The Garments of Caean

He had kept this knowledge to himself, watching dumbly as access to the fissure was sealed off with the building of the prison’s new outer wall. He had spent the next twelve years regaining that access. The route he had finally established was tortuous. First he had located a small hole in the sensor field that surrounded the prison. Over a period of seven years he had manufactured pass keys for twenty-three different doors and hatches so as to take him up to, through and beyond this gap in the electrostatic web, always by little-frequented passages. Then had come the laborious business of boring a hole through the wall itself, bringing him to the fissure.

The enterprise had taken genius, care and much patience. Grashnik had worked always in secret, always alone, making use of his training as an engineer and his position of trust in the factory where he had been made a permanent overseer.

He calculated that, given another twenty years, he could have got this far without ever having discovered the fissure; that was how long it would have taken him to burrow up to the surface. It was plain why no one had ever embarked upon such a scheme, for Grashnik’s own motivation rested on stubborn faith. The chief problem was not to gain the surface, but to leave Ledlide once that was done. Grashnik had racked his brain to try to think of a way of getting aboard the regular supply ship, but since it did not even touch down but offloaded its cargo from a mile in the air, the idea seemed impossible. And so he relied on hope. Grashnik’s whole scheme was redundant unless some day, for some reason, a ship – any ship – landed in the dirt near to Ledlide prison. Then the route to the surface would make sense, even if he had to wait another thirty years for that ship.

At the entrance to the route Grashnik had built this hide-hole, and equipped it with a low-output scanning set that could surreptitiously survey the terrain around the prison, without interfering with any of the official equipment. Once a week he slipped in here and used the set for half an hour or so, a practice he had kept up now for eight years.

All this Peder knew through the Frachonard suit, just as he seemed, looking at Grashnik now, to be able to read his mind. The criminal rose slowly and backed away from the two intruders. Peder glanced at the screen of the scanning set. It bore the blurred image of a spaceship parked on uneven, gravel-like ground.

‘Whassamarrerdoinhere …’ Grashnik whispered hoarsely, unable to formulate coherent speech in his confusion.

Peder waved a hand at the screen. ‘All things come to those who wait, it seems.’

Grashnik found his voice. ‘How long have you known? Who are you guys, anyway?’

‘Unfortunates like yourself, Grashnik.’

‘Well get out of here and keep your mouths shut, or I’ll kill you.’ In his excitement Grashnik began to stutter. ‘There’s a ship out there! There’s a ship out there! It worked! I’m free!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Get out of here or I’ll kill you.’

‘The ship landed in order to take me off,’ Peder informed him. ‘I’m afraid you will have to wait your turn until another ship chances to call. Meantime I shall need to use your route to the surface.’ He spoke equably but with chilling self-confidence.

Grashnik glared, spittle forming at his lips. ‘This is my route and nobody’s taking it from me. I’ve spent twenty years setting it up!’ He whipped a hand-ground knife from inside his baggy tunic and crouched low, shifting his weight uncertainly from foot to foot.

Mast interrupted, pointing to the screen. ‘One moment. Is that the ship you’re talking about? It looks big enough to take us all. What is there to quarrel over?’

Peder shrugged. ‘Grashnik has only one set of breathing apparatus to take us to the surface. Even with the two of us, that presents difficulties. Still, if you insist …’

But Grashnik was in no mood to be reasonable. ‘Nobody uses the route but me. Nobody! I spent twenty years setting it up!’ His eyes went glassy and he edged towards Peder.

From the way he held his blade it was plain he was not one of Ledlide’s most skilful knife fighters. Peder did not even try to meet him on his own terms. He held up a hand commandingly, bringing Grashnik to a halt.

‘You can escape from Ledlide,’ he said softly. ‘I know a way out. A much better way than this.’ He stepped forward. Grashnik’s lined, tired face stared up wonderingly at the sartorialist, the knife limp in his fingers, and Peder had time for fugitive feelings of pity and admiration as he put his hands on the prisoner’s brow, the tips of his fingers touching the greyed hair.

Grashnik gave a barely audible gasp. Peder stepped back. The lifer’s face had gone slack and dreamy, his eyes vague. He was reliving the happier times of his life; all awareness of his presence in Ledlide prison was gone. With a faint moan he slumped to the floor.