The Broken Cycle by A. Bertram Chandler
Authors: A. Bertram Chandler
Tags: Science-Fiction
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retreating . . ."
"And who was winning?" Grimes could not help asking, but Panzen ignored the question.
He went on, "I relaxed. In my self indulgence, I sinned. How can I atone?"
"By taking us back to where we came from!" That was Una's voice. So she was all right, thought Grimes with relief.
Then a deep, humming note drowned her out, louder and louder, the vibration of it affecting every molecule of Grimes' body. He tried to shout against it, but no words came. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the gleaming, spinning, precessing intricacy of the interstellar drive unit below him, steadily receding as he was drawn upward.
Chapter 17
When, eventually, they awoke they found that they were back inside the boat. Their helmets had been removed, but not their suits. Panzen might be rather slow witted, thought Grimes, but he was capable of learning by experience; he must have remembered how they had almost been asphyxiated after their initial capture.
Grimes raised his body slowly to a sitting posture. Not far from him Una turned her head to look in his direction. She said, "Thank you for taking my helmet off, John."
He said, "I didn't take it off. Or mine either."
"But who . . . ?"
"Or what. There must be more than one of those little robots . . . ."
"Those little robots?"
"Like the one I shot. That mechanical spider. The thing had limbs and tentacles. Panzen's crew, I suppose. He has to have something to do the work while he takes life easily inside his brain case."
She said, "So he has ingress to this boat. Or his slaves do."
"Too right." Grimes had an uneasy vision of metal arthropods swarming all through the lifecraft while he and the girl lay unconscious. He scrambled to his feet, extended a hand to help Una. "I think we'd better have a general check up."
They took inventory. With one exception, the life support systems were untampered with. That exception was glaringly obvious. Whatever had taken off their helmets had also uncoupled and removed the air bottles, and there were no spare air bottles in their usual stowage in the storeroom. The pistols and ammunition were missing from the armory, and most of the tools from the workshop. The books were gone from their lockers in the control cabin.
Grimes broke out the medicinal brandy. At least Panzen's minions hadn't confiscated that. He poured two stiff slugs. He looked at Una glumly over the rim of his glass, muttered, "Cheers . . ."
"And what is there to be cheery about?" she demanded sourly.
"We're not dead."
"I suppose not." She sipped her drink. "You know, I went on a religious jag a standard year or so back. Believe it or not, I was actually a convert to Neo-Calvinism. You know it?"
"I've heard of the Neo-Calvinists," admitted Grimes.
"They're Fundamentalists," she told him. "Theirs is one of the real, old-time religions. They believe in an afterlife, with Heaven and Hell. They believe, too, that Hell is tailored to fit you. As a Neo-Calvinist you're supposed to visualize the worst possible way for you to be obliged to spend eternity. It's supposed to induce humility and all the rest of it."
"This is a morbid conversation," said Grimes.
She laughed mirthlessly. "Isn't it? And do you know what my private idea of Hell was?"
"I haven't a clue."
"You wouldn't. Well, as a policewoman I've been responsible for putting quite a few people behind bars. My private idea of Hell was for me to be a prisoner forever and ever." She took another gulp of brandy. "I'm beginning to wonder . . . Did we survive the blast that destroyed Delta Geminorum? It would make much more sense if we had been killed, wouldn't it?"
"But we're not dead."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Well," he said slowly, " my idea of Hell is not quite comfortable accommodation shared with an attractive member of the opposite sex." He finished his drink, got up and moved around the small table. He lifted her from her chair, turned
"And who was winning?" Grimes could not help asking, but Panzen ignored the question.
He went on, "I relaxed. In my self indulgence, I sinned. How can I atone?"
"By taking us back to where we came from!" That was Una's voice. So she was all right, thought Grimes with relief.
Then a deep, humming note drowned her out, louder and louder, the vibration of it affecting every molecule of Grimes' body. He tried to shout against it, but no words came. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the gleaming, spinning, precessing intricacy of the interstellar drive unit below him, steadily receding as he was drawn upward.
Chapter 17
When, eventually, they awoke they found that they were back inside the boat. Their helmets had been removed, but not their suits. Panzen might be rather slow witted, thought Grimes, but he was capable of learning by experience; he must have remembered how they had almost been asphyxiated after their initial capture.
Grimes raised his body slowly to a sitting posture. Not far from him Una turned her head to look in his direction. She said, "Thank you for taking my helmet off, John."
He said, "I didn't take it off. Or mine either."
"But who . . . ?"
"Or what. There must be more than one of those little robots . . . ."
"Those little robots?"
"Like the one I shot. That mechanical spider. The thing had limbs and tentacles. Panzen's crew, I suppose. He has to have something to do the work while he takes life easily inside his brain case."
She said, "So he has ingress to this boat. Or his slaves do."
"Too right." Grimes had an uneasy vision of metal arthropods swarming all through the lifecraft while he and the girl lay unconscious. He scrambled to his feet, extended a hand to help Una. "I think we'd better have a general check up."
They took inventory. With one exception, the life support systems were untampered with. That exception was glaringly obvious. Whatever had taken off their helmets had also uncoupled and removed the air bottles, and there were no spare air bottles in their usual stowage in the storeroom. The pistols and ammunition were missing from the armory, and most of the tools from the workshop. The books were gone from their lockers in the control cabin.
Grimes broke out the medicinal brandy. At least Panzen's minions hadn't confiscated that. He poured two stiff slugs. He looked at Una glumly over the rim of his glass, muttered, "Cheers . . ."
"And what is there to be cheery about?" she demanded sourly.
"We're not dead."
"I suppose not." She sipped her drink. "You know, I went on a religious jag a standard year or so back. Believe it or not, I was actually a convert to Neo-Calvinism. You know it?"
"I've heard of the Neo-Calvinists," admitted Grimes.
"They're Fundamentalists," she told him. "Theirs is one of the real, old-time religions. They believe in an afterlife, with Heaven and Hell. They believe, too, that Hell is tailored to fit you. As a Neo-Calvinist you're supposed to visualize the worst possible way for you to be obliged to spend eternity. It's supposed to induce humility and all the rest of it."
"This is a morbid conversation," said Grimes.
She laughed mirthlessly. "Isn't it? And do you know what my private idea of Hell was?"
"I haven't a clue."
"You wouldn't. Well, as a policewoman I've been responsible for putting quite a few people behind bars. My private idea of Hell was for me to be a prisoner forever and ever." She took another gulp of brandy. "I'm beginning to wonder . . . Did we survive the blast that destroyed Delta Geminorum? It would make much more sense if we had been killed, wouldn't it?"
"But we're not dead."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Well," he said slowly, " my idea of Hell is not quite comfortable accommodation shared with an attractive member of the opposite sex." He finished his drink, got up and moved around the small table. He lifted her from her chair, turned
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