Chapter 7
Revolt!
Tuck awoke with a jerk in the semidarkness of the ittle room. He sat up sharply, the whisper of a very unpleasant dream still drifting in his mind. For a noment of panic he wondered where he was; then he saw the crude gray concrete wall curved in over the bed at a sharp angle, and the brightly painted canvas ceiling of the Torms’ cabin. He stood up on the cold, uneven floor, and felt every joint in his body scream in protest. He whacked the rough sleeping pallet with his fist, then wrung his hand until the pain went away. This was a bed? A horizontal board covered by a lumpy plastic-covered mattress which couldn’t have been an inch thick anywhere! Tuck groaned, and reached for his clothes, glancing over at his father’s sleeping place. It was empty; the Colonel must have slept even worse than he had! And yet, there was an edge of worry that nibbled at Tuck’s mind, and he started rapidly to dress.
Details of the previous evening began to return. There was the conference with Anson Torm the night before—and there was the prisoner. Tuck’s gloom deepened. There was a man to watch out for! His mind’s eye held a sharp picture of the twisted, bitter face of John Cortell as he had strode away with a guard on either side. Both the Colonel and Torm had been angry at the end of that meeting, so angry that they barely had spoken on the way from the meeting room. Tuck recalled his own feeling of futility and helplessness as he had followed the two men down the rough road to the small, hutlike cabin that Torm called his home. It was wrong—everything was wrong. From the first meeting with Torm, something had been awry, some aura of deadly suspicion in the air, yet think as he would, Tuck could not pinpoint it. Torm had shown them their room, and then had left them to their own devices while he went to meet his wife at the infirmary, and to see David.
“But Dad, you didn’t even listen to him,” Tuck had protested as he and his father started unpacking their bags. “I know that we have to be careful, but he was telling the truth, Dad—”
The Colonel sat down, head in his hand. “I wish I could believe that, but I just can’t.”
“But can’t you meet him halfway?”
“There’s too much at stake to meet them halfway, son. You heard what Torm said tonight.”
Tuck nodded eagerly. “Yes, I did—and if it’s true, it makes things add up. The rumors, the ambush in the gorge—”
“How about the bomb in the letter? How about the smuggled supplies? No, there are too many things that don’t add up.”
Tuck sobered. “It’s just wrong, somehow. There’s something wrong, something we don’t know.”
“I know. But just suppose the colony is planning a revolt, open warfare, real trouble. And then, before they re fully prepared, they get word that we are coming out to investigate. They have agents back on Earth, agents who have been arranging the smuggled shipments for years. Suppose they made a desperate attempt on my life, before I even left Earth—”
“Well, somebody did. But it didn’t work.”
The Colonel’s face hardened. “It would have worked. It was a chance in a million that you happened to be home and detect the letter. But you were, so we arrive here. And what happens? Torm appears at the ship, and spends two hours stalling me with denials and accusations. Suppose they need time—maybe just a day or so more to prepare themselves completely for a revolt. Suppose it’s essential to keep us calmed down, out of their hair. What do they do? They carefully stage an ambush, to throw suspicion away from Torm onto a scapegoat. So then, according to the little scenario they’ve prepared, I’m supposed to confide in Torm, trust him implicitly, tell him everything he wants to know, and they throw the scapegoat in jail so it looks like the trouble is under control, and everything is just rosy—until the rest of the colony has time to finish preparations. And then, boom I Just like that.” The Colonel looked up at his son, a twinkle in his eyes. “They’re clever, Tuck. They’re got the scenario all planned out just perfectly. Only your old man isn’t going along with the scenario quite as it was planned—”
“You—you really think this has just been an elaborate cover-up?”
The Colonel shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re dealing with desperate men.”
“You think Anson Torm could be a party to a scheme of that sort?” Tuck stared at his father.
The Colonel stood up, slowly. “You like the man, don’t you?”
Tuck’s eyes dropped. “I know. I shouldn’t, I suppose. It—it doesn’t seem right. But I can’t help it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, son.” The Colonel’s eyes were sad. “I like him, too. And that’s what’s going to be toughest of all. Because I think he’s lying in his teeth, and I just don’t dare take a chance that he isn’t.”
They had finished unpacking then, and when the Torms returned there was little conversation. Tuck had not realized how extremely hungry he was, and he watched Mrs. Torm silently from the corner as she prepared the simple meal, and set it down on the table for them. She was a small, quiet woman, looking far older than her years, her face creased with anxiety, and she watched the men with sad, weary eyes, as they ate in silence. Twice she tried unsuccessfully to start pleasant conversation, only to see it dwindle. Finally she said, “I know that there was trouble on the way here, Colonel, and I’m sorry. But I will not have fighting and bitterness carried into my house. There’s enough of that in the streets and mines. I want love and friendship in my house.” She smiled suddenly, looking years younger. “We have visitors from Earth so seldom. Perhaps you could tell us how things are—back on Earth.”
It had been easier, after that. Tuck had joined his father in an account of the new things that had happened back home. The meal was plain, but prepared by an expert hand, and they found the atmosphere in the house at the end of the meal quite different than before the meal. Finally the Colonel brought out his pipe and filled it, then offered the pouch to Anson. The old man’s eyes lighted, and he went to a cabinet against the wall, dug deep on a shelf, and came out with an old, old pipe, cracked and blackened with age. “My fathers,” he said, as he filled it. “Tobacco doesn’t come to us very often—there’s little room for it on the cargo ships.”
The Colonel turned to Mrs. Torm. “And David? How is the boy?”
“He was resting when we saw him. The doctor said there weren’t any broken bones or concussion. It just shook him up, but he’ll have to stay there a few days, just to make sure—”
Tuck sighed, almost audibly, making a mental note to inquire the way to the infirmary first thing next morning. They had talked on about Earth until very late; then Tuck and his father had retired to their cubicle, set back from the main room of the hut and closed off with a coarse blanket.
“Sorry we can’t give you more privacy, but walls are expensive to build,” Torm had said apologetically. “Someday we’ll have real houses here, I hope. For the time being, I guess you’ll be tired enough to sleep.”
And now, as Tuck put on his shoes, he wished he had been. Instead of sleeping, he had tossed and turned, his mind spinning over the previous day s events. His father and Torm hadn’t spoken of the affairs of the colony all evening, and had seemed almost to be warming toward each other. Yet Tuck couldn’t erase his father s words from his mind. They are clever men, desperate men, and this may just be part of their plan. For hours he had turned the situation over in his mind, and then had sunk into an uneasy sleep, no closer to the answer than before—