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«Be easy to get lost in here. Stay with me. Stay close.»
«Where are we going, Gully?»
«After 'Nomad.' I remember they were cementing her into the asteroid when I left. Don't remember where. Have to find her.»
The passages were airless, and their progress was soundless, but the vibrations carried through metal and rock. They paused once for breath alongside the pitted hull of an ancient warship. As they leaned against it they felt the vibrations of signals from within, a rhythmic knocking.
Foyle smiled grimly. «That's Joseph and The Scientific People inside,» he said. «Requesting a few words. I'll give 'em an evasive answer.» He pounded twice on the hull. «And now a personal message for my wife.» His face darkened. He smote the hull angrily and turned away. «Come on. Let's go.»
But as they continued the search, the signals followed them. It became apparent that the outer periphery of the asteroid had been abandoned; the tribe had withdrawn to the center. Then, far down a shaft wrought of beaten aluminum, a hatch opened, light blazed forth, and Joseph appeared in an ancient spacesuit fashioned of glass cloth. He stood in the clumsy sack, his devil face staring, his hands clutched in supplication, his devil mouth making motions.
Foyle stared at the old man, took a step toward him, and then stopped, fists clenched, throat working as fury arose within him. And Jisabella, looking at Foyle, cried out in horror. The old tattooing had returned to his face, blood red against the pallor of the skin, scarlet instead of black, truly a tiger mask in color as well as design.
«Gully!» she cried. «My God! Your face!»
Foyle ignored her and stood glaring at Joseph while the old man made beseeching gestures, motioned to them to enter the interior of the asteroid, and then disappeared. Only then did Foyle turn to Jisbella and ask: «What? What did you say?»
Through the clear globe of the helmet she could see his face distinctly. And as the rage within Foyle died away, Jisbella saw the blood-red tattooing fade and disappear.
«Did you see that joker?» Foyle demanded. «That was Joseph. Did you see him begging and pleading after what he did to me . . . ? What did you say?»
«Your face, Gully. I know what's happened to your face.»
«What are you talking about?»
«You wanted something that would control you, Gully. Well, you've got it. Your face. It…” Jisbella began to laugh hysterically. «You'll have to learn control now, Gully. You'll never be able to give way to emotion . .any emotion . . .because…”
But he was staring past her and suddenly he shot up the aluminum shaft with a yell. He jerked to a stop before an open door and began to whoop in triumph. The door opened into a tool locker, four by four by nine. There were shelves in the locker and a jumble of old provisions and discarded containers. It was Foyle's coffin aboard the «Nomad.»
Joseph and his people had succeeded in sealing the wreck into their asteroid before the holocaust of Foyle's escape had rendered further work impossible. The interior of the ship was virtually untouched. Foyle took Jisbella's arm and dragged her on a quick tour of the ship and finally to the purser's locker where Foyle tore at the windrows of wreckage and debris until he disclosed a massive steel face, blank and impenetrable.
«We've got a choice,» he panted. «Either we tear the safe out of the hull and carry it back to Terra where we can work on it, or we open it here. I vote for here. Maybe Dagenham was lying. All depends on what tools Sam has in the Weekender anyway. Come back to the ship, Jiz.»
He never noticed her silence and preoccupation until they were back aboard the Weekender and he had finished his urgent search for tools.
«Nothing!» he exclaimed impatiently. «There isn't a hammer or a drill aboard. Nothing but gadgets for opening bottles and rations.»
Jisbella didn't answer. She never took her eyes off his face.
«Why are you staring at me like that?» Foyle demanded.
«I'm fascinated,» Jisbella answered slowly.
«By what?»
«I'm going to show you something, Gully.»
«What?»
«How much I despise you.»
Jisbella slapped him thrice. Stung by the blows, Foyle started up furiously. Jisbella picked up a hand mirror and held it before him.
«Look at yourself, Gully,» she said quietly. «Look at your face.»
He looked. He saw the old tattoo marks flaming blood-red under the skin, turning his face into a scarlet and white tiger mask. He was so chilled by the appalling spectacle that his rage died at once, and simultaneously the mask disappeared.
«My God . . .» he whispered. «Oh my God . . .»
«I had to make you lose your temper to show you,» Jisbella said.
«What's it mean, Jiz? Did Baker goof the job?»
«I don't think so. I think you've got scars under the skin, Gully. . . from the original tattooing and then from the bleaching. Needle scars. They don't show normally, but they do show, blood red, when your emotions take over and your heart begins pumping blood. . . when you're furious or frightened or passionate or possessed . . . Do you understand?»
He shook his head, still staring at his face, touching it in bewilderment. «You said you wished you could carry me in your pocket to stick pins in you when you lose control. You've got something better than that, Gully, or worse, poor darling. You've got your face.»
«No!» he said. «No!»
«You can't ever lose control, Gully. You'll never be able to drink too much, eat too much, love too much, hate too much . . . You'll have to hold yourself with an iron grip.»
«No!» he insisted desperately. «It can be fixed. Baker can do it, or somebody else. I can't walk around afraid to feel anything because it'll turn me into a freak!»
«I don't think this can be fixed, Gully.»
«Skin-graft…”
«No. The scars are too deep for graft. You'll never get rid of this stigmata, Gully. You'll have to learn to live with it.»
Foyle flung the mirror from him in sudden rage, and again the blood-red mask flared up under his skin. He lunged out of the main cabin to the main hatch where he pulled his spacesuit down and began to squirm into it.
«Gully! Where are you going? What are you going to do?»
«Get tools,» he shouted. «Tools for the safe.»
«Where?»
«In the asteroid. They've got dozens of warehouses stuffed with tools from wrecked ships. There have to be drills there, everything I need. Don't come with me. There may be trouble. How is my God damned face now? Showing it? By Christ, I hope there is trouble!»
He corked his suit and went into the asteroid. He found a hatch separating the habited core from the outer void. He banged on the door. He waited and banged again and continued the imperious summons until at last the hatch was opened. Arms reached out and yanked him in, and the hatch was closed behind him. It had no air lock.
He blinked in the light and scowled at Joseph and his i
Foyle strode through the crowd, scattering them brutally. He smashed Joseph with a backhand blow from his mailed fist. He searched through the inhabited corridors, recognizing them dimly, and he came at last to the chamber, half natural cave, half antique hull, where the tools were stored.
He rooted and ferreted, gathering up drills, diamond bits, acids, thermites, crystallants, dynamite jellies, fuses. In the gently revolving asteroid the gross weight of the equipment was reduced to less than a hundred pounds. He lumped it into a mass, roughly bound it together with cable, and started out of the store-cave.
Joseph and his Scientific People were waiting for him, like fleas waiting for a wolf. They darted at him and he battered through them, harried, delighted, savage. The armor of his spacesuit protected him from their attacks and he went down the passages searching for a hatch that would lead out into the void.