Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (93 page)

Lacking wood for a base, he used the loose nail to dig a hole in the dirt between the big stone slabs composing the floor of his cell. He rammed the legs of the loop into the hole, twisted the contraption this way and that to make ceremonial rotation easy. Then he booted the door something cruel.

When the right moment arrived he lay on his belly and commenced reciting through the loop the third paragraph of Rule 27, Section 9, Subsection B, of Space Regulations. He chose it because it was a gem of bureaucratic phraseology, a single sentence one thousand words long meaning something known only to God.

“Where refueling must be carried out as an emergency measure at a station not officially listed as a home-station or definable for special purposes as a home-station under Section
A(5)
amendment A(5)B the said station shall be treated as if it were definable as a home-station under Section
A(5)
amendment A(5)B providing that the emergency falls within the authorized list of technical necessities as given in Section J (29-33) with addenda subsequent thereto as applicable to home-stations where such are—”

The spyhole flipped open and shut. Somebody scooted away at top speed. A minute afterward the corridor shook to what sounded like a massed cavalry charge. The spyhole again opened and shut. The door crashed inward.

This time they reduced him to his bare pelt, searched his clothes, raked the cell from end to end. Their manner was that of those singularly lacking in brotherly love. Turning the bench upside-down, they tapped it, knocked it, kicked it, did everything but run a large magnifying glass over it.

Watching this operation, Leeming encouraged them by emitting a sinister snigger. There had been a time when he could not have produced a sinister snigger even to win a very large bet. But he could do it now. The ways in which a man can rise to the occasion are without limit.

Giving him a look of sudden death and total destruction, a guard went out, staggered back with a heavy ladder, mounted it and suspiciously surveyed the window-gap. As an intelligent examination it was a dead loss because his mind was concerned only with the solidity of the bars. He grasped each bar with both hands and shook vigorously. His fingers did not touch the thread of wire nor did his eyes detect it. Satisfied, he got down and tottered out with the ladder.

The others departed. Leeming dressed himself, listened at the spyhole. Just a very faint hiss of breath and occasional rustle of clothes nearby. He sat on the bench and waited. In short time the lights blazed on and the spyhole popped open.

Stabbing two fingers toward the hole, he declaimed, “Die, faplap!”

The hole snapped shut. Feet moved away, stamping much too loudly. He waited. After half an hour of complete silence the eye offered itself again and for its pains received another two-fingered curse. Five minutes later it had yet another bestowed upon it. If it was the same eye all the time it was a glutton for punishment.

This game continued at erratic intervals for four hours before the eye had had enough. Leeming immediately made another coiled-loop, gabbled through it at the top of his voice and precipitated another raid. They did not strip him and search the cell this time. They contented themselves with confiscating the gadget. And they showed symptoms of aggravation.

There was just enough wire left for one more blood-pressure booster. He decided to keep it against a future need and get some sleep. Inadequate food and not enough slumber were combining to make inroads upon his physical reserves.

Flopping full length on the bench, he sighed and closed red-rimmed eyes. In due time he started snoring fit to saw through the bars. That caused a panic in the passage and brought the gang along in another rush.

Wakened by the uproar, he damned them to perdition. Then he lay down again. He was plain bone-tuckered—but so were they.

He slept solidly until mid-day without a break except for the usual lousy breakfast. Then came the usual lousy dinner. At exercise time they kept him locked in. He hammered and kicked on the door, demanded to know why he wasn’t being allowed to walk in the yard, shouted threats of glandular dissection for all and sundry. They took no notice.

So he sat on the bench and thought things over. Perhaps this denial of his only measure of freedom was a form of retaliation for making them hop around like agitated fleas in the middle of the night. Or perhaps the Rigellian was under suspicion and they’d decided to prevent contact.

Anyway, he had got the enemy bothered. He was messing them about single-handed, far behind the lines. That was something. The fact that a combatant is a prisoner doesn’t mean he’s out of the battle. Even behind thick walls he can still harass the foe, absorbing his time and energy, undermining his morale, pinning down at least a few of his forces.

