This Star Shall Abide (12 page)

“I do not have any new Power Cells with me,” he said, “but the one in my lantern may serve. I shall see.” He switched off the light and carefully opened the panel in its bottom as he had seen the Technician do, withdrawing the small red cube that contained the mysterious Power. That part was easy. The problem would be to open the Radiophone Machine.

It was not reasonable, Noren decided, that a panel would be placed in its bottom; this did not look like a thing that should be turned upside down. The opening must be in the back. He grasped the Machine with trembling hands and started to turn it around, whereupon it gave forth loud crackling and hissing sounds. It took all his courage not to let go, but since the radiophonist and his friends did not draw back in terror, he concluded that these sounds must be normal.

The Machine’s back did indeed have a panel, but it was evident that it could not be unlatched in the same manner as the one in the lantern. Noren cursed under his breath. If the radiophonist had watched the process of replacing Power Cells before, as he undoubtedly had, he must know perfectly well how to remove the back; yet he would not presume to advise a Technician and would be dumbfounded if his opinion were to be sought. On the other hand, he would be horrified by the sacrilege if the Machine was clumsily handled. Noticing in desperation that its sides curled over the panel whereas its top did not, Noren pressed upward and found that the entire back slid out easily. His relief faded quickly, however, when inside, amid a maze of appallingly complex devices, he saw not one Power Cell, but four.

He scowled, debating as to his next move. If there were four, then obviously four were needed; yet they appeared to be exactly alike. Would all four have died at the same time? Probably not, for if they had, that would mean their death was predictable, and “checking” would be unnecessary. He should therefore need to replace only one; but which? Was it possible to tell by looking? The Power Cell the Technician had removed from the lantern hadn’t looked any different from its replacement, so perhaps it was usual to proceed by trial and error. Noren scrutinized the cube in his hand. One surface, he saw, was unlike the others in that it had a metal button in its center; he must take care to position it exactly as the Machine’s old cubes were positioned.

One by one, Noren removed the Power Cells, putting his own in each successive place while the men watched reverently. Each time he held his breath; if it did not work anywhere, his ignorance would surely be exposed. But on the third try it did work. “There, sir!” exclaimed someone. “That’s done it.” Leaning over, Noren saw that a red light had appeared on the front of the Machine and was deeply grateful for the comment; he would not have known how to tell whether he’d succeeded.

“Thank you, sir,” said the radiophonist. “It’s fortunate that you passed by tonight.”

“It is indeed,” Noren replied, as he replaced the Machine’s back panel.

“Will you not take the dead Power Cell away?” the man inquired anxiously, indicating the discarded red cube. “It cannot, of course, be left unprotected, and it would be irreverent for me to lay hands upon it.”

“Certainly I shall,” said Noren, suppressing a laugh, and thrust the thing casually into his pocket. “Goodnight, citizen.”

He walked down the moonlit street, his now-useless lantern swinging from his hand, exhilarated by his triumph. There was nothing so awesome about Power! Surely anyone intelligent enough to be appointed a radiophonist ought to be able to replace Power Cells without the aid of a Technician… or was intelligence necessarily the basis upon which radiophonists were chosen?

Of course it wasn’t, Noren perceived suddenly. A radiophonist’s job, he saw, was not at all difficult. It demanded not skill, but willingness to follow instructions without overstepping certain prescribed bounds. Those who did the job were admired because they operated Machines, which most citizens viewed with awe and veneration; but far from being superior to others, the radiophonists were equally awed by the Power Cells. And that, no doubt, was the way the Scholars wanted them to be.

No wonder he hadn’t been offered an appointment to the training center! No wonder the craftsworkers and traders he knew, most of whom were much shrewder than that radiophonist, had not been appointed either! The few people who disappeared from the place must be the ones who’d shown more initiative than the Scholars had anticipated. They must be the ones who had begun to learn too much.

He had no need to worry about Talyra’s safety there, he realized with relief. Talyra was intelligent, but she would not ask for information beyond what she was given; furthermore, though a nurse-midwife’s work was more demanding than a radiophonist’s, it in no way infringed upon the Technicians’ sole right to the Power and the Machines.

