. Let younger men do what they must. I'm finished, worn-out, half-dead."

"It's a job no one else can do," Horn said grimly. "It's not fighting we want. It's your presence, your mind." What's left of it, he thought.

Sair's head continued to rock, but his eyes brightened just a little. "Rebellion, you said? Against Eron? It's hard to believe."

"Kohlnar was a.s.sa.s.sinated. The Directors began fighting among themselves. When Duchane elected himself General Manager, the lower levels rose against him. What's happened since, I don't know. We've got to get back-quickly."

"Kohlnar dead? He was a great man. It's hard to think of him as dead."

Horn stared at Sair without understanding. Kohlnar? A great man? "But he conquered the Cl.u.s.ter and condemned you to Vantee!"

"Still, a great man. He kept the Empire alive long after it should have died. It was our misfortune that he was faithful to a dying dream." Sair's head had stopped rocking. He seemed steadier, more alive.

Horn paced the room impatiently; Sair's faded eyes followed him curiously. Horn had to get back to Eron; every wasted moment was agony. But he had to have Sair, too.

"You know what will happen if Duchane wins," Horn pleaded. "Or if he drowns in his own sea of blood and the leaderless mobs rage through Eron. They'll tear the Empire apart. They'll wreck the Tube system that holds the stars together, tear down the very walls of Eron itself, and die. They must be starving already; no food has come through for days."

"Duchane." Sair nodded, and then he sighed. His head shook decisively. "No. No. All my life I've worried about these things: freedom-starvation. Starvation and freedom. Between those millstones I wore my life away. Now there's only one freedom I want, the final one: death. Let other, younger men battle for their ideals. Let them throw their inexhaustible energy into the struggle and find it useless against the tides and currents that sweep men and empires to their destinies. Let them p.a.w.n themselves to causes and discover that they cannot buy themselves back. I have no strength to spare. There is barely enough to draw in one breath after another. I want only peace and time to die. Here is as good a place as another."

"They said you were dead," Horn said quietly. "Many people believed it. And the hopes of uncounted billions died, too. If they discovered that you were alive, it would draw them together; among the chaos of their own wild pa.s.sions, unleashed for the first time, it would save them. They need you. It's useless to speak of other men; there are no others who can do this job. Even the Empire needs you. Only you can save it, for Duchane will destroy it, win or lose."

Sair looked up, his face alive. "You believe that, don't you?"

Horn nodded.

Sair sighed heavily. "Perhaps it's true. A dying man must be dragged from his grave to serve the living. Is there no peace? No peace anywhere?"

Horn waited, scarcely breathing.

Slowly Sair raised himself to his feet. "What are we waiting for?" he asked. His lips curled wryly. "Let's go free the slaves and save the Empire."

Horn let out his breath and turned to the door. He held it open for the old man. Sair's stride was surprisingly brisk as they walked toward the Tube room. Now that he had made his decision, he was full of questions about the situation on Eron and about how they took the fortress. He nodded shrewdly as Horn described the Warden's need for troops and the way they guessed it and the plans they laid to take advantage of it. By the time he had described the battle, they had reached the Tube room.

"Redblade," Horn said. "This is Peter Sair."

Sair's eyes danced. "The pirate?" He tilted his head back to stare into Redblade's bearded face. "Among other things, I have been called a pirate."

Redblade laughed. "Your men, Liberator." He swept his arm toward the cl.u.s.ter of men who had survived the attack. There were about seventy-five of them now. There were a few bodies on the floor, and a handful of men were gathered sullenly in one corner. The main body were in black uniforms, scavenged from the stores. To identify them from other Security agents, the sleeves of the tunics had been cut off above the elbow. The faces had a strange similarity; they were all hard, thin, and hungry. "Thieves, murderers, traitors," Redblade went on. "Command us-and maybe we'll obey."

Sair chuckled. "This young man has done a good job, even with me. Let him continue."

Horn turned to the men. "Prisoners!" he shouted. "Redblade and I and a few others-we've done what everyone said couldn't be done. We're escaping from Vantee. Alone we wouldn't have a chance; together we can tear Eron apart and take what we want out of the pieces. We need one thing: discipline.

"We'll take you to freedom and give you a chance to live in a world where you can go where you want to go and do what you want to do without asking permission of any master. But you've got to take orders until we've won; those who refuse will be shot down. Redblade has given you one chance; this is your second and last one. Those who will obey my orders or Redblade's or Peter Sair's instantly, without question, step forward and turn around."

The men looked at each other and murmured. Half of them stepped forward and turned, then most of the remainder until only five were left.

"All right," Horn said. "Here's your first order." He shouted, quickly, "Shoot down those men!"

The five died before they could reach their guns. In the corner the bunch of ragged men crouched warily.

"Good," Redblade said admiringly. "Very good!"

"Salutory," Sair agreed.

"Into the ship!" Horn ordered. "Let's go to Eron!"

They swarmed up the escalator into the waiting ship. The transport was not built to hold so many, but they jammed them in, seventy of them.

