Arthur Clarke: Childhood’s End

The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was scarcely a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realized that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. And if he had been unconscious for several days, he might be anywhere on Earth.

The torch-light illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing-case.

“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry’s rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”

“That,” said Stormgren without humour, “was very considerate of you.”

“We’re sorry about the absence of furniture and electric Light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”

“Convenient for what?” asked Stormgren as he climbed into a shirt. The feel of the familiar cloth beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.

“Just — convenient,” said the voice. “And by the way, since we’re likely to spend a good deal of time together, you’d better call me Joe.

“Despite your nationality,” retorted Stormgren, “—you’re Polish, aren’t you? — I think I could pronounce your real name. It won’t be worse than many Finnish ones.”

There was a slight pause and the light flickered for an distant.

’Well, I should have expected it,” said Joe resignedly. “You must have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.”

“It’s a useful hobby for a man in my position. At a guess I should say you were brought up in the United States but didn’t leave Poland until—”

“That,” said Joe firmly, “is quite enough. As you seem to save finished dressing — thank you.”

The door opened as Stormgren walked towards it, feeling mildly elated by his small victory. As Joe stood aside to let aim pass, he wondered if his captor was armed. Almost certainly he would be, and in any case he would have friends around.

The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps at intervals, and for the first time Stormgren could see Joe clearly. He was a man of about fifty, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. Everything about him was outsize, from the stained battledress that might have come from any of half a dozen armed forces, to the startlingly large signet ring on his left band. A man built on this scale probably would not bother to carry a gun. It should not be difficult to trace him, thought Stormgren, if he ever got out of this place. He was a little depressed to realize that Joe must also be perfectly well aware of this fact.

The walls around them, though occasionally faced with concrete, were mostly bare rock. It was dear to Stormgren that he was in some disused mine, and he could think of few more effective prisons. Until now the fact of his kidnapping had failed to worry him greatly. He had felt that, whatever happened, the immense resources of the Overlords would soon locate and rescue him. Now he was not so sure. He had already been gone several days — and nothing had happened. There must be a limit even to Karellen’s power, and if he were indeed buried in some remote continent, all the science of the Overlords might be unable to trace him.

There were two other men sitting at the table in the bare, dimly lit room. They looked up with interest, and more than a little respect, as Stormgren entered. One of them pushed across a bundle of sandwiches which Stormgren accepted eagerly. Though he felt extremely hungry, he could have done with a more interesting meal, but it was probable that his captors had dined no better. As he ate, he glanced quickly at the three men around him.

Joe was by far the most outstanding character, and not merely In the matter of physical bulk. The others were clearly his assistants — nondescript individuals, whose origins Stormgren would be able to place when he heard them talk. Some wine had been produced in a not-too-aseptic glass, and Stormgren washed down the last of the sandwiches.

Feeling now more fully in command of the situation, he turned to the huge Pole. ’Well,” he said evenly, “perhaps you’ll tell me what all this Is about, and just what you hope to get out of it.”

Joe cleared his throat.

“I’d like to make one thing straight,” he said. “This is nothing to do with Wainwright. He’ll be as surprised as anyone.”

Stormgren had half expected this, though he wondered why Joe was confirming his suspicions. He had long suspected the existence of an extremist movement inside — or on the frontiers of — the Freedom League.

“As a matter of interest,” he said, “how did you kidnap me?” He hardly expected a reply to this, and was somewhat taken aback by the other’s readiness — even eagerness — to answer.

“It was all rather like a Hollywood thriller,” said Joe cheerfully. “We weren’t sure if Karellen kept a watch on you, so we took somewhat elaborate precautions. You were knocked out by gas in the air-conditioner — that was easy. Then we carried you out into the car — no trouble at all. All this, I might say, wasn’t done by any of our people. We hired — er — professionals for the job. Karellen may get them — in fact, he’s supposed to — but he’ll be no wiser. When it left your house, the car drove into a long road tunnel not a thousand kilometres from New York. It came out again on schedule at the opposite end, still carrying a drugged man extraordinarily like the Secretary-General. Quite a while later a large truck loaded with metal cases emerged in the opposite direction and drove to a certain airfield where the cases were loaded aboard a freighter on perfectly legitimate business. I’m sure the owners of those cases would be horrified to know how we employed them.

“Meanwhile the car that had actually done the job continued elaborate evasive action towards the Canadian border. Perhaps Karellen’s caught it by now; I don’t know or care. As you’ll see — I do hope you appreciate my frankness — our whole plan depended on one thing. We’re pretty sure that Karellen can see and hear everything that happens on the surface of the Earth — but unless he uses magic, not science, he can’t see underneath it. So he won’t know about the transfer in the tunnel — at least until it’s too late. Naturally we’ve taken a risk, but there were also one or two other safeguards I won’t go into now. We may want to use them again, and it would be a pity to give them away.”

Joe had related the whole story with such obvious gusto that Stormgren could hardly help smiling. Yet he also felt very disturbed. The plan was an ingenious one, and it was quite possible that Karellen had been deceived. Stormgren was not even certain that the Overlord kept any form of protective surveillance over him. Nor, clearly, was Joe. Perhaps that was why he had been so frank — he wanted to test Stormgren’s reactions. Well, he would try and appear confident, whatever his real feelings might be.

“You must be a lot of fools,” said Stormgren scornfully, “if you think you can trick the Overlords as easily as this. In any case, what conceivable good will it do?”

Joe offered him a cigarette, which Stormgren refused, then lit one himself and sat on the edge of the table. There was an ominous creaking and he jumped off hastily.

“Our motives,” he began, “should be pretty obvious. We’ve found arguments useless, so we have to take other measures. There have been underground movements before, and even Karellen, whatever powers he’s got, won’t find it easy to deal with us. We’re out to fight for our independence. Don’t misunderstand me. There’ll be nothing violent — at first, anyway — but the Overlords have to use human agents, and we can make it mighty uncomfortable for them.”