William Tenn - Of Men And Monsters

Then so had the others been. The outlaws whom he’d helped tear to pieces. Human. Completely human.

They’d sat here, just as he did now, they’d sat and waited…

Only twice in his memory had members of Mankind ever been declared outlaw. Both cases had occurred a long time ago, before he’d even been a warrior-initiate. Eric tried now to remember what they had been like as living people: he wanted to reach out and feel companionship, some sort of companionship, even that of the dead. The dead were better than this beaten, bloody man next to him who had subsided into half-insane mumbles, his battered head on his torn and wound-scribbled chest.

What had they been like? It was no use. In the first case, memory brought back only a picture of a screaming hulk just before the fire was lit. No recollection of a man. No fellow-human in Mankind. And in the second case Eric sat bolt upright, straining against his bonds. The second man to be declared an outlaw had escaped’ How he had done it Eric had never found out: he remembered only that a guard was severely punished, and that bands of warriors had sniffed for him along far-distant corridors for a long time afterward.

Escape. That was it. He had to escape. Once declared an outlaw, he could have no hope of mercy, no remission of sentence. The religious overtones of the ceremony being prepared were too highly charged to be halted for anything short of the disappearance of its chief protagonist.

Yes, escape. But how? Even if he could get free of the knots which so expertly and so strongly tied his hands behind his back, he had no weapon to hand. The guard at the entrance would transfix him with a spear in a moment. And if he failed, there were others outside, almost the entire warrior strength of the people.

How? How? He forced himself to be calm, to go over every possible alternative in his mind. He knew there was not much time. In a little while, the structure would be finished and the leaders of the Female Society would come for him.

Eric began working on the knots behind him. He worked without much hope. If he could get his hands loose, perhaps he might squirm his way carefully to the entrance, leap up suddenly and break into a run. So what if they plunged a spear through him—wouldn’t that be better and quicker than the other thing?

But they wouldn’t, he realized. Not unless he were very lucky and some, warrior forgot to think straight. In cases like this, when it was a matter of keeping, not killing a prisoner, you aimed for the legs. There were at least a dozen men in Mankind with skill great enough to bring him down even at twenty or twenty-five paces. And another dozen who might be able to catch him. He was no Roy the Runner, after all.

Roy! He was dead and sewered by now. He found himself regretting the fight he’d had with Roy.

A Stranger passed by the storage burrow entrance, glancing in with only a slight curiosity. He was followed in a moment by two more Strangers, going the same way. They were leaving, Eric guessed, before the ceremony began. They probably had ceremonies of their own to attend—with their own people.

Walter the Weapon-Seeker, Arthur the Organizer—were they at this moment sitting in similar storage burrows awaiting the same slow death? Eric doubted it. Somehow he couldn’t see these men caught as easily as he and his uncle had been. Arthur was too clever, he was certain of that, and Walter, well, Walter would come up with some fantastic weapon that no one had ever seen or heard of…

Like the one he had in his knapsack right now—that red blob the Weapon-Seeker had given him!

Was it a weapon? He didn’t know. But even if it wasn’t, he had the impression it could create some kind of surprise. “It should make them sit up and take notice,” Walter had said back in Monster territory.

Any kind of surprise, any kind of upset and he might have a diversion under cover of which he and his uncle could escape.

But that was the trouble. His uncle. With his hands bound as thoroughly as he could now ascertain they were, he needed his uncle’s help to do anything at all. And the Trap-Smasher was obviously too far gone to be at all useful.

He was talking to himself in a steady, monotonous, argumentative mutter, his upper body slumping further and further across his own lap. Every once in a while, the mutters would be broken by a sharp, almost surprised moan as his wounds woke into a clearer consciousness of themselves.

Most other men in his condition, Eric judged, would have been dead by now: only a body as powerful as the Trap-Smasher’s could have lasted this long. And—who knew?—if they could escape, it was possible that his uncle’s wounds, given care and rest, might heal.

If they could escape.

“Uncle Thomas,” he said, leaning toward him and whispering urgently. “I think I know a way out. I think I’ve figured out a way to escape.”

No response. The bloody head continued to talk in a low, toneless voice to the lap. Mutter, mutter, mutter. Moan. Mutter, mutter.

“Your wives,” Eric said desperately. “Your wives. Don’t you want to get revenge for your wives?”

That seemed to be worth a flicker. “My wives,” said the thick voice. “They were good women. Real good women. They never let Franklin near them. They were real good women.” Then the flicker was over and the mutters returned.

“Escape!” Eric whispered. “Don’t you want to escape?”

A thin, coagulating line of blood dripped out of his uncle’s slowly working jaws. There was no other answer.

Eric Iooked toward the entrance of the storage burrow. The guard posted there was no longer turning from time to time to glance at the prisoners. The structure outside was evidently nearing completion, and his interest in the final preparations had caused him to take a step or two away from the entrance. He was staring off to the left down the great central burrow in absolute fascination.

Well, that was something. It gave them a chance. On the other hand, it also meant that they had scant moments left to their lives. Any time now, the leaders of the Female Society would be coming to drag them to the torture ceremony.

With his eyes on the guard, Eric leaned against the rough burrow wall and began scraping the imprisoning knapsack thongs against the sharpest edges he could find. It wouldn’t be fast enough, he realized. If there were only a spear point in this place, something sharp. He looked around feverishly. No, nothing. A few tumbled bags of food over which lazy roaches wandered. Nothing he could use.

His uncle was his only hope. Somehow he had to rouse the man, get through to him. He squirmed up close, his mouth against the Trap-Smasher’s ear.

“This is Eric, Eric the Only. Do you remember me, Uncle? I went on the Theft, Uncle Thomas, I went on the Theft with you. Third category. Remember, I asked for a third category Theft, just like you told me to? I did my Theft, I was successful, I made it. I did just what you told me to do. I’m Eric the Eye now, right? Tell me, am I Eric the Eye?”

Mutters, mumbles and moans. The man seemed beyond intelligibility.

“What about Franklin? He can’t do this to us, can he, Uncle Thomas? Don’t you want to escape? Don’t you want revenge on Franklin, on Ottilie, for what they did to your wives? Don’t you? Don’t you?”

He had to cut through his uncle’s gathering delirium. In complete desperation, he lowered his head and sank his teeth into a wounded shoulder.

Nothing. Just the steady flow of argumentative gibberish. And the thin blood dripping from the mouth.

“I saw Arthur the Organizer. He said he’d known you for a long time. When did you meet him, Uncle Thomas? When did you first meet Arthur the Organizer?”

The head drooped lower, the shoulders slumped further forward.