Before they followed, Horn turned to Redblade. "I'm going to trust you," he said slowly. "Don't betray me."

Redblade frowned; after a moment his face cleared. "I don't think I will. I think I wouldn't like to have you mad at me."

The three of them took chairs in the ship's control room and strapped themselves in, Horn as pilot, Redblade as copilot, Sair as navigator.

Horn let his hands fall forward on the panel. "Three hours to Eron," he said, "and the ship's clock won't have changed a second when we arrive."

"An interesting detail," Sair said. "How do you explain it?"

"Everything stops in the Tube," Horn said. "No light, heat, sound-no energy at all. It must be connected in some way to how the Tube works."

"You've discovered something generations of scientists have searched for," Sair said intently. "How did you do it?"

Horn shivered. "I went through the Tube conscious. Never again."

"It's too bad we can't do that now," Sair said. "We could put those three hours to good use. But I'm afraid it's some kind of field effect, generated in the gold bands, perhaps. We haven't time to locate it."

"And a shipload of madmen would be little use on Eron," Horn added.

"I must ask you, then, to outline the situation before we depart-and arrive," Sair said.

Horn went through it quickly from the political aspect to the strategic position. "The key, then, is the north cap. Whoever controls that, controls Eron."

"Then we must control the north cap," Redblade said simply.

"True," Sair said. "It won't be an easy job-others will have the same idea-but that will be chiefly a military operation. I won't be much use there. I must make myself felt in Eron."

"And you can't do that until we capture the control room," Horn said. "Let's go!"

He tapped the keys with practiced fingers. The ship slid forward into the lock. Horn waited while the red light on the panel turned to gold. He tapped the keys once more. There was a brief surge of power that pressed them back into their seats- They blinked. The ship thumped gently into the cradle. Horn glanced at the clock on the panel. It was moving, but no time had elapsed, according to its stiff hands. The cradle was moving with them now; it slid them out of the air lock.

They had returned to Eron.

"No time," Horn said wonderingly. "It is as if within the Tubes wasn't a part of our universe at all."

He hadn't time for any more reflections. Redblade was pointing at the screen. It was directed toward the floor beneath the cradle, and the floor was a battlefield for ants. Ma.s.ses of them swayed back and forth, became detached, joined back together. Slowly it separated itself into a battle between drab little ants and large green ones.

A few faces had been turned up toward them and then more. It spread, like a white sea, across the floor.

The drab ones were slaves. Somehow they had fought their way here from the lower levels. Battling in from the wide doorway were giant Denebolan lancers in the green uniforms of Transport. That was Fenelon. Did it mean that Fenelon was alive, Horn wondered, or had these mercenaries found another master?

The battle was going against the rabble. The huge Denebolans were mowing the undisciplined horde down like ripe grain, using pistols where there was room, swinging clubs and swords when they were closed in. Many of them were dragged down and swarmed under, but the rabble was doomed. Hundreds of them died for every Denebolan.

Through the hull Horn heard the whine of ricocheting bullets. Shouts came from the rear of the ship. Horn was on his feet and racing toward the port before they started. It was open. The escalator was in front of it, but no one was climbing down. Through the oval door came a rain of bullets.

Several men were huddled against the corridor wall. "We can't get out," one of them shouted. "They've killed two of us already. In a minute they'll be climbing up here."

"Who's shooting?" Horn demanded.

"The d.a.m.ned slaves!"

"We'll have to make them understand that we're trying to help them," Horn said impatiently.

"After ten centuries of betrayal," Sair said softly from behind, "do you expect them to recognize a.s.sistance when they see it?"

"I'll have to tell them," Horn said. He started for the deadly opening. "Hold your fire!" he shouted. "We're friends-"

It was useless. The sound would never carry through the clamor below. Sair's gentle hand drew him back.

"Come on, you dead men!" Redblade shouted. "We'll fight our way out!"

"That's not the way either," Sair said. "This is my job: diplomacy. This is why you needed me."

Before anyone could stop him, he had slipped past. He stood unarmed and alone in the empty oval, looking out over the sea of faces, calmly.

A bullet whistled past him. He didn't flinch. Slowly quiet spread out over the faces. Through it came a mutter. The mutter became a shout from a thousand throats.

"SAIR!"

The old man raised his hand toward the distant door. "Let us fight the enemy!" he shouted. His voice was loud and clear and strong.

Horn leaped toward him as a volley of bullets streamed through the door.

THE HISTORY.

Creation....

It is its own nemesis. Success is temporary, and idolization will not make the ephemeral permanent. Decay is implicit in the birth of any organism.

An empire is an organism.

Leadership is admired and imitated while it is creative. As a subst.i.tute, force is self-defeating. The consequences are inevitable. Outside the organism, resistance to incorporation grows strong; inside, rebellion begins.

Creators are always a minority. Geniuses, saints, supermen, they rise in response to the challenge of conditions. They leave the ma.s.s of the people behind them. They must transform the world or perish.

Eron's answer to the rhythmic repet.i.tion of challenge and response had become fixed: force. And force must always give way to a greater force....

18.

WAR.