Equator & Segregation Read online

  ‘For this small gift our gratitude is immeasurable,’ Ap II Dowl, making one of his rare personal visits, said. There were many who considered his choice of adjective unfortunate - or deliberate.

  So the Rosks landed on Earth in their massive ship. It soon became clear that they never intended to leave again; they had had enough of space.

  Earth was unwilling to play permanent host. The Rosks, multiplying behind a perimeter they had rapidly fortified, represented a threat no less ominous for being unformulated. Yet how to evict them ? It seemed to Earth’s statesmen that the only possible line of action was to nag the Rosks into leaving.

  Unfortunately, the more they scratched the sore, the more it itched.

  Nation after nation sent its representatives into Sumatra, to see what could be seen, and to pick up any Roskian secrets, if possible. In the big U.N.C. council chambers in Padang, Man and Rosk haggled and talked, demanded and conceded, bluffed and argued. The situation was at once funny and tragic. That old hope of profiting other than materially by the contact of two races was quite lost to view.

  Except on diplomatic errands. Earthmen were not allowed into Rosk base, Rosks were not allowed outside it - yet in practice spies on both sides infringed these laws. Padang became full of spies; nation spying against nation, race against race. The situation became more complex still when, in an attempt to ingratiate themselves, the U.N.C. ceded the small Lunar Area 101 to the visitors, to allow them to test out their four inter­planetary ships.

  ‘This move touches my heart,’ Tawdell Co Barr declared. ‘We came as strangers; you welcome us as friends. Together, Rosk and man will build a new and lasting civilisation.’

  By this time, such fair words rang hollow.

  Whether Tawdell meant it or not, the hopes he expressed were the hopes of many men, everywhere. Unfortunately, this was Tawdell’s last public speech! He disappeared into the Rosk base and was not heard of again. It was believed in diplomatic circles that the yellow-haired Rosk had been too friendly towards man for his overlords’ liking. Ap II Dowl’s dictatorship, which had been formed in the harsh environs of the ship, now took the reins. His henchmen sat at the council tables, and relations between the two sides slowly deteriorated.

  The spy patrol in which Murray, Allan and Tyne served was only one instance of that deterioration.

  II

  Something like a lemon. No, a melon. No, it was stretching; a cucumber. No, it was bending; a banana. No, curling; a slice of melon. No, a melon again. Or was it - it was all distorted - was it a face? It rippled, solidified. It took on a firm jaw and eyes staring fixedly down. It became Murray Mumford’s face, seen through a haze of weakness.

  ‘Oh!’ groaned Tyne. He was in a bunk which still rippled at the edges, staring up at Murray.

  ‘How is it?’ Murray asked. ‘Feeling better?1

  ‘Drink of water,’ Tyne said.

  He gulped it down when it was brought. His head cleared. He remembered the incident at 101, the numbing blow on his spacesuit.

  ‘Where are we, Murray?’ he asked.

  ‘One hour out from Lunar, unpursued, heading back home,9 Murray told him. ‘I was too quick for the Rosks. I thought you were never coming round. How do you feel ?’

  “This is the best part of me.’ Tyne said ironically, raising his gloved left hand. Beneath the glove were substitute steel fingers and palm: his real hand had been amputated after an air crash several years ago.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much more wrong with you,’ Murray said, ‘apart from a few bruises. The Rosks fired on us. A bullet hit your suit glancingly on the shoulder; luckily no joints split, and shock absorbers took most of the blow. How do you do it -magic rabbit’s foot?”

  ‘How did I get here? Didn’t I black out?”

  ‘You blacked out all right, went down like a felled ox. I part-dragged, part-carried you here,’ Murray said. ‘Fortunately, as you went down I managed to shoot out the second Rosk search­light.’

  ‘Thanks, Murray,’ Tyne said, and only then, with a rush of guilt, remembered his friend. ‘Where’s Allan?’

  Murray turned away, drawing his thick brows together as if in pain. ‘I’m afraid Allan didn’t make it,’ he said quietly.

  ‘How do you mean, didn’t make it?’

