He landed on the concrete beside Cherkassky’s crumpled body, the thrust of the antigrav soles increasing by inverse squares until the moment of contact. Cherkassky was still alive; that much of the plan had gone wrong. But at least Tallon was out in the open again. He turned to run and found the lead of the brain-brush dangling from the headset, which was still clinging to his scalp.
In the act of snatching it off he noticed the movement of gray uniforms in the doorways of the shopping center across the empty street. Whistles shrilled at both ends of the block. A fraction of a second later he heard the hornet guns in action, and then he was caught in a whining cloud of darts, which made a rapid thock-thock-thock as they stitched his clothes to his body.
Tallon reeled and went down, helpless.
He lay on his back, paralyzed, and found a moment of strange peace. The E.L.S.P. men were still blasting away zealously with their hornet guns, but lying down he made a poor target for the horizontal swarms of darts, and they were not getting to him. The stars, even in their unfamiliar constellations, looked good. Up there were other men who, provided they had courage enough to stand the random galaxy-wide pattern of flicker~transits spreading their souls thin across the universe, were free to travel. Sam Tallon could no longer take part in that awesome commerce, but he would never be completely a prisoner while he could look into the night skies.
The hornet guns abruptly ceased firing. Tallon listened for the sound of running feet, but instead heard a movement unexpectedly close by.
A figure moved into his field of view and, incredibly, it was Cherkassky. His face was a voodoo mask of flayed skin and blood, and one arm hung awkwardly at his side. He moved his good hand forward painfully, and Tallon saw that it held a hornet gun.
“No man,” Cherkassky whispered “no man has ever …” He fired the gun at point-blank range.
Hornet guns were regarded as a humane weapon, and usually they did no lasting damage, but Cherkassky was a professional. Tallon, completely immobilized by the drugs, could not even blink as the darts ripped viciously into his eyes, robbing him forever of light and beauty and stars.
four
For Tallon there was no pain; that would come only when the paralysis drug began to be absorbed by his system. At first he was not even sure of what had happened, for darkness did not come at once. Instead, his distorted view of Cherkassky and the wavering gun muzzle was replaced by an incoherent universe of light — splintering flashes, marching geometric patterns of color, pine-tree shapes of amethyst and pink.
But there was no escaping the processes of logic. A hornet-gun charge from a distance of twelve inches …
My eyes must be gone!
TalIon had time for a moment of anguish; then all his consciousness contracted to focus on a new phenomenon: he was unable to breathe. With all physical sensation blanketed by the drug, he had no way of knowing why his breath had been shut off; but it was not too difficult to guess. Blinding him had been only the first installment; now Cherkassky was out to finish the job. Tallon discovered he was not very afraid, considering what was happening, perhaps because the ancient reaction of panic — the downward, air-seeking thrust of the diaphragm — Was blocked by his paralysis. If only he had kicked in Cherkassky’s head while he had the chance.
There was the sound of running feet drawing near, then voices:
“Corporal! Lift Mr. Cherkassky to the car. It looks like he’s seriously injured.”
“Right, Sarge.”
The second voice was followed by the sound of boots scufflng on the concrete, and Tallon suddenly gulped air. Cherkassky must have passed out and fallen across his face. Tallon accepted the air gratefully; then he heard voices again.
“Sarge! Look at the Earther’s eyes. Can a hornet gun do that?”
“You want me to show you? Get Mr. Cherkassky into the car, then shove the Earther in the tender.”
Vague shifts in his sense of balance told Tallon the orders were being carried out. Whistles sounded; vehicle turbines were spun up noisily. And indeterminate time went by; then Tallon began to feel pain… .
Less than twenty-four hours had passed, but already Tallon thought he could feel the quickening of the other senses that accompanies the loss of sight.
In the police headquarters in New Wittenburg somebody had jabbed a hypodermic into his neck, and he had regained consciousness with the comforting feeling of bandages across his face. He had been given a hot drink and escorted to a bed — all without having a word addressed to him — and, miraculously, had slept. While he was sleeping someone had removed his shoes and replaced them with thin-soled boots several sizes too large for him.
Now he was being transported in another vehicle, accompanied by three or four anonymous E.L.S.P. officers, who communicated with him by occasional pushes and nudges. Tallon was too helpless to try to get them to talk to him. His mind was unable to encompass anything but the fact that he was unable to see.
The vehicle slowed down, heeled twice as it turned corners, then stopped. When Tallon was helped out he knew with certainty he was on an airfield. He felt the random slap of air currents, which spoke of open space, and smelled aviation fuel; then, in confirmation, he heard the sound of huge turbines winding up near by.
Tallon felt a faint flicker of interest. He had never flown on Emm Luther because it was expensive, and traveling this way would have made him too conspicuous. The civil aircraft were large, but carried comparatively small payloads owing to governmental regulations controlling their design. The fuselages were heavily armored, and the wings were inefficient by Earth standards, because they carried the complete power, fuel, and control systems. In the event of a crash landing the wings, with their deadly fuel load, were shed by explosive bolts. The planetary government had made flying safe on Emm Luther, regardless of economics, and in that respect had earned Tallon’s reluctant approval. He wished the Temporal Moderator would display such good sense in the staffing of governmental agencies.
Unseen hands helped him up steps into the warm, plastic-smelling interior of the plane and into a seat. Other hands fastened the safety webbing, and suddenly he was left alone. Tallon listened intently, using his newly discovered trick of consciously seeking different sound frequencies, but the only voices he picked up were those of the E.L.S.P. men conversing in whispers. Evidently they had laid on a special flight just for him. Feeling cold, Tallon slumped down in his seat and wished he could at least look through the windows.
His eyes no longer hurt, but the outraged nerves were still throwing up pseudo images, some of which were painfully brilliant flashes of color. Tallon wondered how long it would be before they gave him proper medical attention. It was not until he heard the whump of the door closing, followed by an increase in engine pitch, that he wondered where he was being taken. There was, he decided, only one real possibility: the Pavilion.
The prison reserved for political enemies of Emm Luther was on the southernmost tip of the single continent. It had originally been the winter residence of the first Termporal Moderator, who had intended to fill in the marshy region that joined the rocky islet to the mainland. But he had changed his mind and moved north instead. In those early days of colonization when construction materials were still scarce, some unknown civil servant had seen the possibilities of the Pavilion as an escape-proof prison. Several well-placed cutting charges had broken the spine of the little peninsula, allowing the warm waters of the Erfurt Sea to lap across it. Within a few years the original marshy area had become a superswamp that could be crossed only by air.