They waited while he shook the forefinger slowly at his mind. “Cages. Yes. Once, when I was a boy, I heard these things described in terms of Ancestor-Science. The Cages of Sin. That was it—the Cages of Sin! And there was a line about them that went like this: The cages of sin is death.”
“Are death, you mean,” someone corrected. “The Cages of Sin are death.”
“That’s not the way the line went,” Manny insisted. “Not the way I heard it. It went: The cages of sin is death. Just like that”
A chilled silence followed. After a while, a man dropped to his knees and began muttering an Ancestor-Science litany used by his own people. Another man from the same tribe knelt beside him and joined in. The chant filled the cage, awoke guilty memories in all of them.
O ancestors, O ancestors, I have failed and I have forgotten. Forgive me. I have failed to hit back at the Monsters in the ways you taught. Forgive me. I have forgotten to follow your ways. Forgive me, forgive me…
Eric shook himself out of the hypnosis of misery the words induced. Give in to this sort of thing and they’d be worth nothing. The whole bunch of them would be so much sewerage.
He still burned with shame when he thought of how the mass panic had swept him up a short while ago. That was no way for an Eye to act—and he was an Eye. An Eye should observe and record, no matter how fearfully unusual the circumstances, even if death seemed imminent. Wherever and however he found himself, an Eye must store impressions for future use: he must act like an Eye.
This cage, now—He walked away from the group surrounding the kneeling men. Roy the Runner and Walter the Weapon-Seeker gave him a startled glance, then fell in behind him. They passed Arthur the Organizer, sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. “Forgive me,” Arthur was intoning. “Forgive me, forgive me… ”
Less than ten paces by twelve paces, those were the dimensions of the cage. Not very much room for so many men—they were pretty crowded. The Monsters would probably make some provision for feeding them: there was no point in taking them alive if they weren’t intended to be fed. But there would be the problem of garbage and body waste. Eric studied the floor and saw how it sloped to one corner of the cage where there was a rod junction. A hole in that corner went down into a rod: evidently the rod was hollow. But a very small, single hole for such a large number of men—how did the Monsters propose to keep the cage from becoming foul?
Eric put the problem aside temporarily and walked to one of the four perpendicular walls, Walter and Roy still following him and trying to read the reactions on his face. The wall was transparent and solid: Eric made sure of that by thumping it with his knuckles and trying to scratch it with a spear point. He threw back his head, estimating the distance to the top. About three and a half men high, with a lip that curved in and down for about an arm’s length. Still—
“We could get four husky men to stand side by side against it,” he suggested to Walter. “Three men standing on their shoulders, two men on theirs. A pyramid. Then a man could scramble up their bodies and pull himself over the lip.”
The Weapon-Seeker considered. “He might. But four and three and two—that would leave nine men behind in the cage. Who’d volunteer to be left behind?”
“That’s not your problem,” said a weak voice behind them. “Your problem is what you do when you get out of here.”
They turned. There was an oddlooking man lying on the floor in the midst of the woebegone expedition. He didn’t appear to be a Stranger, Eric decided, and he certainly wasn’t a member of Mankind. While his hair was tied in the back of his head Stranger-fashion, he was dressed in some ridiculous garment that was not a loincloth and certainly not loin straps—a short leather skirt with pockets all around its circumference. From several pockets, unfamiliar articles protruded.
And he was badly hurt. The upper part of his face and the whole right side of his body showed wide, dark bruises; his right arm and leg were limp and apparently broken.
“Were you already in the cage when they dropped us in?” Eric asked.
“I was. But you people had too many troubles of your own to notice me.” He groaned and shut his eyes before going on. “You see, if you get out of here, you’ve nowhere to go. The walls of the cage are as smooth outside as inside—you’d just drop to the main floor, a full Monster-height below. And even if you made it to one of the rods—what good would that do? No handholds, nothing to grip anywhere along their length. Now, what I’ve been lying here wondering is this: could you pool your hair straps and your loin straps, braid them into a rope—”
“We could!” Walter broke in excitedly. “I know how, and there are other men here who-”
“But then I dismissed that idea, too. At most, you’d get a rope that only one of two men could use and would have to take with them from rod to rod. You’re dealing with fantastic heights, remember. And from what I know of the quality of the leather you people turn out—no, it would just be another way to get killed.” He paused, thought a bit. “Although, maybe not a bad way. Not a bad way to get killed at all.”
The three of them soaked that in, shuddered. “Speaking of people,” the Weapon-Seeker said in a low voice. “What are yours?”
“My tribe, you mean? That’s my business. Now—kindly go away. I’m—I’m afraid I’m going to suffer a bit.”
Roy the Runner grunted angrily. “We’ll go away. Be glad to. Get in touch with us when you learn some manners and friendliness.”
He walked off. The Weapon-Seeker scratched his head, looked at Eric, shrugged. He caught up to the Runner.
Eric squatted next to the wounded man. “Can I help you in any way?” he asked. “Could you use some water?”
The man licked his lips. “Water? How would you get water up here when it’s not feeding time? Oh, I forgot. You warrior types, you carry canteens around with you. Yes, I’d very much appreciate some water.”
Unslinging his canteen, Eric brought it to the man’s mouth. The fellow certainly was no warrior—he seemed to know nothing of drinking discipline while on expedition. He would have finished the whole canteen, if Eric, conscious always of what must be set aside for an emergency, had not gently pulled it back and stoppered it.
“Thanks,” the man sighed. “I’ve been taking pills for the pain, but I haven’t been able to do anything about thirst. Thank you very much.” He looked up. “My name’s Jonathan Danielson.”
“Mine’s Eric. Eric the Eye.”
“HeIIo, Eric. You’re from a—” pause, as a twinge of pain arched through the prone body “—from a front-burrow people, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my tribe calls itself Mankind. The only one that’s left from it, who’s still with me, is that tall fellow, Roy the Runner. The one who got mad at you.”
“The only one that’s left—” the man seemed to be talking to himself. “I’m the only one left. Fourteen of us, and they got every one. Just one kick from a Monster. Broken bodies all over the place. I was lucky: the foot barely touched me. Smashed my ribs—internal hemorrhages—I don’t think anyone else got off so lightly.”
When his voice trailed off, Eric asked hesitantly: “Is that what we can expect? Is that what the Monsters will do to us?”