Horn's momentum carried Sair to one side out of the path of the bullets.

"They shot!" Sair exclaimed softly.

"The Denebolans," Horn said. "That had to be. If one side is your friend, the other is your enemy. Somebody shoots at you all the time." He rolled over and started crawling back. "Redblade! Sharpshooters!"

Three short-sleeved guards came forward on hands and knees. They lay full-length below the level of the port. Their pistols lifted; they sighted toward the wide doorway. In a few seconds bullets were streaming toward the tall lancers.

"Let's go back to the control room," Horn said. "It'll be a few minutes."

In the screen, the change was obvious. The ragged rebels were attacking with a maniac frenzy, and the Denebolans were falling back before it. The wide doorway was being cleared by the sharpshooters' deadly accuracy. The size that made the lancers such dangerous fighters made them easy victims to ambush. They were men and mortal; one bullet was enough. Hundreds died. Those who could not retreat were torn apart.

When the lancers were gone, the rebels turned their white faces to the ship once more.

"Sair!" they shouted.

The fighting men from the naked plains of Vantee raced down the motionless escalator and cleared a semi-circular area at the foot of it. Sair followed, slowly, and the mob grew silent. Behind him came Horn and Redblade. With him the pirate carried a hastily improvised, portable amplifier. He held it under his arm for Sair to use. It thundered the soft voice through the towering room.

"Rebels! Soldiers of freedom! As you recognized, I am Peter Sair, once president of the Quarnon League, most recently a prisoner of Eron on Vantee. Like me, these other men in the captured uniforms of Security agents were prisoners. With courage and desperation, they fought their way to freedom and brought me with them. They are fighters and leaders. We will have need of them.

"You, too, are fighters. But you have no leaders, and leaderless men are weak. There is no time for democratic processes. I ask you to recognize me as your leader and to name me as your leader to all other rebels, wherever you meet them. I do not ask this because I am eager for glory or hungry for power. I have had enough of both; they are fleeting and worthless. I ask this because I am Peter Sair; my name and face are known.

"Eron must fall, but it must fall without breaking apart. That means there must be leadership. I ask your allegiance; I ask your unquestioning obedience."

As the echoes died away, there was silence, and then the room rocked once more with the shout of "SAIR!"

Horn realized, as he had realized above in the ship, what had made Sair great. His talent was people; the thing to do and the thing to say that would move them-that was sure instinct.

"Agreed!" Sair said, and there was a touch of wistfulness in his t.i.tan's voice. "I am bound, as you are." His voice grew strong again. "Let us get down to business. My lieutenants are Redblade and Horn. Obey them as you would obey me. Under them will be the men who came with us from Vantee. As experienced fighters, they will lead you; each of them will command fifty men.

"They did the impossible: they escaped from Vantee. With your help they will do the impossible again!"

Redblade took over the amplifier and, holding it easily at mouth level, began barking commands. The men from Vantee moved out and began splitting the mob into groups. It was quick and efficient. Soon there were almost seventy groups being inspected for arms, ammunition, and physical condition. While they were being organized, instructed, and drilled, guards were posted at the door and up and down the corridor.

Redblade called for any of the rebels with information to come forward. Out of the few who made their way slowly across the floor, Horn picked one whose eyes were bright and intelligent. In response to their questions, his story came out in brief spurts of words that they pieced together into coherence.

His group of rebels had seized a ship at the warehouse level. With a fantastic idea of reaching another planet, they had forced the pilot to take them out of Eron. Once in s.p.a.ce, they had been helpless and confused; the pilot took advantage of their indecision to slip the freighter into a north cap lock. Instead of help, he found a quick death. The rebels spilled out into the cap, raging back and forth aimlessly as groups attacked them and they attacked others.

Inside Eron rebellion was general. The slaves had poured up into the forbidden upper levels. Sometimes the gray guards fought against them; sometimes they joined the ragged mob. Often they found gray guards fighting with the personal guards of the various Directors; most prevalent were Duchane's black agents. But the golden blood had run thick, and it was red, like that of other men.

The battle had seemed to be going against the rebels when they had fled into s.p.a.ce, but it might have been just a local action. There was no pattern to it, no order, no easy victor.

