“What’s the cargo around us?” Boumour asked.
“Odds and ends,” Igan said. “Machinery parts, some old art works, inconsequential things. We took anything we could pirate to make a seemingly normal load.”
Inconsequential, Harvey thought. He found himself fascinated by this revelation. Inconsequentials. They carried parts to things that might never be built.
Lizbeth’s hand groped out, found his. “Harvey?”
He bent over her. “Yes, dear?”
“I feel… so… funny.”
Harvey cast a despairing look at the doctors.
“She’ll be all right,” Igan said.
“Harvey, I’m afraid,” she said. “We’re not going to get through.”
“That’s no way to talk,” Igan said.
She looked up, found the gene surgeon studying her across the narrow space of the box. His eyes were a pair of glittering instruments in a slim, supercilious face. Is he a Cyborg, too? she wondered. The cold way the eyes stared at her broke through her control.
“I don’t care about myself!” she hissed. “But what about my son?”
“Best calm yourself, madame,” Igan said.
“I can’t,” she said. “We’re not going to make it!”
“That’s no way to act,” Igan said. “Our driver is the finest Cyborg available.”
“He’ll never get us past them,” she moaned.
“You’d best be quiet,” Igan said.
Harvey at last had an object from which to protect his wife. “Don’t talk to her that way!” he barked.
Igan spoke in a long-suffering tone, “Not you, too, Durant. Keep your voice down. You know as well as I do they’ll have listening stations along the skyway. We shouldn’t be speaking now unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Nothing can get past them tonight,” Lizbeth whispered.
“Our driver is little more than a shell of flesh around a reflex computer,” Igan said. “He’s programed for just this task. He’ll get us through if anyone can.”
“If anyone can,” she whispered. She began to sob—wracking, convulsive movements that shook her whole body.
“See what you’ve done!” Harvey said.
Igan sighed, brought up a hand containing a capsule, extended the capsule to Harvey. “Give her this.”
“What’s that?” Harvey demanded.
“Just a sedative.”
“I don’t want a sedative,” she sobbed.
“It’s for your own good, my dear,” Igan said. “Really, this could dislodge the embryo. You should remain calm and quiet this soon after the operation.”
“She doesn’t want it,” Harvey said. His eyes glared with anger.
“She has to take it,” Igan said.
“Not if she doesn’t want it.”
Igan forced his voice into a reasonable tone. “Durant, I’m only trying to save our lives. You’re angry now and you -”
“You’re damn’ right I’m angry! I’m tired of being ordered around!”
“If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry, Durant,” Igan said. “But I must caution you that your present reaction is conditioned by your gene shaping. You’ve excess male protectiveness. Your wife will be all right. This sedative is harmless. She’s hysterical because she has too much maternal drive. These are flaws in your gene shaping, but you’ll both be all right if you remain calm.”
“Who says we’re flawed?” Harvey demanded. “I’ll bet you’re a Sterrie who’s never -”
“That’s quite enough, Durant,” the other doctor said. It was a rumbling, powerful voice.
Harvey looked at Boumour, noted the pinched-up elfin face on the big body. The surgeon appeared powerful and dangerous, the face strangely inhuman.
“We cannot fight among ourselves,” Boumour rumbled. “We may be getting near the checkpoint. They’re sure to have listening devices.”
“We aren’t flawed,” Harvey growled.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Igan said. “But you’re both reducing our chances of escape. If one of you breaks up at that checkpoint, that’s the end of us.” He shifted his hand, extended the capsule to Lizbeth. “Please take this, madam. It contains a tranquillizer. Quite harmless, I assure you.”
Hesitantly, Lizbeth took the capsule. It felt cold and gelatinous against her fingers—repulsive. She wanted to hurl the thing at Igan, but Harvey touched her cheek.
“Maybe you’d better take it,” he said. “For the baby.”
She brought up her hand, popped the capsule against the back of her tongue, gulped it. It must be all right if Harvey agreed. But she didn’t like the hurt, baffled look in his eyes.
“Now relax,” Igan said. “It’s fast acting—three or four minutes and you’ll feel quite calm.” He sat back, glanced down at Svengaard. The trussed figure still appeared to be unconscious, chest rising and falling in an even rhythm.
For what felt like a long time now, Svengaard had been increasingly aware of hunger and a swooping, turning motion that rolled his body against a hard surface. There was a sensation of swiftness about the motion. He smelled human perspiration, heard the roar of turbines. The sound was beginning to press on his consciousness. There was light, dim and fuzzy through uncooperative eyelids. He felt a gag biting his lips, bindings on hands and feet.
Svengaard opened his eyes.
For a moment, he failed to focus, then he found himself staring up at a low ceiling, a tiny glowtube in the corner with a speaker grill beneath it bulging beside a dull ruby call light. The ceiling seemed too close to him and there was a blurred shadow shape to his right—a leg stretched across him. The single light emitted a yellow glow that almost failed to dispel the darkness.
The ruby light began winking, red fire flashing on and off, on and off.
“Checkpoint!” Igan hissed. “Silence everyone!”
They sensed the van begin to slow. Its air suspension became softer and softer. The turbines whined downscale. They rocked to a stop and the turbines whispered into standby.
Svengaard’s gaze darted around the enclosure. A rough bench above him to his right… two figures seated on it. A sharp edge of metal protruded from the bench support beside his cheek. Softly, gently, Svengaard moved his head toward the metal projection, felt it touch flesh through the gag. He gave a gentle push of his head upward and the gag pulled down slightly. The projection scratched his cheek, but he ignored it. Another gentle tug and the gag lowered another fraction of a millimeter. He turned his eyes, checking his surroundings, saw Lizbeth’s face above him to the left, her eyes closed, hands in front of her mouth. There was a sense of suspended terror about her.
Again, Svengaard moved his head.
There were voices somewhere in a remote distance—sharp sounds of questions, murmurous answers.
Lizbeth’s hands lowered to reveal her mouth. The lips moved soundlessly.
The sound of talking had stopped.
Slowly, the van began to move.
Svengaard twisted his head. The binding of his gag broke free. He coughed it from his mouth, shouted, “Help! Help! I’m a prisoner! Help!”
Igan and Boumour leaped with shock. Lizbeth screamed, “No! Oh, no!”
Harvey surged forward, crashed a fist into Svengaard’s jaw, fell on him with one hand over the man’s mouth. They held their positions in an agony of listening as the van continued to gather speed.
Igan took a trembling breath, looked across into the wide staring eyes of Lizbeth.
The voice of their driver came through the speaker grilclass="underline" “What is the trouble? Can’t you observe the simplest precautions?”