Sten felt slightly sorry for what he was doing, but as yet there was no other viable escape plan in motion. And Sten remembered once again that warrant officer crying over his parcel.
"We'll give you more diggers. Diggers working under your direction. And nothing will be done without your knowledge and approval."
"Do we have any choice?"
Sten did not bother to answer.
Markiewicz glanced at Cristata and answered for the four of them. "It appears as if the Great One wishes this."
It was unanimous.
Sten sort of hated to give them what looked to be the answer, because it was simple.
Dig down.
Disbelieving—except for Cristata, who reasoned that somehow the Great One was speaking through Sten—they did.
Many days later, they broke through into the cellars of Koldyeze.
And that, for Cristata, created an even larger problem.
Once again Sten went out and down late at night, then shinnied down from that small rocky chamber into caverns. High stone-ceilinged caverns that led on into darkness. Caverns that were flagstone-floored, with pillars stretching up. Caverns that, Cristata pointed out, held all the temptations of Xanadu.
Sten took a quick torchlight inventory, whistled, and agreed. Evidently the simple, monotheistic agrarian communards who had originally built Koldyeze had planned for some very rainy days. And they had planned on spending those rainy days in more than ascetic meditation. There were chambers with large barrels. Sten thumped them, and they appeared to still have liquid in them. He ran his finger along the barrel staves and tasted alcohol.
Other chambers held foodpaks; still others, clothing.
"And we have not fully explored these chambers," Cristata went on gloomily. "But it would appear that whoever stored these substances enjoyed life."
Sten eyed the foodpaks hungrily—and stopped thinking about what a meal composed of real food could do for him. Instead, he made plans.
Cristata—personally—would make a full survey of the cellars. What was in them would be told to Colonel Virunga and Mr. Hernandes only. The last thing Sten needed was for that tunnel, which looked to be their only salvation, to get blown because a bunch of tunnelers started looking fat, well dressed, and—worst case—drunk. The assigned tunnelers from the X organization would be conducted into the rocky chamber blindfolded and then taken through the cellars to the working face. Only Cristata and his converts would know what those cellars of plenty held. They would be kept secret for emergency rations and to help the escapers get into shape. And Sten hoped most sincerely that none of Cristata's true believers would suffer a lapse of faith and a subsequent big mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Senior Captain Lo Prek sat nervously on the edge of his bunk, trying to decipher the radio chatter between the freighter captain and traffic control. The mysteries of naval patter were beyond him, but he could tell from the tone of the captain's voice that all did not bode well.
Prek had wrangled passage on a ship carrying low-priority materials for the Tahn factories. Already the ship's flight had been interrupted or rerouted half a dozen times since he had started his journey many cycles before. And from the captain's whining, he was sure it was about to happen again.
He squirmed impatiently on the bunk, almost welcoming the bite of the metal edge into his skinny haunches. He felt helpless. There was nothing he could do or say to hurry the journey. He had already called in the few favors that were owed him to get the short amount of leave that had been approved. And he had almost begged to get permission to travel on the puny freighter. Permission had been granted grudgingly—possibly out of guilt.
Prek knew that he was not a man anyone liked. He was superefficient. Superobedient. Single-minded at his work. Never asking for any rewards for a job well done. Being non-competitive, he had also never harmed anyone in his life. Still, he was not liked. There was something about him... and Prek knew and accepted it, just as he accepted the guilt that caused in his fellow officers. For a change, he had used that guilt. Acting completely out of character, he had molded it to his own advantage. Normally, even the thought of something like that would have disgusted Prek.
But not this time. Because this time he was sure he had found Sten—or, at least, where Sten was hiding.
There was a new prisoner-of-war camp. For troublemakers. For survivors. It was on Heath at a place called Koldyeze.
Prek listened to the resignation in the freighter captain's voice. There would be another delay. Another reprieve for his enemy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The prisoner work detail, surrounded by their Tahn guards, clattered back toward Koldyeze. Just in front of them the cobbled street wound upward toward the prison.
"I'm waiting," Sten said.
"Shut up. You'll see," St. Clair whispered.
"Deee-tail... halt," Chetwynd bellowed.
The prisoners clumped to a stop. On either side of the road rose abandoned slum apartments.
"Five minutes. Rest. Be grateful."
Sten goggled as all the guards, including Chetwynd, ostentatiously turned their backs and the detail dissolved, scampering into the buildings like so many rodents.
"What in the—"
"Come on," St. Clair urged, nearly dragging Sten into a doorway.
"Didn't I say I had a surprise?" she went on.
"GA, Captain. And quick."
"Don't give me orders. Look. You know how to search a room?"
"I do," Sten said.
"Okay. We're going upstairs. You look for things. I'll talk."
They went up the rickety stairs, and Sten followed her instructions.
"What am I looking for?"
"Anything we can use. And anything the Tahn can sell. We got ourselves a business going, Big X."
Indeed they did.
The slum quarters had never been that well populated—the apartments were entirely too close to Koldyeze. And the periodic draft sweeps the Tahn made for their military started, of course, in the poor sections of Heath.
St. Clair had followed orders—if she was to be the scrounger, she would be a clotting good one. And the way to get things was, of course, on the outside. In spite of her total loathing for anything resembling manual labor, she had volunteered for every work gang going. She did not know exactly what to look for, but she knew there was something out there.
What was out there were the guards. And St. Clair knew that any being who was willing to batten on the miseries of others was corruptible. She had tested her theory—and her teeth—when she had found a jeweled tunic pin in some trash.
She had offered it to the nearest and—by estimate from body weight—greediest guard. He had snatched and examined it.
"Are there others?" he had asked.
"I guess so," St. Clair said innocently, waving a hand around at the multistory buildings. "It'd be interesting to look.
"Wouldn't it?"
The guard grinned. "Whyn't you an' the others go have a look?"
Within minutes, Captain St. Clair had the rest of the detail worming through the nearest apartment. That looked as if it could develop into something. Within two days she felt less like a corrupter and more like the corrupted. The "looting break" became an instant ritual for most of the work details on their way back to Koldyeze.
St. Clair stopped her explanation and marveled at Sten. He was listening intently while quartering the room like a bloodhound. He started at the far wall and quartered outward. Each piece of broken furniture was picked up or tapped for hidden compartments. The rags that had been clothes were swiftly patted down, then held up to see if they still could be used. The ripped mattress was kneaded for any interesting lumps. There were two pictures lying on the floor in their broken frames. Both of them were torn apart. Then Sten set to work knuckle rapping on the walls.