At the schoolhouse all was quiet. Noren made his way cautiously around the building, glad that the moons were up and yet fearful of being observed. The spot where he and Talyra had liked to sit was at the far edge of the schoolyard, half-hidden by a clump of shrubby growth. In the hollow there he found a neat pile of things: trousers, a tunic, and between the two garments, a carrying-jug of pure water plus a knotted kerchief. The latter was heavy; as he untied it, he saw the white gleam of coins—far more coins than could have been acquired in any way but by the sale of the treasured wristband. She had given him all she had. He paused a short while, staring at the flattened moss where they had spent happy moments together, and then firmly closed the door on a part of himself that could never be regained.

*
 
*
 
*

Smoke rose from the chimney of a sturdily-built farmhouse and warm lamplight shone out through the dusk. The work-beast in the fodder patch raised its head as Noren approached, giving a warning bellow; he paid no attention. He could not go on without eating, and the only way to get a meal was to ask for it. Stumbling across the dusty yard, he called at the door in as firm a tone as he could muster.

The night before, after changing into the clothes Talyra had obtained for him and ditching the Technician’s things in the depths of a pond, he had gone on until dawn, forcing himself despite his hunger to cover as much distance as he could. He’d passed straight through Prosperity, afraid that if he waited there to buy food, someone would remember him from his recent trip in pursuit of the trader. When morning came, he’d ventured to get breakfast at the first farm he had reached; but though he’d offered to pay, the farmer’s wife had been surly and had given him only a stale chunk of bread. Noren had taken it to a depleted clay pit nearby, where he’d gulped it down ravenously and then, too exhausted to try another place, had slept through the day’s heat, sheltered by sedges that grew out of coarse purple moss. Now it was evening again, and if he could not get supper, he would be unable to walk much farther. He had no choice but to make the attempt, dangerous though it might prove.

The matting of the door before him was pulled back and a motherly-looking woman exclaimed, “Lew! Lew, come here!” Noren found himself being propelled inside by a stout, brawny man who studied him briefly, then indicated a chair by the lamp. The room was thick with the dizzying odor of stewing fowl. Noren sat down. Nine or ten small children stared with interest, and he realized that his bruises as well as his presence would demand comment, though the only explanation he could think of was at best a flimsy one.

He forced the fear out of his voice. “I—I’ve been delayed,” he told them. “I was to meet my cousin in Prosperity and help him take a load to the City markets, only I left the road to rest and—well, slipped into a quarry. He’ll wait in the next village till tomorrow, and I’m sure I can catch up, but I’m awfully hungry. I can pay—”

“You don’t need to,” said the woman cordially. “I’ve fixed plenty; we’ll just set another place.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

“Cistern’s out back, if you want to wash up,” the woman said, surveying him. She fingered her apron. “Why, you’re just a boy! The City’s a long way off—”

“Not too far for a young fellow his age,” her husband Lew interrupted. “I went to the City markets once, the year I finished school, right before we were married. It’s really a sight. And the music—you never heard anything like that music they have at the Benison.” He smiled, remembering. “Inspiring, it is.”

No doubt, thought Noren, the Scholars could arrange inspiration with the same efficiency they employed in arranging everything else. He had heard often of the Benison, a ceremony held early each morning, before the Gates, to open the markets for the day’s business; but it hadn’t occurred to him that to avoid attracting notice he would have to attend. The idea dismayed him, for the crowd would be smaller than on holidays, and he did not believe that he could bring himself to kneel, as one must in the immediate presence of Scholars.

Lew grinned at him. “You’re having a real adventure, I’ll bet. Does it come up to your hopes, being on your own?”

“I guess so.”

“We’ve got supper almost on,” the woman put in. “Dorie, you take him out to the cistern.”

One of the younger boys tagged along, and both children appraised Noren curiously as he splashed water over his bruised face and arms, then filled his stoppered carrying-jug. “I don’t think I’d like an adventure,” commented Dorie.