  Swinging back to the bunk, as though he had suddenly found the words he wanted, Murray said, ‘Look, Tyne, this may be difficult for you to take. Things got out of hand back there. It was a nasty spot - you know that. When you went down, I grabbed you and got you over one shoulder. Allan shouted out to me to run for it and leave you there. It must have been a moment of panic, I suppose. He wanted to leave you for the Rosk. I told him to cover my retreat, and the next thing I knew, he was waving his gun in my face, telling me he’d shoot me if I did not drop you!’

  ‘Allan!’ Tyne protested. ‘Allan said that?’

  ‘Have you ever panicked?’ Murray asked. “There are situa­tions when your moorings break loose, and you don’t know what you are saying or doing. When I saw Allan’s gun in my face, and felt the Rosks coming up behind, I -I lost control of what I was doing, too.’

  He turned his head again, his big body tense in a way Tyne had never seen it before. The man on the bunk felt his mouth go dry as he asked. ‘What did you do, Murray?’

  Space slid by outside, sly, snakey, cold as time at a crisis, ignoring Murray as he said, ‘I shot Allan. Right in the stomach.’

  Tyne was bound down on his bunk. He could only wave his steel fist and his flesh fist, impotently.

  ‘There was nothing else to do,’ Murray said savagely, clutching one of the waving wrists. ‘Listen to me, Tyne, should I have left you there, out cold ? We weren’t supposed to be in Area 101 - we had no legal right. Would you rather have come to with a group of killer Rosks round you ? I did the only thing I could. Allan Cunliffe mutinied; as captain, I dealt with it on the spot. There’s no more to it than that.’

  ‘But I know Allan,’ Tyne yelled. ‘How could he - he wouldn’t - he’s not the sort -‘

  ‘We none of us know each other,’ Murray shouted back. His face was dark, suffused with a feverish look of excitement. ‘We don’t even know ourselves. In a moment of crisis, something takes over from us - our id, or something. That’s what happened to Allan. Now shut up, and think things over till you see I did the only possible thing.’

  He strode forward into the cabin, slamming the door behind him, leaving Tyne alone.

  Tyne lay where he was, churning the whole thing over in his brain. He could believe neither that his friend was dead, nor that he had lost control of himself. Yet he could not do other than believe; after all, submerged rivalry for promotion had always existed between Allan and Murray; perhaps in those frightening seconds in the dark, it had come to a head.

  Once before they landed, Murray returned to the crew room, to look in at Tyne. His manner was still tense.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t want to see you,’ Tyne said grimly. ‘I’ll see you at the court of inquiry. Till then, keep out of my way.’

  His face setting into harsh lines, Murray came across to the bunk and put his hand over Tyne’s throat.

  ‘Watch what you’re saying and who you’re saying it to,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you the facts. I don’t like them any better than you do. If Allan had not suddenly turned coward, he’d be here with us now.’

  Tyne brought his steel left hand over, clasping the other’s wrist, squeezing, squeezing. Letting out a gasp of pain, Murray pulled his arm away; a bracelet of red flesh encircled it. He allowed Tyne one look of malice, then went back and shut him­self in the cabin. It was the last Tyne would see of him for a surprisingly long while.

  When they landed, Tyne lay patiently for a time, then bellowed for Murray to come and release him. Webbed straps, fastening under the bunk, ensured that he could not release himself. No answer came to his shouts. After twenty minutes, the rear air lock opened, and two Sumatran medica
l orderlies entered with a stretcher.

  From them, Tyne gathered that he was back at Patrol H.Q. Murray had phoned straight through to the hospital, telling them to collect him from the scout for examination.

  ‘I’ll come round for examination later,’ Tyne said, testily. ‘Right now, I have to report to the Commander.’

  ‘Don’t worry; the Commander has already been informed about the state of your health,’ one of the orderlies said.

  Despite Tyne’s protests, the man was adamant. From his replies, it seemed as if Murray had cast some doubts on Tyne’s sanity. So Tyne was carted to the military hospital on a stretcher.

  Procedure there was no more rapid than in any other hospital. It took the doctors a long while to decide that Tyne Leslie was sane but savage, bruised but sound. In between the examinations were periods of waiting. All this, Tyne thought angrily, smoking his way through a packet of mescahales, was Murray’s doing: the scout captain had fixed this so that Tyne’s report was delayed. Well, he would fix Murray. Murray was going to be in trouble.

