The Chromosomal Code, page 5
The only one present whom Starkman felt like talking with was Jenny Saslov; White's reaction to his eyes had aborted any friendship that might have been developing. He found himself, however, unable to think of anything to say; the fact that she was an attractive woman only a few years older than himself, and that he had been so long alone, undoubtedly contributed to that.
Finally, in a state of frustration and incipient despair, he fell asleep.
He was awakened by a general stir in the compartment. He sat up, straightened his sunglasses, and saw that the large door, the door that he had entered through, was opening. Two ragged young women, flanked by Mike and Joey, stood in the passage, fear and wonder on their faces.
They were ushered in, as he had been, and the door closed as the round of introductions began.
An hour later a lone man in his late twenties joined them; some time after that, a family of three was picked up.
Starkman hung back from the conversations. No one, so far as he had been able to tell, had told the newcomers that he was a freak, but most of the group displayed a visible reserve around him, and the new arrivals picked up on it, avoiding him without knowing why. He made no effort to change this state of affairs; he was used to it. The old hopelessness that had been so much a part of his childhood was coming back to him after years of dormancy; like riding a bicycle, it was something one never wholly forgot.
The cots gradually filled, and the room, large as it was, began to feel crowded. Food consisted of one meal a day, but that one generous; it was delivered to an adjacent room, reached through the door opposite the “bathroom,” through sliding panels in the walls. The only living things the prisoners saw other than themselves were Mike and Joey delivering more captives, and occasionally, if a larger than usual group was picked up, one or two of the other “zombies.”
As the number of captives increased, disputes began to arise over the use of the bathroom, and the door to the dining room – which was completely unfurnished, simply a blank metal cube four meters on a side with sliding panels in three walls – was kept open to provide more space.
Starkman and a few of the others occasionally questioned the ship's commander, and Starkman arrived at the conclusion that it was essentially a disembodied brain that had been produced somehow by genetic engineering, hooked into an elaborate electronic computer that provided it with sensory input and additional memory and computational capacity. The voice insisted that there were other aspects to it as well, but Starkman could not make sense of its descriptions.
He did not bother to share his theory with the others, or to inquire after their opinions; the subject wasn't important, after all. He did wonder that such a thing had been made; at his last contact with civilization genetic engineers had been making nothing more complex than bacteria. Despite what the zombies had said, and despite the strangeness of the ship's design, he still didn't believe in the Galactic Empire the ship claimed had created it.
He asked as well what lay behind the fourth and final door in the room, and received no answer except that he and his fellow captives were not permitted to use it. That, of course, only increased his curiosity; he began trying to devise some way of prying it open or drilling through it.
There was no distinction between night and day in the windowless chamber; the lights never dimmed or went out. Molley had a wristwatch which he claimed still worked, but he did not care to spend his time telling other people what it said, and would not speak to Starkman at all. Keeping track of time was therefore difficult.
At one point, however, it gradually sank in that it had been a long time since anyone had been added to the party. This was perhaps three or four days after Starkman's capture, and thirty-three of the thirty-six cots were occupied.
He debated mentioning his impression to Jenny Saslov, and had just decided to do so when he felt the faint change in vibration that he had learned meant a landing. He shut up before any sound had emerged, and returned instead to wondering how the fourth door might be breached; he was running through the available tools for the hundredth time when, unexpectedly, the large door slid open.
This was not in accordance with established procedure; it usually took several minutes for the search party to locate and bring back their new captive or captives. The door usually stayed closed for that time. Its opening generally came anywhere from ten minutes to an hour after landing, and he had been told that in Robert Carvel's case a good three hours had been required; this time, however, the ship had scarcely touched down when it slid aside and revealed, not Mike and Joey and a frightened prisoner, but the full search party of six and nobody else.
“We're here,” Joey announced. “Everybody out.”
There was a sudden roar of questions and conversation; the ship's men said nothing, but simply gestured for the captives to move out of the room and down the corridor.
Starkman complied as rapidly as anyone; he was tired of being cooped up with a bunch of unfriendly people in such cramped quarters, after spending a decade with all the space he could want.
The immense hatchway was open and the ramp lowered; he followed others down the passage, trying to see over their shoulders what lay beyond. Behind him the remaining captives were doing much the same.
At the top of the ramp, just beyond the hatch, he paused and looked around. To either side were the blank metal walls of the ship's entryway, but directly ahead, between the lower edge of the ramp well and the tops of people's heads, he could see a thin slice of the outside world.
There was no snow.
The first few captives were stepping off the ramp onto bare gray pavement, and throwing long black shadows across it; the sun was obviously shining low in the sky.
He moved down the ramp, and with each step he could see farther. At the second step he saw that the pavement ended in a chain-link fence about thirty meters away, and that there was green vegetation beyond the fence. At the third step he could see trees and green grass. By the fifth step he could, by stooping, see off to either side, and to each side he saw that another ship, identical to the one he was leaving, stood a few tens of meters away. At the eighth step he glimpsed blue sky.