Yes, they were hungry. They hadn't eaten since they left the warehouse level. But it helped to think that the Golden Folk and their guards were hungrier. The warehouses had been the first areas seized by the rebels; they would be the last surrendered.

They had seen other rebel groups during the fighting in the cap, but had been unable to join forces with them. Most recently, these Denebolan giants had charged out of one of the Tube rooms and forced them back into this one. Such reinforcements were coming frequently, but there was no way of predicting from which room they would come or from what world or on whose side they would fight.

No, he hadn't seen Wendre Kohlnar. Some of the golden women had been killed; he had seen it happen in the early hours of the uprising. The madness had wanted to drown itself in blood; they had taken no prisoners. Later they had been too desperate and afraid to do anything but defend themselves.

Horn's eyes were distant and unhappy as he turned to Redblade. "Are we organized?"

"As much as possible. Most of it will have to be done under fire. That'll shake 'em down. So far they've been a mob; now they'll learn what it is to be an army."

"What do you think? Will they have a chance against trained guards?"

Redblade squinted speculatively at the milling men. "These men have something personal to fight for-over and above their lives. The guards are fighting for money. I'll take these, puny lot though they are."

"How many are armed?"

"More than I thought. Over fifty percent."

They went over their plans in the light of the forces they had gained. The chief goal was the control room, which was down the corridor to the left. Twenty groups would be sent in that direction with instructions to take and hold all Tube rooms as they came to them. Five of the fastest men in each group would be designated runners to report new developments to headquarters. No group was to move forward until its sides and rear were protected.

Fifteen groups would start down the corridor to the right, with the same instructions. The rest would stay at headquarters as guards and reserve.

Each group leader would receive instructions to give opponents a chance to join them. Again with any survivors. The battle cry would be "Sair!" All recruits would cut or tear off their sleeves.

Above all, communications. Group leaders would keep in constant touch by runner- "I'll go with the group to the left," Redblade said, showing his teeth in a ferocious grin.

"You'll stay here!" Horn snapped. "You'll coordinate information from the runners and dispatch a.s.sistance and supervise organization of new-"

"But the control room," Redblade pleaded; "we can't hope to take the cap and hold it unless we can isolate it. We need the communications. We need to cut individual Tubes and close air locks and-"

"That battle, like all the rest of them, will be won and lost here," Horn said firmly. "A staff operation may not be glamorous, but it's vital."

Like all staff operations, this was blind; like most, this was confusion. Horn fought for eyes and after that for order; he never got either one satisfactorily. There was never time to do anything thoroughly or well. Impressions swarmed about him; decisions pressed in on him. He snapped off answers and orders by instinct and impulse and a vague sort of pattern that grew unconsciously at the back of his mind.

While Redblade bellowed commands through the amplifier, calling off names and a.s.signments, Horn turned to the floor. As the room cleared, he drafted a group to begin laying out a map of the north cap. When the runners began streaming back, Horn was ready. Slowly the map was clarified and filled in. This room was taken; that one clear. Here a desperate battle with Denebolan lancers or gray guards or blue guards or green guards.... So many casualties. Send more men. Send more guns. Send more ammunition. Send- The groups that had been drilling under their black-uniformed leaders began to thin out. Soon there were only ten groups left to run and throw themselves flat, dry-fire, and take cover. Horn glanced around worriedly. In a few minutes, there would be too few for safety.

A ma.s.s of ragged recruits streamed through the door and went wild at the sight of Sair. When they were quieted, they began to drill. Leaders for them came from the remnants of previous groups.

Perhaps that was the turning point. Horn was never able to pin it down. It might have been earlier when Sair appeared at the ship's lock and the ragged mob shouted his name. But if anything was the key to victory, it was Sair and the name of Sair.

As the word spread that Sair was alive and on Eron, their forces grew. Sair himself, sitting wearily on an empty crate, spoke briefly through the amplifier to each new throng and pa.s.sed them on dedicated and malleable.