  After two hours, buttoning up his uniform, he hurried over to Squadron Office. There a surprise awaited him. Murray had not reported in from his mission. Murray had not been seen. Suspicion and curiosity brewing in his mind, Tyne hurried over to the billets where the squadron lived. Nobody there had seen Murray either; his room was empty, none of his kit disturbed. Over his bed, a pretty half-caste girl stared saucily, blankly, from her photograph. Written in babyish letters across it were the words ‘Love from Mina.’

  The sun was gathering its full, mid-morning glory about it. Ignoring it, Tyne ran to the main gate to question the traffic cop on duty under his concrete umbrella. Yes, Captain Mumford had left in a staff car just after breakfast, heading for town.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tyne said. He thumbed a lift into town himself, riding the five miles of dust and sunshine in grim impatience.

  He knew he should have reported in properly before leaving camp; above all he should have reported Allan’s death. But in an obscure way he felt time to be vital. Murray had inex­plicably disappeared; it would be easier to find him while the trail was hot. The time was 10.50.

  Padang was one of the most interesting cities on Earth. To every layer of its life, the nearness of the Rosk base gave an agreeable frission of excitement. The feelings that something gigantic might happen any day hovered over its hot, scented streets. It was an international city. Among the native Indo­nesians and Chinese moved U.N.C. delegates from all over the Earth, or their wives, mistresses or followers. Street vendors hawked national emblems of every conceivable kind, from rising suns to leeks. It was also an inter-system city, the first on Earth, for Roskian U.N.C. delegates, prominently displaying their lapel permits, strolled through the city or sat at restaurants. It was, above all, a boom city. Along the gay Tida Appa, skyscrapers rose. Among the palms, the shanties, the picturesque two-storey streets: solid blocks of flats rising. Above the crowds: fifty different flags drooping in the heat.

  After the politicians came the business men; after the business men, the underworld. By winking through your hotel window, you could buy yourself a lawyer, a woman, or a long float, face down, in the sewers.

  Dropped in the centre of town, outside the post office, Tyne slipped thought the great undercover market, and headed up Bukit Besar. He entered the Merdeka Hotel. It seemed to him the obvious first place to look for Murray. The Merdeka had been the nearest equivalent to home for Allan, Tyne and Murray. They had grown to love its efficient service, its poor food, its constant bustle.

  The place was full now, mainly with the sort of minor diplo­matic staff Tyne had once been; nervous, cheery men downing their whiskies and keeping out of the sun - and waiting, waiting and watching. Pushing through the hall, Tyne went round the back way, to the back stairs.

  He thought he saw Amir at the end of the passage, looking round and then dodging out of sight. But that could not be. Amir, the brightest boy on the staff, would have no reason to hide in that way; he had become almost a personal friend of theirs.

  Climbing the back stairs, fishing his key out of his pocket as he went, Tyne reached Room Six. This was the room Allan, Murray and Tyne shared. Had shared ... Unlocking the door, he went in.

  The immense influx of foreigners had caused a housing shortage in Padang. Hotel rooms were impossible to find; only by paying through the nose for this one all the time did they enjoy the privilege of using it at weekends.

  A hurricane had hit Room Six.

  Tyne whistled. All their kit, their civilian clothes, everything, had been flung into the middle of the floor. Someone had searched the place, thoroughly, in a hurry. Who? Why?

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Tyne said aloud. He went and shouted over the banisters for service.

  As he waited, he stood in the middle of the room, thinking. He was involved in a mystery. Something odd had happened on the moon - he had not heard the truth about that, he felt sure.

  Now something odd had happened here. Why had Murray deserted? Where had he gone? A numbing suspicion that he had murdered Allan overtook Tyne. But why?

  He went back on to the landing and shouted for service again.

  Hatred for Murray filled him. It reached back, embracing Murray-in-the-past. The big man’s easy manner now seemed no longer likeable, but the sign of a boundless superiority. His ready, cheerful smile became false, the arbitrary grimace of a murderer. Yet supposing he had killed Allan ... he could so easily have told Tyne that the Rosks had shot him - Tyne, after all was unconscious when it happened. Nothing was sure. Rather, one thing was sure: Tyne wanted to get hold of Murray and wring the truth out of him.

