“No,” she told him. “Some time, when we are less pressed, you must tell me about them.”
“If they have heard about him,” said Vanessa, her face frightened, “and if they know that he comes from another Universe, then they will want him alive. There is so much that he could tell them. Too much. The weapons that he has just mentioned. With such power at their disposal they could bring the rest of the Solar System to heel with ease.”
“There is so much that he can tell us,” said Claire.
The mists were thinning now; the sun, although it was merely a vague blur, a roughly circular area in the golden overcast, was well up in the sky. Wilkinson saw that they were on a hillside, although vision merely confirmed what his own aching leg muscles had told him long ago. They were on a hillside, and the scenery was of the kind that he had already begun to regard as familiar — the luxuriant moss, the gray-white boulders thrusting through it like dead bones, the scattered copses of tall, fern-like trees. Through the hot air drifted the gaudy dragonflies, living jewels of fantastic and beautiful intricacy. On the other side of the stream an animal pushed its way through the mosses, lowering its head to the water to drink. Wilkinson stared at it. It was the size of a pony, and roughly resembled one, but it was heavily scaled.
Malcolm unfolded the cocking lever of his arbalest and his muscles stood out as he began to pull back the bowstring. “No,” Claire told him. “We have enough food to last us to the new camp and, in any case, we daren’t make a fire.” She explained to Wilkinson, “Most of the vegetation will burn, but none of it burns without making smoke. And smoke is one of the things that the Committee’s air patrols will be looking for.”
“What is that thing?”
“Aphrohippus Farmeria,” she said. “In other words, Venus Horse. Named after Captain Farmer, who was in command of the ship that made the first landing.”
“We’d better be on our way,” said Malcolm.
“Yes. Now, all of you, keep your eyes skinned and your ears flapping.” She grinned. “Not that I need tell you, Vanessa and Malcolm, but the way that our friend was blundering around in the dark has quite convinced me that he is, as he claims, a stranger here. Anyhow, the air patrols will be out, so be ready to duck for cover at the first sign of aircraft.” She rose to her feet, looking with her hard, reckless face and the weapons that she carried, like a modern Diana. (But Vanessa, thought Wilkinson, in spite of her pistol and bow, looks like a Venus — not the suety Venus de Milo, but like the Rokeby Venus of Velasquez …) “Come on,” ordered Claire. “The sooner we get to the new camp, the better.”
She set off up the hillside at a swinging pace and the others followed her — first Wilkinson and Vanessa, walking side by side, and then, bringing up the rear, Malcolm.
• • •
Through the long, hot morning they pressed on. Wilkinson was tired and thirsty and beginning to suffer from heat exhaustion, but he drove himself to keep up with his companions, determined not to delay them. At first he was able to take an interest in the creatures that crossed their path, in the copses of flamboyant trees they skirted, but soon all his attention was given to the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. He stood stupidly when Malcolm barked a sharp command, watched dimly as the giant loosed a crossbow bolt at something slithering through the tall mosses, something that screamed and reared, revealing a head that was all jaws and teeth and three great, bulbous eyes, from the center one of which protruded the vaned tail of the missile. He realized that Claire was saying in a cool voice, “Aphroserpens Horrendus. Carnivorous.” He sat down to rest while Malcolm, having waited for the reptile’s dying struggles to subside, drew his knife and cautiously extracted the bolt from the thing’s eye. He was grateful for Vanessa’s assistance when he got to his feet again.
Shortly after noon they came to another stream and, walking along its bank, rested hard by the concealment of a clump of the tree-ferns. Here they drank, although they did not need to eat again, and Wilkinson removed his boots and bathed his abused feet in the cool water. Claire, watching him amusedly, said, “You’re in shocking condition, young man.”
He replied, “I’m an astronaut.”
She said, “If you spend most of your life in Free Fall you would be flabby, I suppose. But I have to admit that you’re not as flabby as the average spaceman.”
“Our ships maintain a constant acceleration,” he told her.
“Then you must have fantastically efficient fuels.”