Impressions a.s.sailed them, demanding, relentless: reports, consultations, orders, alarms, successes, failures, garbled messages, lost runners.... But the area under their control grew and the map grew with it. Here was a ship; cargo-packaged food. There was a store of weapons, dynode cells, bullet clips....

The room became jammed again. Casualties were heavy, but reinforcements were greater. Most of the new recruits were slaves but some of them were rebellious guards and service troops, and there was one bunch of Tube technicians in gold uniforms.

Horn drew them aside and asked, as he had asked dozens of times already, if they had seen Wendre or heard from her. They shook their heads. They had been in the control room when the first attack came; they were all who were left.

Horn turned aside and back to the ever-increasing demands of organization. Nearby rooms were commandeered for a.s.sembly and training areas. The first one became headquarters alone. Squads were detailed as a.r.s.enal workers, locating and centralizing weapons and ammunition, pa.s.sing them out. The service troops became cooks and mess-attendants. One kitchen cooked countless liters of soup; it was distributed with condensed emergency rations.

Horn gulped down lukewarm soup and swallowed a few pellets. It was poor stuff, but it was food and food was strength.

As men became proficient in the use of the map, Horn placed them in charge with instructions to report to him as decisions became necessary. Redblade a.s.sumed the burden of sending reserves where they were needed, and his amplified bull's bellow echoed through the tall rooms and corridors.

Horn tore himself away from the barely ordered confusion and tried to think. After so long in the middle of it, he needed a perspective. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the map. At last he saw what he had been missing.

He hunted down the bellow; he fought his way to the pirate's side. "What happened to those groups we sent toward the control room?"

"Some of them reported back," Redblade said, surprised.

"I know. The corridor to the left is in our hands for a kilometer, but not the control room. Reports stopped coming in. How's it going otherwise?"

"We're not getting so many calls for reinforcements. Now I'm wondering what to do about the new men who keep coming in. We're running out of room."

"Spread out," Horn said, shrugging. "We seem to have most of the corridors and over half the Tube rooms. But it's no good without the control room. Is there anyone you can trust to leave in charge?"

"No," Redblade said frankly. "But I think they'll be too busy for a while to do any mischief, and I don't think they can move a mob like this. Only one thing is holding them together. Sair. So there's a few of our fellow prisoners from Vantee who can take over."

"Good," Horn snapped. "I've got one on the map. Deputize them. We've done as much as we can do here. It's time we saw some action. We'll take two groups. More would get in the way."

Redblade's shoulders straightened and he seemed to grow taller as he turned away.

Horn a.s.sembled the gold-uniformed technicians and turned to lead them into the corridor.

"I think," said a soft voice at his elbow, "that it is time for me to act also."

It was Sair. Horn studied him for a moment and nodded. "Let's go."

They moved quickly down the corridor. The Tube rooms they pa.s.sed were securely in the hands of their forces. After a kilometer they discovered why there had been no reports. The corridor ended against a solid wall.

Horn turned to one of the technicians. "What's this?"

"Safety barrier. It's air tight. There's hundreds of these. They can be lowered from the control room."

"Can we get through it?"

"Eventually, I suppose. With unitronic torches."

"We can't waste that much time." Horn turned away. "Let's go in the back door."

As he led the groups back through the corridor to the first ramp to the lower levels, Horn thought about the safety barrier that had been lowered and the barriers that could have been lowered but weren't. Someone was in the control room, and he wasn't taking advantage of his opportunities. He seemed to be interested only in defense.

Horn and Redblade were in front of the party with Sair just a little behind. They were followed by the dozen technicians and two, well-disciplined, fifty-man groups. They met squads coming and going, trotting outward, fresh and confident, or trudging back with their wounded, weary and bloodstained. Even the latter looked up and shouted "Sair!" when they caught sight of the old man.

Runners tried to deliver their message to Horn or Redblade, but Horn waved them on. As they came out into the throbbing, dark, bottom level, bullets whined close to them. Horn quickly deployed his groups. In a minute, they moved out into the corridor and the disorganized remnants of a gray guard detachment scattered and ran.

At the end of the narrow corridor, the door stopped them only for a moment. It gave easily, and Horn decided that it was not the one he had used before. The circular room with its cylindrical pillar was empty.

