Then he recalled what Pallis had told him of Decker's calculations. The revolution's subtle leader-to-be had hinted darkly that he had no fear of a loss of economic power over the Belt despite the planned gift of a supply machine. Was it possible that this act had been deliberate? Had lives been wasted, an irreplaceable device hurled away, all for some short-term political advantage?
Rees felt as if he were suspended over a void, as if he were one of the unfortunates lost in the catastrophe; but the depths were composed not of air but of the baseness of human nature.
At the start of the next shift Cipse was too weak to be moved; so Rees agreed with Grye and the rest that he should be left undisturbed in the Belt. When Rees reached the surface of the star kernel he told Roch the situation. He kept his words factual, Ms tone meek and apologetic. Roch glowered, thick eyebrows knotting, but he said nothing, and Rees made his way into the depths of the star.
At mid-shift he rode back to the surface for a break — and was met by the sight of Cipse. The Navigator was wrapped in a grimy blanket and was weakly reaching for the controls of a wheelchair.
Rees rattled painfully over the star's tiny hills to Cipse. He reached out and laid a hand as gently as possible on the Scientist's arm. "Cipse, what the hell's going on? You're ill, damn it; you were supposed to stay in the Belt."
Cipse turned his eyes to Rees; he smiled, his face a bloodless white. "I didn't get a lot of choice, I'm afraid, my young friend."
"Roch…"
"Yes." Cipse closed his eyes, still fumbling for the controls of his chair.
"You got something to say about it, Raftshit?"
Rees turned his chair. Roch faced him, his corrupted mouth spread into a grin.
Rees tried to compute a way through this — to search for a lever that might influence this gross man and save his companion — but his rationality dissolved in a tide of rage. "You bastard, Roch," he hissed. "You're murdering us. And yet you're not as guilty as the folk up there who are letting you do it."
Roch assumed an expression of mock surprise. "You're not happy, Raftshit? Well, I'll tell you what—" He hauled himself to his feet. Face purpling, massive fists bunched, he grinned at Rees. "Why don't you do something about it? Come on. Get out of that chair and face me, right now. And if you can put me down — why, then, you can tuck your little friend up again."
Rees closed his eyes. Oh, by the Bones—
"Don't listen to him, Rees."
"I'm afraid it's too late, Cipse," he whispered. He gripped the arms of his chair and tensed his back experimentally. "After what I was stupid enough to say he's not going to let me off this star alive. At least this way you have a chance—"
He lifted his left foot from its supporting platform; it felt as if a cage of iron were strapped to his leg. Now the right…
And, without giving himself time to think about it, with a single, vein-bursting heave he pushed himself out of his chair.
Pain lapped in great sheets over the muscles of his thighs, calves and back. For a terrible instant he thought he was going to topple forward, to smash face-down into the iron. Then he was stable. His breathing was shallow and he could feel his heart rattle in its cage of bones; it was as if he bore a huge, invisible weight strapped to his back.
He looked up and faced Roch, tried to force a grin onto his swollen face.
"Another attempt at self-sacrifice, Rees?" Cipse said softly. "Godspeed, my friend."
Roch's smile seemed easy, as if the five gees were no more than a heavy garment. Now he lifted one massive leg, forced it through the air and drove his foot into the rust. Another step, and another; at last he was less than a yard from Rees, close enough for Rees to smell the sourness of his breath. Then, grunting with the effort, he lifted one huge fist.
Rees tried to lift his arms over his head, but it was as if they were bound to his sides by massive ropes. He closed his eyes. For some reason a vision of the young, white stars at the fringe of the Nebula came to him; and his fear dissolved. A shadow crossed his face.
He opened his eyes. He saw red sky — and pain lanced through his skull.
But he was alive, and the loading of the star's five gees had gone. There was a cool surface at Ms back and neck; he ran his hands over it and felt the gritty surface of an iron plate. The plate juddered beneath him; his stomach tightened and he gagged, dry. His mouth was sour, his tongue like a piece of wood, and he wondered how long he had lain unconscious.
Cautiously he propped himself on one elbow. The plate was about ten feet on a side; over it had been cast a rough net to which he was tethered by a rope around his waist. A pile of roughly cut iron was fixed near the center of the plate. The plate had one other occupant: the barman, Jame, who regarded Rees incuriously as he chewed on a piece of old-looking meat-sim. "You're awake, then," he said. "I thought Roch had bust your skull wide open; you've been out for hours."
Rees stared at him; then the plate gave another shudder. Rees sat up, testing the gravity — it was tiny and wavering — and looked around.
The Belt hung in the air perhaps half a mile away, surrounding its star kernel like a crude bracelet around a child's wrist.
So he was flying. On a metal plate? Vertigo swept through him and he wrapped his fingers in the net.
At length he made his way slowly to the edge of the plate, ducked his head to the underside. He saw four jet nozzles fixed at the corners of the plate, the small drive boxes obviously taken from Belt rooftops. Occasionally, in response to tugs by Jame on control strings, the nozzles would spout steam and the plate would kick through the air.
So the miners had invented flying machines while he had been gone. Why, he wondered, did they need them all of a sudden?
He straightened up and sat once more facing Jame. Now the barman was sucking water from a globe; at first he acted as if unaware of Rees, but at length, with a hint of pity on his broad, bearded features, he passed Rees the globe.
Rees allowed the water to pour over his tongue, slide down his parched throat. He passed the globe back. "Come on, Jame. Tell me what's going on. What happened to Cipse?"
"Who?"
"The Nav — The Scientist. The ill one."
Jame looked blank. "One of them died down there. Heart packed up, I heard. A fat old guy. Is that who you mean?"
Rees sighed. "Yes, Jame; that's who I mean."
Jame studied him; then he pulled a bottle from his waistband, unstopped it and took a deep draught.
"Jame, why aren't I dead also?"
"You should be. Roch thought he had killed you; that's why he didn't hit you any more. He had you hauled up and brought to the damn Quartermaster's — can you believe it? — and then you started to groan a bit, move around. Roch was all for finishing you off there and then, but I told him, 'Not in my bar, you don't'… Then Sheen showed up."
Something like hope spread through Rees. "Sheen?"
"She knew I was due to leave on this ferry so I guess that gave her the idea to get you off the Belt." Jame's eyes slid past Rees. "Sheen is a decent woman. Maybe this was the only way she could think of to save you. But I'll tell you, Roch was happy enough to send you out here. A slower, painful death for you; that's what he thought he was settling for…"
"What? Where are you taking me?" Rees, confused, questioned Jame further; but the barman lapsed into silence, nursing his bottle.
Under Jame's direction the little craft descended into the Nebula. The atmosphere became thicker, warmer, harder to breathe; it was like the air in a too-enclosed room. The Nebula grew dark; the enfeebled stars shone brightly against the gloom. Rees spent long hours at the lip of the plate, staring into the abyss below. In the darkness at the very heart of the Nebula Rees fancied he could see all the way to the Core, as if he were back in the Observatory.