The radio operator looked up at Sam.
"Sorry, Captain. It's dead."
Sam ground the end of his cigar to shreds on the set and cast it on the deck.
"A rocket must've got him."
"Probably."
The operator's eyes were moist. Petroski had been his good friend for ten years.
"We don't know if he got John's chopper or not," Sam said.
He wiped his eyes with his knuckles. "Shit, I feel like ramming right on it, making him pay..."
Byron raised his eyebrows again at this unprofessional attitude.
"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "We'd fall into his trap. Forget it. And I know what else you're thinking. It would have been better to have retained our observation facilities, to put it in cold military language. Now John can keep an eye on us with his chopper, if Petroski didn't destroy it."
"We took a chance, and perhaps it paid off," Byron said. "Perhaps both the copter and the control room were hit. Petroski wouldn't have had enough time to make an accurate assessment."
Sam strode back and forth some more, puffing so hard the airconditioning couldn't keep up with the clouds. Finally, he stopped, thrust his cigar out as if he was spearing an idea. Which, in a sense, he was.
"John isn't going to come back unless he knows where we are. So, he'll either scout with his chopper or a launch. In either case, we'll not fire on it. Byron, tell de Marbot to hold his fire if either leaves the strait. And to lie low.
"Detweiller, take her to a grailstone near the temple. We'll dock there and do some repairing."
"How come, Tham?"
"How come? So John's spies will see us there. Then, if he's going to attack, he'll know he won't be ambushed. In fact, he might think the rockets from the cliff did us so much damage we're badly hurt. And he'll know he can get through the strait before we could even get near him. Then it'll be the last deal, with us holding a royal flush. I hope."
"But, Tham," Joe said, "vhat if Petrothki did blow up the control room? And Bad Chohn vath killed? Maybe they ain't in no pothithyon to fight."
"I don't see anybody under a white flag and offering to surrender. We'll just retreat and hope that John will come out to do battle. In the meantime, we'll do a little scouting of our own. Byron, send the Gascon out. Tell Plunkett to go through the strait at top speed, take a quick look, and get to hell back here."
"May I offer a suggestion?" Byron said. "The Gascon has torpedos."
"No, by thunder! I'm not going to sacrifice any more good men on suicide missions! It's dangerous enough as it is, as the old bachelor said to the spinster who proposed marriage. They could be attacked by the chopper, though I think it's more than an even match for the Gascon there. In fact, if the chopper should chase the launch out, de Marbot should then fire on it. We'll have our information, and John will wonder what in hell happened to his chopper. He won't be able to resist sending a launch out to scout. We'll let the launch get back.
"In any event, John isn't going to come through until nightfall. I think."
Byron transmitted the messages. Presently, the whitely shining Gascon swung away from the bank and headed toward the strait. Its commander was the younger son of an Irish baron and had been a naval aide-de-camp to King George V and then an admiral. He was a veteran of the battles of Heligoland, Dogger Bank, and Jutland, and a recipient of the Grand Cross, the Order of Orange-Nassau of Holland, and the Russian Order of St. Stanislas, Second Class, with swords. He was also a distant relative of the great fantasy writer, Lord Dunsany, and, through Dunsany, of the famous English explorer, Richard Francis Burton.
"Sir," John Byron said, "I think we've overlooked something. The marines are still a long way from having their rockets set up. If the enemy helicopter or launch should pursue the Gascon, they won't be in any danger from de Marbot's fire. And they might well see his men on the mountain path. Then they would know we're setting up an ambush."
"Yeah, you're right," Sam said reluctantly. "Okay. Tell His Lordship to come back until de Marbot is situated. No use his wasting power circling around."
"Yes, sir," Byron said. He spoke on the radio to Plunkett, then turned swiftly on Sam. "Only... the admiral is not properly referred to as His Lordship. He is the younger son of a peer, which legally makes him a commoner. And since his father was a baron, the lowest in the rank of peers, he does not even have an honorary title."
"I was being facetious," Sam Said. "Lord preserve me from British sticklers!"
The little Englishman looked as if he thought facetiousness had no place in the control room. He was probably right, Sam thought. But he had to kid around a little. It was the only way he could let off pressure. If he didn't, he'd blow his mental boiler sky-high. See the pretty pieces flying through the air. Those are Sam Clemens.
Byron was tough, unperturbed in any situation, as calm as a man who's sold his stock just before the market crashed.
The boat was still far out in the lake, though cutting at an angle toward the bank. Big black clouds were visible to the north. Smoke from the fires started by the fallen airplanes. There would be even more fires tomorrow—unless the rain quenched them. The locals certainly would have no love for either King John or himself. It was a good thing they were pacifists. Otherwise, they might be objecting violently when one of their grailstones was borrowed this evening by those whom they could only regard as killers and arsonists. The giant batacitor of the Not For Hire had to be recharged, even though it was far from empty, and the crew had to refill their grails. He did not think that the Rex would show during this time. It had the same needs.
Unless... unless John thought he could catch them sitting. It was possible he might try to do that. His motors had not used up all the energy stored; the Rex had not traveled all day. He could have many hours' electrical supply left.
No, John wouldn't attempt it. Not knowing that his enemy was radarless, he would think that the Rex would be detected the moment it showed its nose. And he'd have to cross three miles of lake to get to the Not For Hire. Before he could do that, the enormous hemispherical plate covering the grailstone could be swung aboard and stored and the boat well on its way to meet the Rex.
If only he had an aircraft left to tell him when John's boat was being recharged. If the Rex was connected to a grailstone near the inlet of the strait, the Not For Hire could be on it before it could get into action. No, John would think of that. He'd go far enough up The River so he'd have time to get ready. And he'd know that Sam Clemens would take the same precaution.
But if he would think of that, why not charge on through and catch John with his royal pants down?
If only he knew the topography, the width of The River on the other side of the mountain. But Plunkett would get the data needed.
Byron said, "Would you like to bury the dead now, sir?"
33
"HEH?" SAM SAID. "On, YES, MIGHT AS WELL GET IT OVER WITH now. We won't have time later. Are there enough marines left for the burial squad?"
"Exactly forty-two, sir," Byron said with some satisfaction at having anticipated his captain.
"Good. That's enough to bury everybody, including themselves. In fact, we'd better just use three rifles. We need to conserve all the powder we can."
The services were short. The bodies were laid out on the stern of the flight deck, wrapped in cloths, weighted with stones. Half the crew was assembled; the rest stayed on duty.
"... for now we know that resurrection is possible, all having experienced its truth. Thus we consign your bodies to the deeps of The River in the hope that you will once again walk the face of this world or some other. For those who believe in God, may He bless you. So long!"