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42: The Men In The Walls

I don't shoot a man for being incompetent in the Devil's work. I shoot him for being competent in the Devil's work. Admiration for his technique is part of the process.

—LAURENCE VAN COTT NIVEN, D. Litt

Four digit ships were coming near. They were half a thousand miles away, not close enough to use missiles, but close enough to show as brilliant, wavering green suns. That laser light must be boiling away Michael's hull. Refrigerators chugged, pumping unwanted heat into Michael's heat sink: the water tanks that had been two huge icebergs at takeoff.

The bombs were still going, WHAM WHAM WHAM, the spurt bombs were still raining into the blast, but Gillespie was on the radio link. "Shuttle One, I'm cutting you loose. Gunships one through six, I'm cutting you loose. See if you can damage some bandits for me."

WHAM
WHAM

quiet

Vibrating through the hull came chunk-chunk sounds: mooring prongs releasing their passengers. Flames lit and pulled away. The exhausts of the gunboats were bright and yellow: solid fuel rockets. The single Shuttle flame showed faint and blue: oxygen and hydrogen. They swept away to do battle.

Watch for bandits. Watch for damage. Watch temperature gauges. Listen, watch, and hang on. Constant chatter in the intercom—

"Too many digit ships," Gillespie said. "If I can kill a few, I can outrun the rest. Jason?"

"Targets acquired. Fire when ready."

"Acceleration. Stand by."

WHAM

"Get on the horn and tell the fly-boys to leave that nearest ship to me. Get 'em away from it. Fire."

WHAM

"Bandits, eight o'clock high."

"We're getting an overheat amidships starboard."

WHAM

"Request salvo—"

"Time problems."

"I need it."

"Roger. Say when."

"Stand by. Targets acquired. Ready."

The bomb placement cannon chugged almost inaudibly. "Acceleration. Stand by."

WHAM

"Bandit, eleven o'clock low."

WHAM

Harry's teeth were clenched. The temperature starboard amidships was falling again. No major hits on Michael. A gunship flared brilliant green, held, died . . .

"Stovepipe Five; this is Big Daddy."

"Big Daddy, this is Stovepipe Four, scratch Stovepipe Five. I say again, scratch Five."

"Bandit, eight o'clock low."

"Big Daddy, this is Stovepipe Three, I'll take the new target."

WHAM

"Request salvo."

"Roger. Acceleration. Stand by."

WHAM
WHAM

Three digit ships showed behind them as brilliant green suns.

"Temperature rising, ventral aft four."

"Steam forming, ventral aft six."

WHAM

"Big Daddy, this is Stovepipe Three, scratch one bogey."

Two brilliant suns aft.

"Big Daddy, this is Stovepipe Four, scratch Stovepipe Three."

WHAM
WHAM

Temperatures fell toward normal. Two lights showed aft. The gunships were invisible, beyond the battle now, living or dead.

"Short break," Gillespie said. "They're trying to clump. They want to hit us in clusters. We won't reach the next cluster for couple of hours."

Thank God! Harry eagerly reached up to open his faceplate.

"Sounds like a good time for an inspection tour," Max Rohrs said. "Get used to moving around in free-fall."

"Hey, give us a break," Harry said.

"I'll suggest it to the snouts."

Harry fastened the faceplate again.

 

The ducts were roomy enough. They were square in cross section so that patch plates could be all the same size. What had been ladders, padded rungs welded into the sides, had been left for handholds.

Harry knew the ducts like the roof of his mouth. The trouble was that he kept bumping into the sides. Ensign Franklin stayed ahead of him. Franklin hadn't helped build these ducts, but he had astronaut training in a weighted pressure suit in a swimming pool.

"Acceleration. Stand by."

The ship surged. Gillespie was throwing the thrust bombs far back, using them less for thrust than to power the spurt bombs.

Still, Harry snatched a rung only just in time.

"Where are we?" Franklin asked.

"About the middle of the Brick. That was the midpoint lateral tunnel we just passed. Port water tank below us. Here, this is top of the equipment bins." He looked in, and Franklin peered past him. "Nothing shook loose. Welding and cutting equipment, patch plates—same size as the walls, you have to tilt them to get through the ducts—"

"I know."

"Patches for steam pipes, the valve wheels, lines and cable nooses of the finest hemp."

" 'There was a girl who never laid me, but she made me see The Five Thousand Fingers of Doctor T," Franklin said.

"I like her already."

"Yeah." They continued forward. Harry tried launching himself from the rungs, bouncing slantwise from the opposite wall. Didn't work. Best move was to parallel the rungs and keep them within reach. "It's harder to move around than I thought it would be. Tires you out faster, too."

"Yeah. That's always a surprise," Franklin said.