Horn stood under the ladder and stared up at the plate covering the opening. It had not been screwed back down. Horn climbed to the top rung of the ladder and hesitated. Redblade moved under him. Horn put one foot on Redblade's shoulder, one foot on the ladder, and shoved the plate open.

As it clattered against the floor above, Horn was through the opening, his pistol in his hand. There were guards in the room, but they were careless. They were helping two men scramble through the open door of the central tube into the room. The guards were dressed in gold uniforms, but some of the others were ragged laborers from the lower levels.

"Don't move!" Horn said briskly, and they were too surprised to think of disobedience.

Then Redblade was beside Horn, and men were pouring through the circular opening after him. By the time the guards had made up their minds to resist, the odds were impossible. One of them started to move toward the wall that hid the elevator, but Horn waggled his pistol suggestively.

When Peter Sair was boosted and lifted into the room, many of the laborers gasped.

"This is Peter Sair," Horn said. "Didn't you know he was back?"

"Thought I heard that name," one of the slaves muttered. "It was a fight up there. Thought it was a trick."

"How many of you would like to fight for Sair and freedom?" Horn asked.

All of the slaves stepped forward eagerly. A few of the uniformed guards glanced at their officer and then settled back.

Gold, Horn thought. Gold for Communications. Gold for Wendre. It seemed incredible that they could still be working for her. How could she have got away from the men who grabbed her above? How could she have contacted her guards, found the loyal ones, and dispatched them here?

"Who sent you here?" Horn asked.

The guards were silent. Horn glanced at the slaves.

"The Entropy Cult," said the slave who had spoken before. "They sent us through that thing to fight for freedom."

Horn shook his head bewilderedly. Now the Cult. Where did it come in? Unless Wu had got away and thrown the Cult's forces, whatever they were, to the side to rebellion- He turned to the wall and pressed the spot on it that Wendre had pressed. The wall slid silently aside. He motioned to the leader of one of his groups. He put the man's hand over the concealed latch.

"Count five and press this. Send up three men. After them three more. Stop when there's just enough left to guard the prisoners."

He stepped into the elevator. Redblade was close behind. Sair crowded in as the third man. Horn frowned and shrugged. Although Sair would be useless in a fight, his face was worth a dozen guns. It would be disastrous if he were killed, but violence was everywhere. No place was safe.

The door slid shut in front of him. Beside it was a lighted disk. Horn palmed it. The elevator started up. When the car stopped and the door opened, pistols were in the hands of Horn and Redblade. They stepped quickly out of the car and to opposite sides.

The room was the same as Horn remembered it: the panels, the chairs, the walls with their flickering dots of color.... But it was busy now. Technicians were at the panels, sitting in the chairs, moving around the room. It had an air of purpose and efficiency.

Everything stopped. Everyone turned to stare at the three men standing in front of the closed elevator doors. Horn's orange uniform was tattered; Redblade had almost no clothing at all to hide his ma.s.sive body. Between them was a man with a familiar face who wore a torn prison coat and trousers.

"Peter Sair!" one of them muttered, and the name worked its way around the room.

In the middle of the room the vault door hung open like an admission of Eron's poverty, a reminder of a long-lived secret that was a better secret than Eron suspected. Beside it was an officer with a golden, pure-blood face and an air of command. He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Horn.

"Horn?" There was a note of curiosity and expectancy in his voice.

Horn's gun lifted in warning. Behind him, the elevator door slid open. Three more armed men stepped into the room.

"I'm Horn," he said slowly.

"We've been waiting for you," the officer said. He waved his hand at the control room. "If you returned, the Director said that we should turn this over to you."

THE HISTORY.

Knowledge....

For some, it is an end in itself. For most, it is a tool, the greatest tool, archetype of all tools. Knowledge is basic. With it, man's puny strength can be multiplied infinitely.

One of the peculiarities of knowledge is that it always overflows its container. New containers must be built to hold it. Books supplanted the human brain and were themselves superseded by films, which gave way to tapes.... At the end of the sequence was the Index.

Its inventor was trying to discover the secret of the Tube. He built a bigger container. Its capacity was unlimited, because additional units could be attached as needed.