When at last he stepped off the ramp onto the hard gray surface he could not resist stopping for a long, slow look around, much to the annoyance of those behind him. He was far from alone in this, so that it took several minutes for the six zombies to herd their thirty-three charges off the ship.
The vessel was resting on an immense landing field of some smooth gray substance that Starkman couldn't identify; it wasn't quite asphalt, nor concrete, but similar to both. The field stretched off for a kilometer or more to his left, two hundred meters or so to the right, thirty meters ahead and five hundred meters behind. One ship stood to the right, just beginning to disembark its own complement of people, presumably captives like himself and his companions. To the left a row of ships stretched off as far as he could see. Behind stood another row.
The ships were not all identical; there were half a dozen of the same type as the one that had brought him, all lined up together with his in the second place as seen from the fence. Beyond that, and in the other row, there was a wide variety of shapes and sizes; none bore any markings that he could see. Several were discharging people onto the pavement.
The wire fence extended as far as he could see around the edge of the field, which was almost perfectly smooth and level; it was pierced by a wide, open gate at the nearer end, midway between the two rows of ships.
Beyond the fence, in front of him, there was a narrow strip of rough, untended grass; behind that he saw what appeared to him to be primeval forest. Tall, narrow trees stretched up twenty and thirty meters and then ended in puffs of leaves and branches; many looked unhealthy, and the vines that intertwined them appeared to be dead in places. Lower down were trees that seemed healthier and more familiar; he saw a few young oaks that were visibly flourishing, their leaves lushly green. It was a delight to see a live tree other than an evergreen.
Off to the right, at the near end of the field, the forest gave way to a cluster of buildings, a haphazard mix of dull concrete and unpainted wood with a very temporary look to it.
To the left the sun was on the verge of setting and the sky was beginning to take on the rich pinks and yellows of sunset. Elsewhere the sky was a rich pure deep blue such as he had not seen in years, and he stared at it in wonder; he had forgotten so fine a color could exist.
“Where are we?” someone asked.
“This is our main base,” Joey replied.
“In Brazil?”
“It's in Brazil, yeah, but it's our main base for the whole planet. Capital's over that way a few kilometers.” He pointed toward the buildings.
Carvel was peering at the forest. “I never heard of oak trees in Brazil,” he said.
Joey shrugged.
“Hey, you in the ship!” Carvel called.
“Yes, Mr. Carvel?” replied the calm and familiar voice of the ship's brain.
“What're oak trees doing in Brazil?”
“Mr. Carvel, I am not wholly familiar with the ecology of your planet, but I believe that the climatic shift which has recently occurred has altered the local vegetation significantly.”
Starkman was not particularly interested in the nature of the local vegetation; he said, “You say there's a capital over that way?”
“Yeah,” Joey replied. He seemed to be over his fear of Starkman's fists; his expression now was sullen resentment.
“Capital of what?”
“Of the world, stupid,” he was told.
“Is this the capital of the Galactic Empire?”
“Hell, no, that's about a million light years away; this is just the capital of Earth.” He noticed that all the captives were off the ship and called, “Okay, everybody, come this way,” then began, with the aid of his five companions, herding the group toward the open gate.
Most of the party went along readily enough, Starkman among them; he saw no point in staying on the field. There was no way he could hope to escape by ship; even if some of the ships might not be controlled by built-in brains, as the one that had brought him was, he would not be able to fly one. He hadn't even driven a car in more than ten years.
As the last stragglers were coaxed away from the ship the ramp began lifting up and the hatch at its top slammed shut.
As the group made their way across the pavement Starkman caught up with Joey and asked him another question.
“Are you people from Earth?” He gestured, taking in the other five zombies.
“Of course not, dummy! We're from the Galactic Empire!”
“From the capital of the Empire?”
Joey frowned. “It's none of your business.”
“I was just curious,” Starkman replied.
“Well, if you've gotta know, I was born on a starship on the way here. It's a long way between stars.”
“What about the others?”
Joey shrugged. “Ask them.”
“Are all the people of the Empire human?”
Joey stopped walking and looked at him. “Who said we were human? I already owe you a punch in the nose; are you trying to make it worse by insulting me?”
“No, nothing like that – and any time you want to try punching me, you just go right ahead.” Starkman was frustrated and angry after the events of the last few days, and would have welcomed an excuse to take out his anger by hitting someone. He was not going to start anything himself, for fear of angering whoever was in authority, but he was not going to hold back if Joey started a brawl. He knew he'd be making the man – if he was a man – a scapegoat, taking the blame for more than he deserved, but he didn't much care. Starkman would settle for a scapegoat if he couldn't lash out at the whole world.
When Joey did not take him up on his invitation, he added, “You look human.”
“Yeah, well, if a five-meter slimy monster had come looking for you, wouldn't you have put up even more of a fight than you did?”
“Are there five-meter slimy monsters running the Galactic Empire?”