The next step, he concluded, was to widen and strengthen the curse. He must do it as comprehensively as possible. The more he spread it and the more ambiguous the terms in which he expressed it, the more plausibly he could grab the credit for any and every misfortune that was certain to occur sooner or later.

It was the technique of the gypsy’s warning. People tend to attach specific meanings to ambiguities when circumstances arise and shape themselves to give especial meanings. People don’t have to be very credulous, either. It is sufficient for them to be made expectant, with a tendency to wonder—after the event.

“In the near future a tall, dark man will cross your path.”

After which any male above average height, and not a blond, fits the picture. And any time from five minutes to five years is accepted as the near future.

“Mamma, when the insurance man called he really smiled at me.
Do you remember what the gypsy said?”

To accomplish anything worth while one must adapt to one’s own environment. If the said environment is radically different from everyone else’s the method of accommodating to it must be equally different. So far as he knew he, Leeming, was the only Terran in this prison and the only prisoner held in solitary confinement. Therefore his tactics could have nothing in common with any schemes the Rigellians had in mind.

The Rigellians were up to something, no doubt of that. They wouldn’t be wary and secretive about nothing. It was almost a dead-sure bet that they were digging a tunnel. Probably a bunch of them were deep in the earth right now, scraping and scratching without tools. Removing dirt and rock a few pounds at a time. Progress at the rate of a pathetic two or three inches per night. A constant, never-ending risk of discovery, entrapment and perhaps some insane shooting. A yearlong project that could be terminated in minutes with a shout and a chatter of automatic guns.

But to get out of a strong stone cell in a strong stone jail one doesn’t have to make a desperate and spectacular escape. If sufficiently patient, resourceful, glib and cunning, one can talk the foe into opening the doors and pushing one out.

Yes, you can use the wits that God has given you.

By law of probability various things must happen within and without the prison, not all of them pleasing to the enemy. Some officer must get the galloping gripes right under his body-belt. Or a guard must fall down a watchtower ladder and break a leg. Somebody must lose a wad of money or his pants or his senses. Farther afield a bridge must collapse, or a train get derailed, or a spaceship crash at take-off. Or there’d be an explosion in a munitions factory. Or a military leader would drop dead.

He’d be playing a trump card if he could establish his claim as the author of most of this trouble. The essential thing was to stake it in such a way that they could not effectively combat it, neither could they exact retribution in a torture-chamber.

The ideal strategy was to convince the enemy of his malevolence in a way that would equally convince them of their own impotence. If he succeeded—and it was a big if—they would come to the logical conclusion that the only method of getting rid of constant trouble would be to get rid of Leeming, alive and in one piece. If—and it was a big if—he could link cause and effect irrevocably together they’d have to remove the cause in order to dispose of the effect.

The question of how exactly to achieve this fantastic result was a jumbo problem that would have appalled him back home. In fact he’d have declared it impossible despite that the basic lesson of space-conquest is that nothing is impossible. But by now he’d had three lonely months in which to incubate a solution—and the brain becomes wonderfully stimulated by grim necessity. It was a good thing that he had an idea in mind; he had a mere ten minutes before the time came to apply it.

The door opened, a trio of guards scowled at him and one of them rasped, “The Commandant wishes to see you at once. Amash, faplap!”

Leeming walked out saying, “Once and for all, I am not a faplap, see?”

The guard booted him in the buttocks.

The Commandant lolled behind a desk with a lower ranking officer seated on either side. He was a heavily built specimen. His lidless, horn-covered eyes gave him a frigid, unemotional appearance as he studied the prisoner.

Leeming calmly sat himself on a handy chair and the officer on the right immediately bellowed, “Stand to attention in the presence of the Commandant!”

Making a gesture of contradiction, the Commandant said boredly, “Let him sit.”