“I would,” retorted her little brother promptly. “The City’s where the Technicians live. Have you ever talked to a Technician, mister?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I want to be when I grow up.”

“Silly!” cried Dorie. “People don’t grow up to be Technicians.”

“But I want to run a Machine.”

Noren looked at the small boy, who was as yet too young to know that wanting was not the same as getting, and his heart ached. This child, he sensed, was someone who would care.
You could grow up to run a Machine, or even to build one,
he thought,
and you wouldn’t need the title of Technician, either.

Would Lew and his wife listen to reason? Would they agree that their sons and daughters had a right to the knowledge that could give them Machines, and more? Maybe he should risk telling them; it might be his only chance. Suppose he never reached the City?

In the big kitchen, the woman was ladling hot stew into brown pottery bowls. Noren closed his eyes, leaning against the stone doorway; hunger was making him giddy. For an instant he was back in his own mother’s kitchen, at home. Was he a fool to have given up everything that mattered to other people for the sake of a truth that would lead him ultimately to death?

The girl Dorie clutched at his hand. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing’s the matter.”

“Yes, there is.” With the quick intuition of childhood she announced, “You’re
afraid.”

“No—”

“You shouldn’t be,” the child continued. “The Prophecy says the spirit of the Mother Star protects everybody, and as long as we believe in it nothing can hurt us.”

“Does it?”

“Don’t you
know?
Mother, he—”

“Yes, of course I do!” Noren said hastily. “
‘It is our life’s bulwark; and so long as we believe in it, no force can destroy us, though the heavens themselves be consumed.’”
So long as we believe in it. It was his misfortune, maybe, to believe in something a good deal less comforting.

They stood behind the wicker benches while the woman lit the table lamp and began the familiar words in a calm, unhurried voice: “
‘Let us rejoice in the bounty of the land… from the Mother Star came the heritage that has blessed it…’”
With effort, Noren kept his voice steady and clear. These people would not understand his heresy. If he were to speak out, there would be more danger of harm to them than to him, he perceived; they would be lost without their faith. Perhaps the Scholars’ greatest cruelty was in the way they deluded the good, kind people who were hoping in vain for the fulfillment of a false promise.

He tried to eat slowly, without revealing the urgency of his hunger, and to talk as a carefree traveler rather than an imperiled fugitive. “Your youngest son is a bright lad,” he remarked to the mother, wondering if the spark he’d seen in the boy had been noticed by the parents.

“He is an adopted child,” replied the woman proudly. “So is the littlest girl.”

“My congratulations,” said Noren, smiling at the youngsters. “They are fine children.” It was a strange fact, he thought, that adopted children so often seemed brighter than most, as if the circumstances of their birth had been particularly fortunate to offset whatever tragedy had resulted in their becoming Wards of the City. There were many such babies—they were practically always adopted in infancy—and it was a mark of honor to have one, for it was well known that the women Technicians who were their official guardians placed them only with worthy families who would love them and give them good care. He wondered where they all came from, since although every village’s foundlings became Wards of the City, there seemed to be more than could be accounted for in that way; it occurred suddenly to Noren that the Technicians’ own orphans might be included. No one was permitted to know the parentage of those who had become Wards when too young to remember.

He scrutinized the little boy more closely. Could this child, who thought that ordinary people could become Technicians, possibly have been born as one? He had love in abundance; he seemed happy; yet had he somehow been deprived of his birthright? But that was nonsense, Noren realized with chagrin. It was no more unfair for him than for his foster brothers and sisters; knowledge was the birthright not only of Technicians, but of everyone.

“You must stay the night with us,” said Lew, “We’ve an extra bed in our sons’ room.”

Noren shook his head. The thought of sleeping in a bed was tempting, but he could not accept; not only would it delay him, but to shelter him might somehow put this family in danger. “That’s kind of you,” he said regretfully, “but if I’m not in the next village by sunrise I might miss my cousin again. I’d best stay at the inn there.”