"What's the matter, Jake?" she asked. Then she shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. "Who were you talking to? Is Sam back?"
She looked at me even more strangely as I directed my voice toward one of Sam's speaker-mikes in the comer. "What do you have working back there, Corey? A dream wand?"
"No, not this time," Wilkes' voice said. "Just some knockout gas. Almost the same symptoms, though."
Susan's right hand shot up to cover her mouth, and she pulled the ratty blanket up to cover her chest.
"Hi there!" the voice said brightly. "Susan, is it? Last time we met, things were rather hectic. I'm Corey Wilkes."
Susan uncovered her mouth and rasped, "Jake, how?" She was shocked, eyes fear―rounded and disbelieving.
"It's okay, Suzie," I said, not very convincingly.
The bogey-alert gong sounded.
"We've got company, Jake."
I rushed to the ordnance locker, threw open the door, and rummaged through our stash of weapons. I tossed a pistol to Susan.
Just then the hatch between the cab and aft-cabin slid down. I lunged vainly to catch it.
"The whole rig's booby-trapped, Jake," the voice told me in an almost apologetic tone. "Really, I wouldn't move an inch if I were you. You're inhaling gas now. You could get hurt thrashing about."
I picked myself up and went over to the cot. I sat beside Susan. She threw her arms about me.
"Seems the Roadbugs have escorted my friends here, Jake, old buddy. I was pretty sure they would."
I said, "I take back that comment about your being a poor tactician."
"Thanks. I get better all the time."
I pushed Susan down on the cot and covered her body with mine, burying my face in her silky hair.
"Jake, I'm afraid," she said into my ear as the darkness closed in.
"Sleep, honey. Sleep," I said softly, gently.
With any luck, I thought, we'll never wake up.
Chapter 20
The Snark was big but fast. I chased it into a gathering whirlpool of darkness, gaining on it all the time but never catching it. It yawked and hooted up ahead somewhere, ever-elusive, a spastically-dancing figure against the coiling black lines of force whose current kept tugging me off balance as I ran. Stomach churning and head reeling, I teetered on into the dark.
But soon the maelstrom swallowed me and there was nothing for a long time.
I woke up nauseated, my head throbbing. I was on my back with my feet trussed together and hands tied behind, both arms gone numb and prickly. They had put me in the trailer behind some packing cases. I rocked back and forth until I rolled over, finding Darla face down next to me. Wilkes' simulacrum had said that everyone had been knocked out with gas. That might have been true, but Darla's symptoms were unmistakable―open glassy eyes, dull vacuous stare―which meant that a dream wand was in operation somewhere about. I realized that it might even be the one I had taken from Wilkes during the fight aboard the Laputa. Maybe the Rikkis had been carrying only one wand. And that's why the knockout gas had been necessary. I knew that a wand's effect could be thwarted by taking a simple tranquilizer; the chlorpromazine seemed to be doing its job, now that the effects of the gas had worn off, but I wondered how much time I had before the Reticulan mindcontrol device began to work its stupefying magic on me.
I looked around. If anybody noticed I had moved they might guess I was temporarily immune. I could see someone's big boots, probably Sean's, sticking out from behind the left front tire of Carl's buggy. No one else was visible from my vantage point. I waited until some circulation returned to my arms and rolled over on my back again. The trailer was silent. I listened for half a minute. It seemed no one had been charged with keeping an eye on us. I struggled to my feet and hopped away.
The wand would have to be back here somewhere― No. I remembered that the device's range was more than a city block, and walls didn't seem to stop it. I searched the forward end of the trailer by the egg-crate section. Nothing there. Well, the drugs I'd taken should hold up for several minutes at least, time enough maybe to get free of the ropes.
The small tool compartment had been emptied, doubtless by our captors as a precaution. Awkwardly holding up the lid with my bound hands, I looked over my shoulder inside to see if any of the debris at the bottom could be useful. Nothing but stray nuts and bolts, a few scraps of paper. Then I remembered a wickedly sharp edge on a piece of the astronomical equipment we were supposedly hauling (delivery was just a bit overdue), a big cabinet affair with a metal counter. I had nicked my finger on it during loading.
A sideshow contortionist would have had an easy time of it. As it was, I nearly dislocated several joints angling myself to bring my hands up against the edge of the counter, which wasn't as sharp as I had thought. They had done a good job tying me, even wrapping the forearms to prevent me from bringing my arms around by wriggling my butt and legs through. I didn't have a knife edge to work with, but luckily I had some time. The rope material wasn't strong either. It took ten minutes to cut through, and I was free.
Everybody but Carl was back here, lying like corpses among the cargo: here Suzie, there John and Roland, Lori. They were probably questioning Carl about his strange vehicle. None too gently, I feared; but Carl was a tough kid.
I had to do something fast, and quietly. The monitoring camera in the trailer was still out, victim of the mortar shell; we had never gotten around to repairing or replacing it. But no doubt they would be listening periodically for any sounds of movement. I checked my pockets. No, they hadn't searched me and found the tranquilizers. Wilkes' analog had probably reported I hadn't had the chance to take any, but they might be back here at any moment to make sure.
Ho ho.
Why hadn't Sean mentioned the shooting irons in his buggy? There they were, under the front bucket seats. Well, everyone carries weapons in their vehicle―no need to mention it. Our captors had been negligent in overlooking them; but then they had been relying on the wand. I chose a heavy beam weapon of Ryxxian make.
The only plan of attack open to me, I thought, was a frontal assault―or backal, looking at it another way. I would have to crawl through the access tube and… do what, exactly? I felt a cold anger rising, an even more murderous version of what had come over me on Talltree. To be held against my will yet again, the fourth time in less than two months! It burned me. I was more than ready to just roll through the hatch and start blasting. I'd shoot all of them, every last one of the vermin. Moore, I'd do him first, just because of his conceited smirk and the sham friendliness he had shown me. Then Wilkes, if he was around. Him I'd hand―carve, slowly, giving Sam a ringside seat. And anybody else who was part of this would get what was coming to him. I'd see to that. The only thing preventing me from sliding right through and doing it was the possibility that Carl might get caught in the middle. So I crept, commandolike. At the far end of the tube I stopped. The hatch was slightly ajar, and I could hear voices.
All too familiar ones.
I eased the hatch open just the barest centimeter and peeked.
Geof and Chubby were sitting at the breakfast nook playing cards. Standing over them, kibitzing, was our old friend Krause, the sociable sailor, who had given us a hard time back on Splash. I had more or less settled the score with these three, with Geof especially, though I regretted not shooting the bastard when I'd had the opportunity.
Someone else came through the hatch into the aft-cabin. I couldn't see him but knew whose voice it was.
"You two'll be playing hearts on bloody Doomsday!" Zack Moore growled.
"Not really much to do, guv," Chubby said lamely.
"You can bloody well get us something to eat. You've a bloody kitchen here―or haven't you noticed?"