“We grew out of rockets years ago. We have the Inertial Drive.”
She said, “I don’t know what that is, but it’s obvious that it must never be allowed to fall into their hands.” She looked at Malcolm. “If things go wrong, if they catch us, you know what to do.”
“Claire!” Vanessa’s voice was all entreaty. “You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.”
“I could, and I would, my dear. You know as well as I do that they would make him talk, and that by the time they had finished with him he’d welcome death. They’ll drain him, suck him dry, and then toss him onto the dunghill. Would you want that?”
“No, but …”
“Would you want it, Christopher?”
He replied, “I find it hard to muster any enthusiasm on the subject of my impending demise, but if it has to come it might as well be painless.”
“It won’t be if they get their paws on you.”
He said, “I’ve only your word for it. And you must admit that if it hadn’t been for them, your own Moira Simmons would, by this time, have been using her own technique for extracting information.”
She told him, “I only hope, for your sake, that you never find out what they can and will do.” Then, roughly, “Put your boots on and start marching.”
XV
THROUGH THE LONG, hot afternoon they trudged, uphill all the way.
Wilkinson derived a certain wry pleasure from the fact that the others were toiling now, that Claire, an inflamed area of skin showing under the heel strap of her left sandal, was beginning to limp. All of them were pleased rather than frightened when the advent of a high-flying rocket plane obliged them to take cover in a clump of giant ferns. But the rest was only a brief one, and on they trudged.
Ahead of them was the mountain range, its peaks shimmering in the heat, some of them gleamingly snow-clad. Underfoot the moss grew only in sparse patches, and there were long stretches of a lichenous growth that was dry and brittle and most unpleasant to walk upon, and on either hand the gray, dessicated bones of the planet poked through the thin skin of unfertile soil. The great dragonflies were gone, and in their stead buzzed and harassed swarms of midgelike flying things that clouded the vision, that flew into open, gasping mouths, that drowned themselves in the streams of perspiration pouring down naked skins.
On they trudged, and on, seemingly oblivious to all but their discomforts, but suddenly Claire halted.
“There!” she muttered, pointing. “The Steeple Rock, in line with Donegan’s Peak …”
“Not far …” whispered Malcolm.
“Not far …” echoed Vanessa, and then, with a note of hope in her voice, “I hope that Moira Simmons didn’t make it.”
“Vanessa!” Malcolm’s utterance was both reprimand and warning.
“Let her say it,” whispered Claire. “She’s only giving words to what we all think. Hardcastle may be brutal, when he has to be, but he’s just. But Moira …”
“There is a pass there?” asked Wilkinson. He could see the aptly named Steeple Rock, and, above and beyond it, the almost unnaturally sharp cone that must be Donegan’s Peak.
“If you can call it a pass. It’s no more than a steep track up the cliff face and through a fissure. It’s not obvious until you’re right on top of it — and that’s its main beauty.” She paused for breath, and then set off again, a hint of the old litheness returning to her stride.
On they trudged, and on.
Ahead of them now the Steeple Rock loomed tall, obscuring the d
istant Donegan’s Peak. To the right of it was a narrow fissure in the sheer cliff face, the merest crack. Wilkinson kept his gaze fixed upon it. It was something to steer for, something to attract and to hold his attention, something to take his mind from the misery of burning feet and aching muscles. Almost subconsciously he put out his hand to support Vanessa as she stumbled, felt the sweet pressure as she caught his hand between her upper arm and her side. The little act of aid, lovingly accepted, suddenly made everything worthwhile. He knew, in a moment of absolute certainty, that things were going to come right.
On they trudged, and on, and Steeple Rock was a great pillar of stone, rearing almost to the zenith, dwarfing the smaller boulders, although they were at least as big as houses. But it was from the smaller boulders that death and danger came.
Behind Wilkinson, Malcolm cried out sharply.
Wilkinson turned, and saw that the giant had fallen, was sprawled supine. There was a black hole in his chest, still smoking slightly, a cauterized wound that could not bleed. There was a horrid smell of charred meat in the still air.