The duct expanded into a maze of pipes. Pipes five feet wide flared into cones eighteen feet across. The cones ran through the hull and outside: twelve cones facing in three directions in rows of four each. "The attitude jets. We're at the upper port corner of the Brick," Harry said. "It's all so clean. I'm going to hate seeing it messed up in a battle."

"When they told me about the steam pipes, I wondered if they'd want me shoveling coal too."

Harry laughed. "Shall we take the cross duct and come down the other side?"

"Lead on. I'm lost already."

"Acceleration. Stand by."

WHAM

* * *

Nikolai led. The gravity was still low enough to let them move in great leaps.

If it gets strong enough, he won't be able to move fast, Jeri thought. What will they do then? She wanted to ask, but the last time she'd spoken it had upset Dmitri.

Arvid lets that commissar tell him what to do. Why? We aren't in Russia, and he isn't smarter than Arvid.

It was difficult to keep up. It was also obvious that the Russians weren't going to slow for her. They moved on through the air shafts. Each time they passed one of the ring-shaped robots Jeri felt terror. Suppose the thing came after them, tentacles flailing? They moved deeper into the ship. Where are we going? Wherever it was, Nikolai never hesitated as they went through twists and turns. Jeri caught glimpses of marks by some of the tunnel forks. Cyrillic letters. Of course!

"We are here, Comrade Commander."

Dmitri might be in command, but Nikolai spoke and listened only to Arvid Rogachev. He must not like Dmitri any more than I do, Jeri thought.

The room below was filled with cabinets and boxes, but no snouts. Dmitri waited impatiently for Nikolai and Rogachev to open the accessway, then dashed ahead of them to begin opening boxes, flinging their contents out onto the deck.

Tang? And that label says something in Russian! Where are—ah!

Dmitri opened another box. "Ha!" He reached into the box and brought out a big pistol, then fumbled in the box again until he found ammunition.

"That belonged to the American, Greeley," Arvid said. "Is there another? The Americans brought several and gave one to me as a gift."

"Da. There are two." He brought out another pistol and handed it to Arvid with a box of ammunition.

Only two. I wonder if Dmitri can shoot as well as I can? I don't suppose there's any point in asking.

Arvid loaded the pistol and held it high. "At last my arm is whole again!" he shouted in English.

And what did the snouts make of that picture? "Is there anything else? Knives? I had a Walther PPK when they captured me, is that in there?"

"No." Arvid opened wall cabinets. Spacesuits hung like mannequins. "Hah. I suppose it is too much, to hope there will be filled air tanks."

"If these can be made airtight," Dmitri said, "will they not allow us to live in vacuum even without air tanks?"

"A few minutes longer. Not more."

"We can kill many snouts in a few minutes," Dmitri said. "Let us see if these can be made to fit us."

* * *

Mrs. Woodward was dithering. "If I thought we could get to that big slab, the Podo Thuktun—they worship that, don't they? We'd be even safer."

"They lock it," Alice said. "They lock everything but the kitchen and the garden and the funeral pit. You don't want to hide in the funeral pit!"

"No. What are you doing?"

Alice was unscrewing the big wing nuts on a grill. "I'm going to Wes. Get the kids to the Garden. Hide."

"Hide? Alice, they won't harm children."

"Carrie, you don't want to be caught after Arvid and the Russians start their moves!"

"Oh." Carrie put an arm around each of the children. "Alice—"

"I'll be fine. Wes needs me."

Carrie Woodward nodded agreement. "I'd have gone for my John. God be with you, Alice."

"Thanks."

A recorded voice trumpeted in the alien language. "Take footholds against thrust!"

Alice dove into the air shaft. Behind her Carrie Woodward gripped the corridor's wet carpeting, both children clinging to her.

The pull increased until it was uncomfortable, then increased again. Like Kansas? More? I don't know. Alice moved through the air shafts. Somewhere ahead was Wes Dawson.

* * *

The fithp warriors gestured but didn't speak.

All right, Dawson thought. They're still trying to drive me mad. Have they done it? How long since I had anyone to talk to?

There were only two, one before and one behind. I'm strong like Superman. Exercise. I've walked all the way from New York City to Joplin, Missouri. And they're still elephants. Too damn big.

I'm as fast as they are. Faster. Jump back, grab that one's gun! But why did they come for me?

No spin. Acceleration, thrust after all this time. Why am I out?

To prove I'm a rogue. Wait for me to go for a gun so they can kill me . . . no. Makes no sense. They wouldn't take the spin off just for that.

Damn! I'm as schizzy as Alice. He stifled that thought. Alice isn't crazy. Maybe she got over it.

Alice is sweet, and if I live through this, what will I do with her? Carlotta will kill her!

They were in a shallow spiral curve, climbing toward the ship's bow. Thrust had risen to something like Earth normal.