Joey clenched a fist, but did not use it. “Look, that's none of your business!”
Starkman started to ask another question, but Joey cut him off. “Just shut up, will you?”
Starkman shut up. Joey's answers weren't much help anyway.
A few seconds later, as he neared the gate, there was a roar behind him; he turned and watched as a small ship, shaped something like an inverted speedboat, lifted off.
Joey shoved him, hard, and ordered, “Keep walking.”
Starkman whirled and landed a solid punch squarely in the young man's mouth. Joey went down, landing hard on the pavement, and Starkman walked on toward the gate as two of the other zombies ran to aid their fallen comrade.
Starkman felt much better for a few seconds, but then began regretting his childishness; he would do himself no good, he knew, by attracting attention.
By the time he reached the gate his group had blended with people coming from other ships; all told, Starkman estimated there were several hundred, almost all ragged, carrying a few possessions or none, dressed for cold climates and looking about uncertainly.
Ahead of them he saw where they were being led and/or driven; a line was forming at the entrance to a ramshackle wooden structure which was almost completely covered on its near side with writing in various languages. He guessed that each of the messages said the same thing in a different tongue, since each segment of wall was of a similar size and bore a single short phrase, so far as he could tell. There was no way he could guess at what was said in Burmese, Korean, Japanese, or other languages using symbols totally alien to him, but after a few seconds he spotted a sign in English, located prominently above what appeared to be the main entrance. It read “Welcome Center.” Directly below it was the same thing in Spanish, and above it what Starkman guessed to be Portuguese.
The newcomers were being formed up into an orderly column that moved slowly into the building, through the door beneath the English sign.
He had a momentary image of cattle being led to slaughter, but he dismissed it quickly as absurd. A concern he thought worthy of more serious consideration was that the building was devoted to some sort of brainwashing, and that he was about to be converted into a mindless slave – or perhaps a stupid, obedient zombie. He glanced sideways at the nearest of the peculiar young men; it was one from another ship, not one of the six that had picked him up, though there was a strong resemblance between this one and Mike, as if they might be brothers.
Would he be one of them soon, thinking himself to be an alien against all logic?
He looked about and considered making a dash for the forest, but gave up the idea; there were dozens of the so-called zombies scattered about, all in their identical blue outfits. They had removed their fleece-lined coats, which would have been totally inappropriate to the warm and gentle Brazilian climate – Starkman was reminded that he was still wearing his own battered and uncomfortably warm coat – and they were clad in blue shirts of some synthetic fabric and trousers that weren't quite jeans. They had retained their black boots. There was something peculiar about the shirts, and it took Starkman a moment to realize it was a lack of collars and pockets.
There was also something unsettling about their faces; too many of them seemed to resemble each other, as if all the zombies were members of no more than eight or nine different families.
He dismissed that from his thoughts and concentrated on his own situation. If he were to create a sufficient diversion, he might be able to get away – but once he was free, what good would it do, and how long would it last? He knew nothing about Brazil, what he might find to eat, where he might find shelter; furthermore, he was sure he could be tracked as easily here as in Pennsylvania.
He was still inventing and rejecting schemes when he was propelled out of the dimming sunlight and into the building.
The line of people was being divided in half, and each half directed to a door; he was in a lobby or antechamber from which only those two doors led farther into the building.
There did not appear to be any sorting going on, but simply a division at random, to reduce crowding at the doorways. When a zombie indicated that Starkman should take the right-hand door, he refused and bore left; the man shrugged and let him go.
He noticed that the doors and the proportions of the antechamber were nothing like the bizarre dimensions of the ship and its compartments; the doors were completely ordinary double doors, two meters high and each about three-fourths of a meter wide. The ceiling was two and a half meters from the floor, and the room was about four meters deep and twice that in width.
His line inched forward, and he was able to see through the doorway; he was entering an auditorium, very much like an ordinary movie theater or lecture hall. The floor sloped down away from the doors, and zombies were escorting people to seats, filling up rows from the back forward. At the far end was a blank white wall with a small raised platform in front of it, and a simple wooden lectern stood on the platform. There were closed doors in the lower corners, as well as the pair at the back through which the lines were entering. Starkman wondered again whether he was about to be brainwashed; the blank wall might serve as a screen for some sort of hypnotic projection, he thought.
Once inside he was led to a seat in the center section, about halfway down – near the exact center of the hall, where he had no chance of slipping out unnoticed. To his right sat the man who had been ahead of him in line, a total stranger, presumably arrived on another ship, of medium build and early middle age. He said nothing. To his left the empty seat was quickly filled by Ruth Vandeventer; her parents and siblings took the seats beyond, with Lazarus sitting in his mother's lap.
He glanced around and spotted several of the others from his ship scattered about behind him. He looked for Jenny Saslov and her children and finally found them off to his right.
The room was only dimly lit, and he had trouble seeing clearly through his sunglasses, but he did not remove them.