“Down!” Claire was shouting. “Down!” — but still Wilkinson stood there, staring stupidly at the dead man, until a tug on his ankle brought him tumbling to the scant cover of the piled and scattered, water-rounded stones. One of the smooth rocks exploded with a sharp crack and a razor-edged fragment nicked Wilkinson’s shoulder. Another one burst, and in the microsecond before it did so Wilkinson saw the almost invisible flicker of a laser beam.
“They’ve an aircraft hidden among the boulders,” gasped Claire. “It must be a ‘copter. They could never land a rocket here.”
Wilkinson tried to make a comfortable bed for himself among the rocks, but it was impossible. He was acutely conscious of his protruding buttocks. He managed somehow to get his pistol out of its holster, cocked it and wished that he could see a target.
“Whoever sold us out,” muttered the tall blonde viciously, “made a thorough job of it …”
Again the barely audible hiss and crackle, again the explosion of a rock.
“Why don’t they take off and get above us?” asked Wilkinson. “We shouldn’t stand a chance then.”
“Because,” Claire told him tiredly, “we managed, even with our limited resources, to develop very effective incendiary and armor-piercing ammunition for our machine pistols. At least two of their damned flying windmills were shot down when they raided headquarters.” She added, “And if they did get on top of us to fry us with their beams, you’d fry too. And they don’t want to fry you. Yet.”
“Vanessa,” whispered Wilkinson, “try to wriggle over until you have me between you and the big, almost spherical rock …”
“Very noble, Chris,” sneered Claire, “but I don’t suppose that you’ve noticed that there are two helicopters — one behind the sphere and the block, and the other behind the twin cones.”
“Even so, if we stay in a huddle and if they’re scared of hitting me …”
“Even so,” she returned, “I like to keep my gun hand free. I want to be able to give an injection, a lead injection, at a second’s notice.”
Wilkinson heard the stones rattle as she squirmed over them. He managed, without unduly exposing himself, to turn to watch her, and saw that she, like himself, had drawn her pistol. She called, “Chris, when I give the word you distract their attention by firing at the gap between the sphere and the block, and you, Vanessa, loose off a few rounds in the general direction of the twin cones.” She added, “There’s always the chance that a ricochet may do some damage.”
“And the certainty,” said Wilkinson, “that we shall be wasting ammunition.”
“Not wasting it,” she told him grimly.
Wilkinson rolled over on to his side. He found that he could just bring his weapon to bear on the target indicated, but realized that his angle of fire must, inevitably, be too high even to inconvenience those in the hidden flying machine. But he was a stranger in this world, just as he was a stranger to warfare. And Claire was not. He hoped that she knew what she was doing.
“Now!” she called.
Wilkinson squeezed his trigger, heard the sharp report, felt the gun buck in his hand, lifting it. He brought the pistol to bear and fired again, and again. Then he heard the rapid rattle of Claire’s gas-operated automatic, and out of the corner of his eye saw that she had risen to her knees, and was shooting carefully and with deliberation. Suddenly the fissure between the sphere and block glared blindingly blue and Claire dropped to her face. From the other helicopter, the one concealed behind the twin cones, lashed a beam that splintered the topmost stones of the pile behind which she had fallen.
“Claire!” Vanessa was calling.
“I’m all right. Now, listen, you two. The laser projector that was giving us the most trouble is destroyed. We have cover from the other one as long as we keep our backsides down. Just follow me.”
Rapidly, she crawled over the rounded stones. Almost as speedily Vanessa followed. Slowly and painfully, bruising knees and elbows, Wilkinson brought up the rear. He could see that just short of the entrance to the pass there was a patch of smooth ground, and wondered how they would get across it. They would have to get to their feet and run, he thought, and his muscles began to tense in anticipation of the effort.
Claire had halted in the last of the cover, and Vanessa had squirmed up beside her. Recklessly now, Wilkinson scrambled to join them. He heard the throbbing roar of engines as both helicopters readied themselves for the take-off, and wished, too late, that he had thought to pick up the dead man’s pistol with its full magazine of specialized ammunition. There were seven rounds left in his own weapon, but he doubted their effectiveness against even a lightly armored machine.
