I was afloat in cool waters, listening to the distant rumble of thunder portending gentle rain. Then the rumble was a voice, coming from far away on some frosty white mountaintop sparkling in the blue sky. I was flying, soaring down from the icy heights—or was it the cool translucent depths from which I floated up toward light, warmth, pain. . . .
I opened my eyes, saw a vague cloudy shape hovering over me.
"How are you feeling, Mac?" Admiral Banastre Tarleton's voice asked.
"Like a barbecued steer," I said—but no sound came out. Or maybe I grunted.
"Don't try to talk," Tarleton said quickly. "You breathed a lot of smoke, got some fire in your lungs. You're lucky they were made in a factory."
I had the impression someone had come up, muttered to Tarleton. Then he was back.
"You're at Bethesda. They tell me you're out of danger. You were out for eighteen hours. Second-degree burns on the face, the left hand, the back of your thighs. The coat you were wearing helped. Some kind of expanded polymer job. Bioprosthetics are having a swell time clucking over how their work stood up to the fire. Both legs were melted back to bare metal, and the right elbow was fused. They'll have a new set ready for you in about two weeks, when the bandages come off. You won't even have scars."
I tried again, managed a croak. My throat felt like rawhide dried in the desert sun.
"You'll be wondering about how certain things have gone, Mac," Tarleton went on. "Funny thing, after the fire there seemed to be a certain temporary loss of momentum in the movement. I guess my little band of gentleman-adventurers used up all their drive running out on me when things got hot. My own perspective got a little warped: I had to keep reminding myself that in a society of maniacs, the sane man has a duty to rule. And those lads who got the hell out when the flames got knee-high: they did the sane thing. You can't fight that. It took a crazy man to walk through the fire for me."
It was a long speech. I had a long one of my own ready: I was going to tell him all about how it had been a mistake to rush me to the hospital, because as soon as I could walk, I'd have to come after him to finish what I'd started; that sick or well, sane or crazy, there were things loose in the world that were worse than man's animal ferocity, and one of them was the ferocity of the Righteous Intellect; and that the most benevolent of despotisms rotted in the end into the blind arrogance of tyranny. . . .
But all I managed was a whimper like a sick pup.
The frosty haze was closing in again. Tarleton's voice came from far away, as far as the stars: "I have an appointment with the Vice President now, Mac. I'll have to explain some things to him. Maybe he'll understand, maybe not. Maybe things have gone too far. Whichever way it goes, I'd like to leave one thought with you: Theories are beautiful things—simple and precise as cut glass—as long as they're only theories. When you find in your hand the power to make them come true. . . . suddenly, it's not so simple. . . ."
Then he was gone, and the snow was drifting over me, silent and deep.
It was hours later, I don't know how many. I was half awake, reasonably clearheaded, wondering if Tarleton had really been there, or if I had dreamed the whole passage. There was a tri-D screen by the bed, playing the kind of soft music that's guaranteed not to intrude on the bridge-table conversation. It stopped abruptly in mid-moan and a voice harsh with excitement broke in:
"We interrupt this program to bring you the following bulletin: The Vice President has been assassinated and the Secretaries of Defense and State and the Attorney General as well as a number of lesser officials cut down in a burst of gunfire that shattered a secret meeting of the National Defense Council at two-nineteen P.M. Eastern Standard Time today—less than ten minutes ago. An unofficial statement by a newsman who was first on the scene indicates that a heavy-caliber machine pistol smuggled into the Capitol by Admiral Banastre Tarleton was the massacre weapon. Tarleton, still heavily bandaged from yesterday's fire and with a cast on his leg, is reported to have died in the answering fire from a Secret Service man who broke down a door to gain entry to the room. A spokesman for the CBI stated that Admiral Tarleton, a national hero since his destruction of Bloc naval forces in a deep-space battle two days ago, apparently broke under the double tragedy of the loss of the majority of his forces in the fighting, followed by the disastrous fire which swept his Georgetown home—"
The sound cut off then. I got an eyelid up, made out the hovering figure of a man in pale-green hospital togs. He fumbled at my left arm, made soothing noises, and things got vague again. . . .
Voices picked at me. I came back from soft cool shadowland, saw faces floating like pink moons above me. I recognized one of them: Nulty, Under-Secretary of Defense.
" . . . . ranking surviving officer," he was saying. "As senior line captain since the terrible losses in Monday's engagement. . . . assured you'll be fit for duty in three weeks. . . . temporary rank of vice admiral. . . . grave crisis. . . ." His voice faded in and out. Other voices seemed to come and go. Time passed. Then I was awake, feeling the artificial clearheadedness of drug-induced alertness. Nulty was sitting beside the bed.
" . . . . hope you've understood what we've been saying, Maclamore," he said. "It's of vital importance that the flagship be fully operational as soon as possible. I've posted Captain Selkirk to her as acting CO until you could assume command. We don't know what the Bloc may be doing at this moment, but it's vital that our defensive posture not be permitted to deteriorate, in spite of the terrible tragedies that have struck us."
"Why me?" I managed.
"All but a handful of staff officers of flag rank were lost in the fight," he said in a voice that quivered with tension and fatigue. "The President agreed; you're Academy-trained, with vast operational experience—"
"What about Braze?"
"He. . . . was one of those lost in the assassination."
"So now Rapacious is my baby. . . . ?"
"I'm hoping you'll be able to board her within a day or two. I've ordered special medical facilities installed, and the surgeon general has agreed you can complete your convalescence there. I have reports for you to read, Maclamore. The Bloc is aware of the confusion here. They'll be wasting no time. . . ." His face was close to me, worried.
"What will you do, Admiral?" he demanded. "You'll be commanding the entire surviving armed force of the UN. What will you do. . . . ?"
A man in green came then and whispered, and Nulty went away. The lights went off. It was late; the shadows of evening were long on the walls.
I lay in the darkness and pondered my reply.