Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

But even without this clarity of perception the young woman’s condition would have been no secret. He recognised her look as that of a hunted animal. He had seen that particular look only once before in his life, and that had been on the face of a man with whom he had been slightly acquainted. At the time it had been a puzzle to him. Later the fellow had been found murdered in an imaginative, bizarre fashion that bore all the hallmarks of the Traumatic sect.

Cautiously he moved towards the girl and sat down at her table. A waiter approached. Having no money, he waved him away.

‘Where are you bound?’ he asked the girl. ‘I haven’t had a chance to ask you before.’ She would not find the question strange: chronliners called at all nodes en route and they were now, he believed, somewhere between Nodes 4 and 5. The ship probably had two or three stops to make.

Her reaction, however, was far from reassuring. She shrank instinctively away from him. In her eyes Aton seemed to see the thought: Who is he? What does he want? Is he following me?

She’s terrified of strangers, he realised.

Seeing that she was afraid to answer the question he let it pass; covering up her confusion with a stream of chitchat while he looked around the lounge, wondering who it was she was so badly frightened of.

He spoke of his experiences in the Time Service, talking in such a way that few responses were required of her. He felt her eyes on his face and gradually she seemed to relax a little. If his guess was correct it would be hard for her to trust anyone, but he hoped he might inspire just a little confidence.

To test out his theory he mentioned the time he had found Traumatics aboard his ship. She gasped. He sensed her body tense, go rigid.

‘They are extremely unpleasant people,’ he said.

She nodded dumbly.

‘Listen,’ he said gently. ‘I think you ought to tell me what’s worrying you.’

She looked away. ‘Nothing’s worrying me. What makes you think it is?’

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, it does show, enough for me to notice, at any rate. I’ve seen it before.’ He paused. ‘It’s the Traumatic sect, isn’t it?’

Her lower lip trembled. She nodded again.

‘Have you really seen it happen before?’

‘Only once. To a friend of mine.’

In a rush of words she told him everything. The three visitations, her desperate efforts to escape, to get lost. Finally her decision to migrate to another province of the empire.

He could see that it was a great relief to her to be able to tell someone. It also showed just how desperate she had become, for she could hardly imagine it was safe to talk to a stranger. Probably the uniform had helped. The Time Service was greatly esteemed. Few people knew that chronmen were perversely prone to the Traumatic heresy.

‘So now you hope to settle in Revere?’

‘Yes. In Umbul, probably.’

‘Ah. The holy city.’

‘I thought that perhaps – perhaps –’

‘Yes, I see.’ Her hopes were plain. She thought that perhaps the Traumatic sect stayed clear of Umbul, birthplace of San Hevatar, of the Church, and in fact of the whole Chronotic Empire.

He looked down sombrely at his hands folded neatly on his lap. ‘Citizeness Sorce, I am sorry to have to tell you this but you have been doing everything the Traumatics want you to do. This is their play, part of their ritual. The sacrificial victim must not be killed outright but must be captured and allowed to escape in the nick of time – by luck or his own efforts, so he thinks. Then captured again, allowed to escape again, on and on. The purpose is to make the victim aware of his, or her, situation and of the fact that he is being hunted, so as to produce a particular psychological state. This continues until his will is entirely broken and he actually co-operates in the final ceremony.’

Inpriss Sorce’s brown eyes widened pleadingly. ‘Then I haven’t shaken them off?’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

Her hands flew about agitatedly. Aton thought she might be near a breakdown. In that case the Traumatics would not be far behind her.

‘Help me!’ she cried. ‘Somebody must help me!’

‘I’ll help you. Calm yourself.’

She gazed at Aton, studying his face. ‘You will?’

‘I hate these people as much as you do.’

‘Is that why you’re going to help me?’

‘I’d help you anyway.’ Aton’s eyes narrowed as he saw a man enter the lounge and walk to the bar with a swaggering gait. His jaw clenched.

The man was Sergeant Quelle!

‘Stay here and don’t move,’ he told Inpriss. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

The gunnery noncom uttered a grunt of startlement, his sharp face becoming a grotesque mask of disbelief, when Aton joined him at the bar.

‘What the hell are you doing here? I thought –’

‘You thought I was safely dead,’ Aton supplied. ‘More to the point, what are you doing here?’