A long time. First, we had to put you into an amniotic tank and by-pass your normal organic functions with a life support apparatus. The lungs, of course, had to be re-grown from available tissue. Later, after the grafting, electrical stimulation was applied to maintain the efficiency of the muscles. Healing was completed with the use of slow-time."
"How long?"
"A month, subjective. You were kept unconscious by direct electrical stimulation of the sleep center of the brain." Dras gestured to where a thin band of metal, fitted with inner pads and electrodes, stood beside the couch on an instrument table. "Camolsaer decided that longer would be inadvisable."
Camolsaer had been right. Slow-time accelerated the metabolism, as quick-time slowed it. The body lived faster than normal-the danger was that energy was used faster than it could be replaced, even with the aid of intravenous feeding. No wonder he was wasted.
Dras said, eagerly, "Are you interested in medical matters? If so, I have full charts and details of your original condition, together with the treatment followed and steps taken. Camolsaer, naturally, directed the pattern to be followed; but, I must admit, I found it most stimulating."
A doctor starved of customers; a frustrated surgeon who had relished the opportunity to test his skill. Dumarest swung his legs over the edge of the couch. "Am I free to go now?"
"Yes," said Dras reluctantly. "I would like your later cooperation in conducting a series of tests of my own, but that is up to you."
"My clothes?"
They were in a cabinet; pants, boots and tunic all bright and smooth, the material refurbished. Even the knife had been polished and honed. One of the pockets was heavy with the weight of coins.
"Your companion selected them from among those you wore," explained Dras. "The knife, I understand, is a symbol of rank. The laser, of course, could not be allowed."
"By whom?"
"Camolsaer." Dras sounded surprised at the question, a man who, having breathed all his life, should suddenly be asked why he breathed. A mystery, one to be added to the rest; but if the minstrel had been released a month ago he could have the answers.
"Arbush," said Dumarest. "My companion. Where can I find him?"
"A moment." Dras crossed to where a machine protruded from a wall. A ledge three feet above the floor, a metal plate above it, a grill; lenses glowed as he rested his hand on the ledge. "Dras. Where is Arbush?"
The answer came immediately, the voice flat as it droned from the grill.
"Corridor 137. Point 37."
"Outside," said Dras turning. "He's waiting outside."
* * * * *
Arbush had changed, fat dissolved from his body to reveal the firm outline of bone, the bulk of muscle; but he was still big, still round.
"Earl!" His hand lifted, extended, the fingers touching, gripping a shoulder. "Man, it's good to see you!"
Dumarest returned the gesture. "You're looking well."
"Better than the last time you saw me, eh?" Arbush smiled. He was wearing a coverall of dull brown, the sleeves flecked with minute patches of yellow as if some thick liquid had splashed and dried. "I was as near dead as I ever want to be. When the rope broke and you fell and I-" He broke off, shuddering. "A bad time, Earl."
Lashed to a piton, hanging helplessly from a rod thrust into a sheer wall; without a rope, a companion, any means of escape. Left to swing, to wait, to freeze and die. To envy, perhaps, the one who had fallen.
Dumarest said, "What happened?"
"A miracle. They must have seen us from the city. Camolsaer sent out Monitors and one arrived, just in time to catch you as you fell. It wasn't gentle; there wasn't time for that. It just grabbed you and I guess it must have knocked you out. At least you hung limp as it carried you away. Then two others came for me."
"Monitors?"
"Those things like armored men that we saw flying. One of them shot at us. They aren't men, Earl. And they don't usually fly. They wear attachments for that."
"And Camolsaer?"
"They didn't tell you?" Arbush shrugged. "Well, they didn't tell me either. I guess they're so used to it that they take it for granted. Like having to explain gravitation; no one ever does, you just know it's there. Camolsaer runs the city."
"A man?"
"No, a machine. At least I guess it is. I've never seen it." Arbush glanced along the corridor. "Tell you what, let's get something to drink. Good stuff, Earl; as fine a wine as I've tasted anywhere. And you don't have to pay for it."
Dumarest said, dryly, "That's convenient."
"You don't have to pay for anything. Think of it. Earl. Clothes, food, wine, entertainment, all free. Every damned thing you want, you can get by asking for it. Just by asking. I've got a better room than you could get in any top-class hotel. Clothes which would cost a fortune, on any planet. All the things I dreamt about on the ice; hot baths, succulent meats, everything, all on tap."
"Including those willing, wanton girls?"
"Those too." Arbush was bland. "There's one in particular who is very interested in you, Earl. She's bent my ear for hours on end, wanting to know about the warp, the ship, how you managed to keep us alive." He sobered a little. "Earl, out there on the ice, you said some pretty hard things. Did them too."
"So?"
"I just wanted to let you know I don't hold it against you. It had to be done. At the time I felt like murder; but, well, let's forget it, eh?"
"I'd forgotten."
"Good; well, let me show you around a little. It's not such a big place, but built like a gem. Everything a man could need. A paradise, Earl. A literal paradise."
One with a serpent. As they neared the end of the corridor a tall, metallic shape stepped towards them, halting to block their path.
"Man Arbush, you left your work without permission."
"I wanted to meet a friend."
"It is noted."
"A special occasion. I didn't think anyone would mind."
"You have also failed to cleanse yourself. That too was noted."
"I was in a hurry." Arbush glanced at the yellow flecks on his arms. "Anyway I moved my quota."
The Monitor turned a little. "Man Dumarest, you will report for duty at sector 92 at the third bell. Appropriate clothing will be supplied. You will establish your residence in room 731. During your period of work, you will not carry the symbol of your rank."
The knife about which Arbush had obviously lied, a pretense which he must have thought important.
Dumarest said, "That is not possible. Never is a person of my station devoid of the insignia of his rank."
"You will not carry it to your place of work." The flat drone precluded all possibility of argument, of appeal. Arbush grunted as the Monitor moved away. "The fly in the ointment, Earl. Those damn things act as police. You do as they say-or else."
"Or else, what?"
They make you. They can do it, too. I had a little trouble on my third day-some character in the gymnasium said something I didn't like. I was about to flatten him when a Monitor grabbed me. I was like a child.
"The knife," said Dumarest. "Why-"
"But you can get along," said Arbush quickly, a little too loud. "All you have to do is cooperate. I'm slow in learning, but I'm catching on. Just do your work, obey the rules and then sit back and enjoy yourself. And you keep fit, too. Look at me." He patted his waist. "In a few days, Earl, you'll be as good as new."
Perhaps, with training, exercise and a high protein diet it could be done. Would be done, no matter how long it took. As questions would be answered, mysteries explained.
Dumarest looked at the ceiling, the edges of the walls. Bright sparkles could have been inset decoration, or the glitter of minute lenses. Electronic eyes and ears, gathering and relaying information. But could an entire city be constantly monitored? And, if it was, who collected and collated the information?