  He went out on to the landing to bellow for service again, and nearly bumped into a little maid.

  ‘Where’s Amir?’ Tyne asked.

  ‘Amir has a day off today.’

  ‘What ? First time I’ve ever known him have a day off.’

  ‘Amir is not so well today. Had a bad head and takes medicine. What I can get for you?’

  Suddenly, he wanted nobody to see into the room. He felt weak, tired, hungry; this was his first man hunt.

  ‘Will you bring me some breakfast, please?’

  ‘Breakfast is long finish, sir.’

  ‘Make it lunch then, anything.’

  Going back into the room, he locked the door on the inside. He started methodically tidying the muddle on the floor. It hurt to fold up Allan’s belongings, knowing he would not want them again. Some of Murray’s civilian clothes were missing, but a uniform was here. So.

  Lunch came promptly, a denationalised dish of chopped sausage, cabbage and rice, followed by tasteless plankton jelly. A big new plankton plant down the coast at Semapang provided more and more food for the island; as yet, its products were more nourishing than appetising.

  With the meal, Tyne’s spirits rose. He had ceased to be a second secretary to an under-secretary of the Under-Secretary because he wanted action. Here it came. The original instinct that had led him to Sumatra had been sound. He had been static, stale, discontented, a man without manhood, set on a career of his father’s choosing that bored him thoroughly. His chief task had been minute passing: how suitable that that should be a synonym for time wasting!

  But the equator is the hottest bit of the planet, the bit that goes round fastest, though that is not apparent to the senses. Now something was really starting to spin.

  On his way out, he ran into the proprietor and asked for Murray.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t see him today,’ Mr. Niap Nam said. ‘If he come, I don’t see him. Now it is best for you to leave by the back way. In front is having a little trouble from the Displaced. Maybe shooting from these foolish men.’

  Thanks, Niap,’ Tyne said. He had heard the noise in the street but had taken no notice of it. In a moment, one shot was fired, the shouting rose to a crescendo, then came the sound of people running. Tyne slipped out the back way, through the courtyard, under the cassia tree. The Displaced were
a group of terrorists, largely formed from natives whose kampongs had been evacuated to make room for the Rosk base: their daily acts of violence -often the sticky-bombing of diplomats’ limousines - added an-additional spice of risk to life in Padang.

  Tyne headed for the Roxy. If anyone knew where Murray was, it should be Mina, the little half-Dutch girl (her other half remained unspecified) who occupied most of Murray’s spare time. Tyne looked at his watch. It was just after noon; his enemy, for already that was how he thought of Murray, had as much as four and a half hours’ start.

  The Roxy was an all-day cinema. Now the boom was on, the solids flickered in the big perspex cube for twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four. The foyer was large, deep, lush, with people coming and going, or just standing smoking.

  On the ice cream counter, Mina squeaked with pleasure at the sight of Tyne. Yes, she was nice: dark, lively, animated; perhaps after Murray was out of the way...

  ‘Yes, he came to see me here,’ Mina said, in answer to Tyne’s question. ‘Is he in some sort of trouble, Mr Leslie, can you tell me? He had a look as if something is striking him not so funny.’

  ‘Perhaps he had his shoes on the wrong feet,’ Tyne said, and then waited patiently for the girl to control her shrieking laughter. He had forgotten how the silliest remark set her going.

  ‘I’ve got to rind him, Mina,’ he said. “The Commander wants him urgently. Did he say where he was going ?’

  ‘No, Mr. Leslie. All he say is not even “give a kiss” but just “hello”. That is why I think perhaps something is striking him not-‘

  ‘Yes, not so funny. I know. What else did he say besides “hello”, Mina? Did he ask you to meet him later?’

  ‘Excuse a minute.’ She turned, all smiles, to serve a tall Paki­stani, and then continued, ‘All he say to me is that he goes to the plankton plant. I can find him at the plankton plant. What for he wants to go to that place for, Mr Leslie?’