"Now!"
Gartok was already at the handles of the external apparatus. A pincher moved out, closed, tightened.
"Up!"
A ripping as a section of the roof gave way. Down to fasten a grab, to rise again, to jerk one end out of the hut and expose the interior.
To move on and repeat the move lower down.
To slam the tough canopy of the raft against a wall.
To see emptiness and to taste the sourness of failure.
"They're gone!" Gartok swore as, in the starlight, he saw nothing but empty cots. "The damned huts are empty!"
"Could he have lied?"
"No." Gartok slammed his hand against the canopy. "No, Earl, no! He didn't lie. He told what he thought was the truth. He told me!"
Urged with pain, dazed, craving release-could he still have lied? Did it matter?
The raft jerked as something smashed against the port, glass splintering, showering inwards. The hole widened, plastic shredding, yielding to the things outside. Gartok yelled as a winged shape ripped past his visor, yelled again as it turned to slam with numbing force against his chest. Unarmored he would have died.
"Earl!"
"Out!" Dumarest dropped the raft with a jar. The vehicle was a marked target. "Head for the storeroom. Follow me!"
He staggered as he jumped through the opened door, falling to roll, rising under the savage impact of blows which filled his mouth with the taste of blood. The door of the storeroom flew open beneath the drive of his heel, light splintering from a lantern, the door slamming shut as Gartok followed Dumarest into the hut. It was heaped with empty crates and the air held the scent of oil and sickness.
On a cot a man reared upright snatching at a gun.
"Hold it!" Dumarest took a step forward. "Don't make me kill you!"
"You're human!" The man sagged with relief then broke into a fit of coughing, blood staining his lips and chin. He dabbed at it with a hand, looked at the smears, then dug beneath his pillow for a rag. "When you burst in here I thought-how come you made it through the night?"
"We were lucky."
"More than some. Three men tried it the first night here. Five more the following week and we lost two the day before yesterday. They went out and didn't come back." The man coughed again, "Just vanished. We didn't even find a bone."
"Where is everyone?"
"Gone." The man leaned back against the wall. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes bright with fever, the whites tinged with the blue stigmata of the disease which rotted his lungs. "They pulled out yesterday afternoon. I was too sick to go with them so they left me behind."
Dying, with a gun, to protect an empty store.
"Moved? Where?" Gartok snarled as the man made no reply. "Talk, damn you!"
"Or what?" The man shrugged. "You want to kill me then go ahead-you think I like being like this?" He coughed again and almost choked on the fretted tissue which rose from his chest. Dumarest found water, held it to the carmined lips, supported the man while he drank. "Thanks, mister," he whispered. "You going to kill me?"
"No."
"Just leave me here?"
"You've got food, water and a gun." Dumarest eased the man's head back to the pillow. "Which way did they go? North? East? South?" He watched the subtle shift of the eyes. "Any heavy equipment? Rocket launchers? Field-lasers? How about supplies? How many rafts? Did they get much warning?"
The man said nothing but his eyes spoke against his will, minute flickers, little tensions, signs which Dumarest had learned to read when facing players over countless gambling tables.
Gartok looked up from where he sat on a crate at the far end of the hut when, finally, Dumarest allowed the man to sink into an exhausted sleep.
"Well?"
"They moved out late in the afternoon, heading north and taking plenty of supplies. They had rocket launchers but no field-lasers. It was a sudden move-Tomir sent urgent word."
"Damn the luck!" Gartok glared his anger. "A day earlier and we'd have had them!" He sobered, thinking, "Rocket launchers, eh? Light or heavy?"
"Light."
"A strike force. Men able to live on what they carry, lightly armed, highly mobile, ready to hit and run. But where, Earl? Where?"
Chapter Eleven
In the infirmary a man was sobbing, "God help me. Please help me. Someone help me." On and on, a plea without end in a voice which sounded as if it had come from a broken machine.
A good analogy, thought Lavinia, but one she wished she didn't have to make. Too many human machines lay broken in the room now crowded with beds. Too many voices muttered and mumbled in droning susurations, sometimes crying out, sometimes falling into a low, animal-like moaning.
Why did they need to suffer?
She knew the answer to that; slow-time was expensive and in short supply. Other drugs were also in unusual demand. Injured men were doped and bandaged and left to heal in full awareness of their condition. Heroes faced with their folly-no, she was being unfair. They had fought for her and to mock them was to be cruel. They had the right to look to her for aid. The right to demand that she give it.
"My lady?" A woman, old, her face seamed and withered like the skin of a dried fruit, had caught her by the arm. "Are you ill?"
"No."
"You look pale. This place is not a good one for you to remain in. And it is bad for the-" She broke off, swallowing, realizing to whom she spoke. Women had a common function but not all of them enjoyed being reminded of it. "You must be careful, my lady," she ended. "Why not leave this to me and the others?"
The old and the young and those with the stomach to stand the cries and sights of pain. The injuries. The burns and sears and torn and ruptured tissue. The ruin of what had once been men.
And would be again, she told herself. Nothing must be spared, money, pride, nothing.
But what sacrifice could she make to equal theirs?
She forced herself to stand upright, to throw back her shoulders and smile, to move slowly along the line of beds, touching those who were awake, talking to those who could hear, resting her hands firmly on those who could not see.
And, even while she walked and talked and smiled she wondered. Had the old woman recognized her condition? Some, she knew, had the reputation of being able to spot pregnancy in its early stages before any signs were clearly visible. An intuition, a sixth-sense, something which they could read and understand. How else to account for the warning? The unfinished sentence which caution had broken short?
Were unborn babies affected by external stimuli? Would the atmosphere of the place affect her child?
Science told her that was impossible, but was science always right? Or did she want an excuse to stay away and her own hopes and imagination were hard at work to find one?
Outside the door she took a deep breath. Inside the air was clean and scented with pungent spices and sprayed essences of pine and roses but, even so, that outside seemed better, more wholesome, more pure. More imagination or had she a greater sensitivity than she had guessed?
Idle speculation and of no immediate importance but one matter required her immediate attention.
Roland looked dubious when she asked him to accompany her.
"Ride, Lavinia? Is it safe?"
"Safe? What has that to do with it? I must inspect the herd and select stock for breeding and for sale. It should have been done before." Would have been done if it hadn't been for Chelhar. "Well, are you coming with me or not?"
He insisted on caution, riding slowly, keeping armed retainers close, sending out scouts to check the terrain ahead. A caution which would once have irritated her but now she had lost the desire to gallop and it was good to amble along and enjoy the warmth of the suns and the touch of a cooling breeze.