The elevator halted and he left the cage. A door gave on to a flight of stairs but he passed them, they were wide and carpeted and would be watched. Somewhere there had to be another flight, service stairs for the use of maintenance workers and cleaners. A place like this would want to keep such people out of sight of the residents.
He staggered a little, fighting a sudden nausea, a beelike buzzing in his ears. Sweat dewed his face and body as his metabolism struggled against the diverse effects of the drugs. He reached a corner and ducked around it as someone called out from behind. A door yielded and he stared into a closet filled with cleaning material. Another held a row of meters. The third opened on a flight of narrow stairs.
He ran down them, almost falling, knuckles white as he gripped the rail. He passed the ground floor and descended lower guessing that there had to be an exit from the basement. A door at the foot of the stairs opened into a large area filled with machine sounds, the soft whir of ventilating fans, a quiet hiss of steam from a leaking valve, the regular pound of a pumping mechanism. A man gaped at him, cringing as Dumarest caught his arm.
"The way out. Where is it?"
"Uh?" The man didn't seem to understand.
"The exit, damn you!" Dumarest dug his fingers deeper into the moist flesh. "The way out!"
He followed the pointing arm, running past a humming generator, the pits of elevator shafts, a bank of glowing instruments. He had descended too far. A short flight of stairs took him to a higher level, a maze of pipes and conduits and twisting passages. He fell and rose, shaking his head to clear the dimming mist from his eyes. From ahead came a blur of voices and a busy clatter.
It came from a wide area filled with benches, ovens and cooking smells. The main kitchen supplying the restaurant and individual rooms. A man cutting meat stared at him, blood on his soiled apron, a shining knife in his hand. From one side a voice called an urgent command.
"Hold that man! Hold him!"
The butcher grinned and came forward, the light shining from the blade gripped in his big fist. He was a burly man with muscles toughened by years of hefting carcasses.
"Just stay where you are," he said. "Move and I'll split you open."
Dumarest ran forward. As the blade lifted he kicked, his foot smashing against the man's kneecap, his raised right arm blocking the downward swing of the knife. As the man staggered he struck again, the edge of his left hand slamming against the side of the thick neck. A row of garbage cans stood to one side and he headed toward them, thrusting through the swing doors beyond, feeling cold air blowing from a ramp leading upward.
Five seconds later he had reached the street.
He fell again, slipping on frozen slush, rolling at the feet of startled pedestrians. A man caught his arm, helped him to rise, stared his concern.
"You all right, mister?"
"Yes."
"You sure?" The man was anxious. "You look bad to me. Are you ill?"
A cab pulled up across the road, a young woman alighting, her face white against the dark fur of her robe. Dumarest pulled free his arm and ran toward it His head swam and the pound of his heart was a hammer beating at his chest. Darkness edged his vision and confused his sense of judgment.
He heard someone cry out, saw a looming shape rushing toward him, tried to spring clear and felt his foot slip on a patch of snow.
The shock of the impact was swallowed in darkness.
Chapter Eight
All channels were alike; organic chemistry, quantum mechanics, binomial theory, applied physics, atomic engineering, astronomy, algebra, basic mathematics, each a nonstop stream of educational matter force-fed into every home. Irritably Mada switched off the television. Had it always been like that, she wondered, and remembered that it had. The scientific approach. If a thing had no educational value then it went into the discard. Dancing was for the study of controlled movement and for physical development. Singing for the exercise of the vocal chords and the illustration of varying harmonics. Stories were lectures, painting an exercise in manual control, verse a mathematical problem.
But why should it bother her now?
Restlessly she wandered about her chamber, touching various items, her hands lingering on soft fabrics and supple leathers. Tactile pleasure, for so long unappreciated and now holding a special charm. How much had they all missed in the past? Was intellectual attainment really the sum total of existence? It wasn't she knew, remembering the lovers on the train, her own past affairs, but there had to be more than bodily satisfaction.
A mistake, she thought, sitting and leaning back in the chair. One built into the system at the very beginning of the colonization. The apparently bright but secretly tarnished concept that education would solve all ills. But it didn't work like that. A man gained degrees or he went to the bottom of the heap. Yet the levels were relative and the end product inevitably one of growing dissatisfaction. A laborer had been taught to recognize the menial nature of his work. A man with a valued degree could be qualified only to clean out sewers.
And so the imported labor from Loame. Let them do the filthy jobs, the dirty but essential tasks, lifting by their presence the egos of those above. Yet it was an uneasy solution, for it would lead directly to a slave culture with all that implied. Better to dispose of them all even though that was wasteful and emotionally unscientific. They were a smoldering bomb which would one day explode.
Subconsciously her hands roved over her body, feeling the firm contours beneath the clinging gown. The touch wakened memories and aroused again the biological reaction she had felt on the train. The reaction brought him vividly to mind.
Impatience drove her to the phone, sent her fingers punching a familiar number. On the screen a face, hygienically clean, looked at her.
"Madam?"
"Please report on the progress of patient nine eighteen."
The face dipped, rose as the woman completed her scanning of a file. "Progress is steady, madam. The injuries were intense and grafts had to be made. The spleen, a kidney and a section of intestine. There were also broken ribs and a punctured lung."
"How long before he is well?"
"The patient is in deep sleep and his progress is satisfactory. He-"
"How long?"
"Another few days, madam."
"Very well. Send him to me when he has fully recovered."
There was no point in being impatient, she thought, breaking the connection. Even the magic of slow-time which increased the speed of the metabolism so that an hour's healing could be compressed into little more than a minute took time.
The impatience of youth, she thought, and smiled. The impetuousness, too. It had been simple to order a guard to keep a discreet watch on the stranger, changing him for less conspicuous men when the chance arose. They had followed him: to the chemists, the library and then to the apartment of the woman. Almost they had lost him, but the accident had put him firmly in her power. A private nursing home and he was safe until she should need him.
As a lover?
She faced the question squarely, responding even to the concept, the reaction of her body telling her that it was the basic reason for her actions. He had appealed to her and she wanted him. The fact that he was something of a mystery enhanced his attraction. A whim, she thought. A romantic interlude. But why shouldn't she indulge herself?
She turned as the door chimed. Dek Brekla stood outside. He entered, smiling, glancing at the subdued illumination.
"Sitting in the dark, Mada? But then you have a fondness for shadows, don't you." Lifting one hand he touched her gently on the cheek. "I wonder why?"