“When I say ‘run,’ run!” called Claire.
She jumped to her feet, with the girl beside her, and Wilkinson, although he was not yet clear of the piled and scattered stones, followed suit. “Run!” she shouted.
And then there was a burst of fire from the boulders heaped around the base of Steeple Rock, and she crumpled, blood gushing from her lifeless body. Vanessa was standing over her, her own machine pistol hammering viciously at the men who were leaping from cover to cover, closing in, until Wilkinson caught her shoulder and pushed her roughly, yelling, “Make for the path, and get the hell out of here!”
“But …”
“Do as I say! It’s me they want, and they want me alive. I’ll be able to hold them off until you’re clear!”
“Chris! I must stay with you.”
“You will not.” He snapped off a couple of rounds at two of the figures, naked except for metallic kilts, that were closing in on them, and felt a savage glee as he saw them fall. “Run, girl! And keep that anklet on, whatever happens! We’ll be together soon, I promise!” And he thought, surely it will not be long now before Henshaw drags us back.
Firing as though he were back on the pistol range that he had found the most interesting part of his Naval Reserve Officer’s training, regarding the Committee’s troopers as mere targets, he got three more with the five rounds remaining in his magazine, then stooped to scoop up Claire’s pistol. As he did so, he saw that Vanessa had almost made the cover afforded by the fissure in the cliff face. The dead woman’s weapon was unfamiliar in his hand, and his first few shots were wild. But, he thought, I shall get the hang of it in a couple of seconds. I may even be able to shoot my way to the crack in the cliff — and there one man could hold off an army.
He loosed off another burst, and felt a grim satisfaction as he saw it take effect.
And then, from above, dropped a net of fine steel mesh, and the hovering helicopter descended gently, landing a foot from his ensnared and ineffectually struggling body. He managed to shoot off what was left in the magazine, but every bullet went wild.
XVI
THEY CLOSED in on him, the burly men with the sullen faces. With rough fingers the pulled the net from him, not caring how much they hurt him in the proc
ess. They kicked the empty pistol from his hand and flung him onto his face, and one of them pulled his arms behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs about his wrists, remarking as he did so, “That’s a pretty bracelet he’s got on. I may as well have something for my trouble.”
Ordered one of the others — his kilt was of a golden mesh, not silver, and he wore a golden circlet on each of his upper arms — “Leave it there, Kurt. Our orders are to bring him in as is, in every detail.”
“All right. You’re the boss. But can’t we rough him up a little?”
“No,” was the answer, but it was delivered in regretful tones.
They jerked Wilkinson to his feet, pushing him towards the door of the helicopter’s cabin. He resisted, more on principle than in the hope of accomplishing anything useful. He had time to see that the other aircraft had landed — there was a hole in the sleek metal skin of its fuselage, looking as though it had been made by a huge blow-torch wielded by a clumsy giant — and that the bodies of the dead, Malcolm and Claire among them, were being loaded into it. He hung back as long as possible, bracing his feet against the stones, until he was sure that they had not got Vanessa. Then he allowed himself to be prodded up the short flight of steps that were extruded from the doorway, and fell onto the seat towards which he was shoved. Facing him sat two of the police, each with a drawn pistol in his hand. They glared at him with hostility and handled their weapons suggestively. Their officer, who was last into the aircraft, frowned heavily at them and said, “I don’t want any trouble. He’s to be delivered intact.”
“But he and those two bitches did for half a dozen good men, besides shooting up the projector in the other ship. In any case, boss, what’s the damn rush? What about our own wounded? Don’t they deserve any consideration?”
The officer was beginning to get annoyed. “Pipe down, damn you. Mr. Haldane’s ‘copter is taking the casualties. All we have to do is to get back to Venusburg in a hurry.”
“Then why couldn’t they have put a rocket plane on the job instead of this whirly-bird?”
The Coils of Time Page 8
