But in that case, he was clearly mad. That had not been a warning shot; she looked at the silver bullet scar in the ice above her. That shot had been meant to kill her.
Up on the rim the half-dozen men hung back and watched as Sergeant Yashin took aim again.
”Sergeant, are you certain of this?” a soldier asked uneasily..
”Of course I’m certain!” Yashin barked. “She’s a traitor! Why else did she come out here with the American, without any of us, without telling us? They must be planning to steal the alien technology and sell it to the Americans! Or since he abandoned his companions, maybe to the highest bidder-do you want the Chinese to have it?”
”No…”
”Then she and the American must be stopped!” Yashin said, his finger tightening on the trigger. It was a fairly tricky shot; the lieutenant was half-hidden in the uneven, icy wall of the crevasse, and the light was terrible. Still, he knew he had her.
Then something bright red flicked across his vision for an instant. He blinked and glanced down.
Red dots were scanning across his chest, weaving about; then they focused into a neat triangle.
”Chto eto?” he asked. “What is this?”
Then white fire blazed, and a sound like thunder echoed from the walls of the canyon.
To the soldiers behind Yashin the light was blinding; they saw the blue-white flash, then a spray of dark red mist as what was left of the sergeant’s body was flung backward. Then they stood, blinking, eyes trying to readjust to the gloom of the arctic night.
One of them finally stepped forward to where Yashin’s corpse lay smoking on the ice.
His chest had been ripped apart, ribs bare and blackened; no more blood was flowing because the heat of the blast had cauterized the blood vessels. There was no question at all that the sergeant was dead.
”What happened?” someone demanded.
”He’s dead,” replied the soldier who had first stepped forward.
”How?”
”Ligacheva and the American,” someone else replied. “They must have killed him!”
”I don’t know…” said the man looking down at Yashin’s corpse.
”Who else could it have been?” the other demanded. He pointed down into the canyon. “Do you see anyone else down there?”
The man in the lead looked down into the ravine and could see no one but Ligacheva and Schaefer, still inching down the rocks-but it was dark down there, and there were dozens of places to hide among the rocks.
”I see no one else,” he admitted, “but this, what could they have that would do this?” He gestured at the body.
”Some secret American weapon,” another soldier replied. “The Americans love secrets.”
For a few seconds the six of them still milled about uncertainly; then Maslennikov took charge and said, “Follow them!”
Meanwhile, Schaefer and Ligacheva had completed their climb down into the darkness of the ravine. With Yashin’s shooting and subsequent death as their inspiration they had descended the last few meters a little more quickly than they had planned; Schaefer had dropped his blanket and stooped to retrieve it when he reached bottom. His now-brittle, scratched, and battered electric snowsuit had stopped working, he noticed; the power supply had scraped against something as he slid down the rocks, and wires had torn loose. Even if the current had still been flowing, Schaefer doubted the suit would have lasted much longer; yellow fluid was oozing from a crack on one knee, and yellow drops seeped from the scratches on his chest.
”Looks like Yashin got someone down here angry,” he remarked as he wrapped the blanket around his head again. “Probably one of their security guards.” In English he added, “Goddamn rent-a-cops can be somethin’ when they’re pissed.”
”Be careful where you step,” Ligacheva replied. She had pulled a flashlight from her pack and was sweeping the beam across the ice ahead of them.
”They’ll see us!” Schaefer shouted when he spotted the light. “The men up there, I mean-the creatures can probably see in the dark anyway, from what I’ve seen.”
The light stopped on something that glittered, something that wasn’t ice.
”It would appear that your ‘rent-a-cops’ have left us a souvenir,” Ligacheva said. “I would not like to step on that, whatever it is.”
”Okay, okay,” Schaefer admitted, “so maybe the light was a good idea. Now turn it off!”
Ligacheva did just as a rifle cracked and snow spat up from a bullet impact.
”Jesus!” Schaefer said. “Your boys up there are stubborn! I thought that even if seeing Yashin’s head blown off didn’t send them running home, they’d take their time about coming after us again.” He turned.
The Russians had secured ropes, Schaefer saw, and were lowering themselves down the wall of the crevasse. Judging the speed of the shadowy shapes was difficult, but it appeared to Schaefer that the climb that had taken Ligacheva and himself fifteen minutes would only keep these fellows occupied for about fifteen seconds.
They were obviously a lot more stubborn than he had realized. They weren’t turning back or hesitating; instead they were already in active pursuit again.
”Back!” Ligacheva shouted at the descending soldiers, waving frantically. “Go back! It’s not safe down here!”
An AK-47 stuttered, and bullets shattered ice at the lieutenant’s feet.
”I don’t think they’re listening,” Schaefer said as he swept an arm around Ligacheva and snatched her off her feet. He slung her over one shoulder and ran.
He hadn’t forgotten the traps, though; he deliberately chose an indirect, inconvenient route, pushing himself partway up the scatter of debris along the base of the canyon wall, squeezing between outcroppings where those eight-foot hunters from space wouldn’t fit. The instant he found something approximating shelter behind a slanting slab of rock and ice he stopped, lowered Ligacheva, and turned to watch.
The first of the Russians stepped off his rope and charged forward-impaling himself almost instantly on a spearhead that seemed to appear from thin air. He gasped once, tottered, and fell forward.
For a moment the spear supported him; then the incredibly sharp spearhead cut through his spine and he slid forward down the shaft.
Blood ran down the shaft ahead of the dying Russian, and he landed facedown in a pool of his own blood, cooling quickly on the ice.
The spear was snatched from his back by a shadowy, indistinct figure, and the second man down cut loose with his AK-47, spraying bullets at the barely glimpsed spear-wielding killer.
The thing moved so fast it almost seemed to be dodging the bullets as it turned and ran back down the canyon. The Russian charged after it, bellowing.
He never saw the thing he stepped on, never saw the curving metal strips that snapped up out of the snow and drove spikes into his sides and shoulders, trapping him instantly. His AK-47 flew from his grip.
One spike had rammed through his cheek, so that he could not move his head without inflicting further injury; he was caught staring directly ahead. He could not look away as that shadowy figure stopped, turned, and came slowly toward him.
He could have closed his eyes, but he did not, he wanted to see what he faced, what it was that had trapped him.
It wasn’t quite so shadowy and indistinct now. The soldier could see that the thing he faced stood two and a half meters tall and was shaped more or less like a man, its wrists and shoulders sheathed in jagged black machinery that looked somehow barbaric, its face covered by a metal mask and ringed by black tendrils.
The spear in its hand was already red with blood.
It raised the spear very slowly as it advanced.
”Gunin!” one of the Russian’s companions called.
Gunin couldn’t turn his head to see whether help was coming; the spike would tear open his cheek if he tried.