A concession at the start, thought Leeming. Curiously he eyed a wad of papers on the desk. Probably a complete report of his misdeeds, he guessed. Time would show. Anyway, he had one or two weapons with which to counter theirs. It would be a pity, for instance, if he couldn’t exploit their ignorance. The Allies knew nothing about the Zangastans. By the same token the Zangastans knew little or nothing about several Allied species, Terrans included. In coping with him they were coping with an unknown quantity.

And from now on it was a quantity doubled by the addition of X.

“I am given to understand that you now speak our language,” began the Commandant.

“Not much use denying it,” Leeming confessed.

“Very well. You will give us information concerning yourself.”

“I have given it already. I gave it to Major Klavith.”

“That is no concern of mine. You will answer my questions and your answers had better be truthful.” Positioning an official form upon his desk, he held his pen in readiness. “Name of planet of origin?”

“Earth.”

The other wrote it phonetically in his own script, then continued, “Name of race?”

“Terran.”

“Name of species?”

“Homo nosipaca,
” said Leeming, keeping his face straight.

Writing it down, the Commandant looked doubtful, asked, “What does that mean:

“Space-traversing Man,” Leeming informed.

“H’m!” The other was impressed despite himself. “Your personal name?” “John Leeming.”

“John Leeming,” repeated the Commandant, putting it down.

“And Eustace Phenackertiban,” added Leeming airily.

That was written down also, though the Commandant had some difficulty in finding suitable hooks and curlicues to express Phenackertiban. Twice he asked Leeming to repeat the alien cognomen and that worthy obliged.

Studying the result, which resembled a Chinese recipe for rotten egg gumbo, the Commandant said, “Is it your custom to have two sets of names?”

“Most certainly,” Leeming assured. “We can’t avoid it seeing that there are two of us.”

Twitching the eyebrows he didn’t possess, the listener showed mild surprise. “You mean that you are always conceived and born in pairs? Two identical males or females every time?”

“No, no, not at all.” Leeming adopted the air of one about to state the obvious. “Whenever one of us is born he immediately acquires a Eustace.”

“A Eustace?”

“Yes.”

The Commandant frowned, picked his teeth, glanced at the other officers. If he was seeking inspiration he was out of luck; they put on the blank expressions of fellows who’d come along merely to keep company.

“What,” asked the Commandant at long last, “is a Eustace?”

Gaping at him in open incredulity, Leeming said, “You don’t know?”

“I am putting the questions. You will provide the answers. What is a Eustace?” Leeming informed, “An invisibility that is part of one’s self.”

Understanding dawned on the Commandant’s scaly face. “Ah, you mean a soul? You give your soul a separate name?”

“Nothing of the sort. I have a soul of my own and Eustace has a soul of his own.” He added as an afterthought, “At least, I hope we have.”

The Commandant lay back in his chair and stared at him. There was quite a long silence during which the side officers continued to play dummies.

Finally the Commandant admitted, “I do not understand.”

“In that case,” announced Leeming, irritatingly triumphant, “it is evident that you have no alien equivalent of Eustaces yourselves. You’re all on your own. Just single-lifers. That’s your hard luck.”

Slamming a hand on the desk, the Commandant gave his voice a bit more military whoof and demanded, “Exactly what is a Eustace? Explain to me as clearly as possible!”

“I’m in poor position to refuse the information,” Leeming conceded with hypocritical reluctance. “Not that it matters much. Even if you gain perfect understanding there is nothing you can do about it.”

“That remains to be seen,” opined the Commandant, looking bellicose. “Cease evading the issue and tell me all that you know about these Eustaces.”

“Every Earthling lives a double life from birth to death,” said Leeming. “He exists in close mental association with an entity that always calls himself Eustace something-or-other. Mine happens to be Eustace Phenackertiban.”

“You can actually
see
this entity?”

“No, never at any time. I cannot see him, smell him or feel him.”

“Then how do you know that this is not a racial delusion?”

“Firstly, because every Terran can hear his own Eustace. I can hold long conversations with mine, providing that he happens to be within reach, and I can hear him speaking clearly and logically within the depths of my mind.”