They emerged in a place with windows, a place he had never seen . . . except in his mind, perhaps. A starship's control room, an alien starship. It was dimly lit; half the light was coming from square TV monitor screens. There were no chairs, only pads and recessed holds for the claws of fithp feet. The pads would tilt for spin gravity, but they were flat now. He'd guessed from the change in gravity, and now he knew: Thuktun Flishithy was on a war footing.

The warriors were holding back, out of the way.

Four fithp stood together in the center of the bridge. Dawson recognized one. Takpusseh-yamp. A fi' saw them and beckoned. The Bull Stud? Yes, for the warriors immediately brought him forward, digits twined round his arms.

"Dawson," the Herdmaster said. "Are you sane?"

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes up and bobble his finger against his lips. "Yes. No thanks to you."

The Herdmaster pointed to a screen. The view zoomed toward a distant, fuzzy object. As Dawson watched, it flared brilliant green, then flared again. Faint blue-green threads played against it from distant digit ships.

The Herdmaster gestured impatiently. "Look at that and tell me what it is."

Dawson's lips curved in a smile. "That is a tape of Star Wars," he said. We're fighting! Should I have jumped that soldier? Hell no. This is where they run everything. Stall. Wait for the chance to snatch a gun and . . .

"Speak our language, Dawson. We have no time for gibberish. You lectured Fathisteh-tulk on devices for use in space. Lecture me now regarding that. If you remain silent, I will return you your silence."

"I can't even tell which is which. There's too much going on. That—big blinking thing—is that ours?"

"No, it rose from the United States. It carries a weapon that would be a laser but that it sends an impossibly high frequency. We have no such in our thuktunthp. What can you tell us?"

The last thing Wes wanted was to return to the dreadful silence of his cell. Here was where it was all happening! And he wouldn't be giving away anything useful. "Gamma-ray lasers are possible. They destroy themselves, you only fire them once. You power them with a fission explosion."

The Herdmaster bellowed something.

Takpusseh-yamp spoke too rapidly for Wes to follow. Another fi', one Dawson was certain he had never seen before, listened gravely, then spoke slowly.

"Perhaps. There is nothing in the thuktunthp. This would explain why they use so many bombs."

"What is the purpose of the intruder?"

Was that a serious question? Wes said, "They make war."

"War has a purpose. What is the purpose? Do they seek a not-surrender surrender?"

"I don't understand. They want you extinct. They're coming to kill you."

"They will kill entire fithp? Females, children?"

"India."

"India was not all of the human fithp."

"Unless you surrender, that ship will destroy Thuktun Flishithy."

The Herdmaster didn't seem surprised. He spoke to the fourth fi' in the group. "Defensemaster, you have heard. Warriors, keep this one there, where he will not interfere."

The guards dragged him to one bulkhead. They placed his hands against the damp, spongy wall. "Grip." Each hand was encircled by tentacles. The fithp warriors dug their claws into the floor.

* * *

The Herdmaster made certain that Dawson was held securely, far enough away that he could not overhear.

Thrust was steady now. The sixteen digit ships which had surrounded Message Bearer, her last wall of defense, were dwindling in her wake. "Defensemaster."

"Lead me."

"Can—we avoid battle?"

"Herdmaster, the intruder already has too high a velocity. If we thrust lateral to his path, he will still miss by only a few makasrupkithp. I am thrusting away from him, directly out from Winterhome. He must pass the last digit ships to find us."

"This is your thuktun." Do it your way. "Takpusseh-yamp."

"Lead me."

"Raztupisp-minz told us that the humans in Africa often demand conditions before foot touches chest. What words did he use? 'Not-surrender surrender'?"

"We took to calling it a 'negotiated loss of status.' "

"Draft me one to be used if we lose this battle."

"Herdmaster, is this possible?"

"Probably not. What else are you busy at? You have said yourself that this is their last attempt to break from beneath our foot. When the intruder is gone, then we can let them study how to surrender to us. Meanwhile, exercise your skill. Prepare for us negotiated loss of status giving them as little as possible."

"Herdmaster?"

The call came from one of the lesser posts. "Speak."

"Camera twenty-eight."

The Herdmaster tapped two buttons. A screen lit with a view of an air duct . . . and a small, red-haired human female.

"It's—she's just outside the aft control room, watching through the grill."

"Send a warrior for her. Send another—send three to the human restraint cell. If she's loose, they may all be loose. And summon Tashayamp!"

* * *

Half a dozen fithp were beyond the grill. They didn't seem particularly excited by what they were watching, and they were all doing anything but switching the views on their TV sets. One view stayed. It showed a room like this one, but much larger. There were windows, with stars beyond.

There was Wes Dawson, against a wall, between two of the horrors.

And there, suddenly live on another screen, Alice saw herself peering through an air duct.

Time to move on, Alice thought. Forward. Windows on a spaceship had to be at the nose . . .

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