There were about forty Dhulhulikh still able to fight. They came down on the ten newcomers with maniacal fury, losing many but stabbing all ten. A Wufea, two Wagarondit and three Vroonmaw were dead within sixty seconds. But Graushpaz, relieved of the full onslaught, cracked three heads with one sweep of his axe, reached out and grabbed a wingtip with one bloody hand and tore the wing off, sending the shrieking little man off the catwalk. He wheeled, and trumpeting wildly, charged those around the newcomers. His flailing axe crushed two more and he plucked a winged man off Ulysses' back and squeezed once, crushing the windpipe.
Suddenly, the survivors had run off toward the holes in the skin. They had had enough. But before they reached the holes, they stopped. And then they turned around with a wild exultant cry. Fresh Dhulhulikh were coming in through the holes.
Graushpaz screamed, "Dump the bodies off! Get the ship up where they can't reach us!"
He brushed by them on the walkway, almost knocking them off. He bent over, groaning with the pain of the spear in his back, and rolled the great bodies of his friends off the walkway. The dirigible's skin broke wherever the corpses fell through. More air whistled through the breaks but that did not matter. Air was whistling through a hundred holes.
Ulysses shouted at the others to throw the rest of the bodies off. They lifted up their dead comrades and dropped them over the rail, and then began on the bat-men. The reinforcements had continued to come in through the holes, but these were not the overwhelming number he had expected. There were about fifty. Added to those who had been here, sixty in all. Enough, however, to kill the thirteen survivors a dozen times over.
He ran down the walkway until he was past the hatch that led to the control gondola. He went to his right on a walkway to a defence station, and here he looked for a bomb. He planned on lighting the fuse and standing by a gas cell. The bat-men would see what he meant; they would understand his gestures. Either they got off or he threw the bomb against the cell, and they would all die instantly. Perhaps they were fanatical enough to let him do it, but he had only this one chance. Either way, if he threw the bomb, or if he refused to throw it at the last second, he and his men were doomed. But the bat-men just might be frightened enough to take off.
There were no bombs or rockets. They had all been expended.
That was just as well. Otherwise, some bat-men would have taken one, lit it, and all the attackers would have flown away before the dirigible went up in flames.
Ulysses whirled around and ran back on the walkway until he came to a girder. He leaped upon this and climbed up it until he stood on the framework at the base of a towering gas cell. He shouted until every one's head was turned toward him, and he slashed the cloth bag with his switchblade knife.
The rent was a tiny one. Hydrogen shrilled out of it and blew over his head. He stepped back and then pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He held it up so all could see what he had, and he made motions of striking it. He hoped that the bat-men knew what matches were. Otherwise, his gesture was meaningless.
There was a horrified cry from the winged men and his own people alike.
He yelled, "Dhulhulikh, leave this ship at once! Or I kill all of us! Now! You will burn like moths in a cooking fire!"
There was a crash. Graushpaz had fallen over the guard rail of the walkway and toppled onto the skin below. His body crashed through the paper-thin shell and was gone. He had paid his debt; he knew he had only a few minutes of life; he had jumped to give the ship more lift.
The people on the main walkway and the Dhulhulikh on the girders, struts and catwalks on the starboard side were frozen. They had not moved even when Graushpaz had let himself fall over the rail. They stared at his hands, at the match box and the match.
The Dhulhulikh commander wore a scarlet leather helmet, emblem of a rank equivalent to a colonel. He was crouched on a catwalk, a short thin spear in one hand, the other holding onto the guard rail, his face twisted. He was in an agony of indecision.
Then Awina stooped slowly and straightened up with a club in her hand. She threw it and it spun toward the commander and struck him in the face. He fell without a sound.
The others looked at each other. Their leader was dead, and the next in command had to make up his mind whether they should all die in a holocaust in the next few seconds or retreat. By refusing to leave they would ensure that the prime enemy would die also. But.
Ulysses could appreciate what they were going through. Their life was so short. Even if miserable, if was the only one they would have. And if they ran away, they could fight again. That cliche was as true and as persuasive as twenty million years ago.
Holding the match box in his left hand, Ulysses applied the tip of the match to the side of the box.
"One little flame!" he shouted. "That's all it takes! And we all burn to death!"
A Dhulhulikh wearing a greenish helmet, indicating a rank equivalent to a major, shouted back in a thin piping voice, "Then we all die!"
He waved the slender spear and said, "Attack them!"
Without waiting to see if he was being followed, he launched himself from the girder, wings flapping, at Awina. But the air was thinner here, and he did not glide at quite the correct angle. He struck the rail full in the middle and Awina hit him over the head with her tomahawk. Fast on his heels came about twenty more, some of whom made the same error as their commander and slammed into the railing. The others were met with the weapons of the remaining twelve defenders, who stood back to back, six facing one way and six the other.
Ulysses, seeing that the rest of the Dhulhulikh had dropped quietly out of the holes in which they had come, put the match box in the pocket of his kilt and ran to help his people. He got there in time to pick up a spear and with it run a bat-man through the back. The survivors of the last attack, four Dhulhulikh, fluttered away and dived out through holes in the skin.
They were all so tired that they could barely move, and one Wufea slumped down and died. But Ulysses insisted that three repair the leak in the gas cell and the others come with him to the gondola. There would be no sleep for him until he got theBlue Spirit back to the land of the Neshgai.
As it turned out, he got several nights' sleep. The dirigible took fifteen hours to fight against the headwind while it slowly lost altitude. The crew looked for leaks and found four tiny ones but could not locate the others. By the time the airship had left The Tree, it was cruising in the lower levels of the great plant. This helped the speed in one way because there was no wind there. But the demands on the steersman were great. He had to sail between trunks and branches, under branches, between vine complex and branch, sometimes narrowly squeaking through. Ten miles past the last of The Tree, the dirigible settled down on the grassy plains and collapsed.
The survivors crawled out from under the great bulk with their supplies, after which Ulysses set fire to the ship to make sure that it did not fall into hostile hands. Not that he had seen any bat-men, but he was taking no chances. If there was one thing he did not want, that was the Dhulhulikh learning how to make dirigibles of their own.
They set out across the plains toward the mountains, on the other side of which was the country of the Neshgai. The other airships had gone on ahead long ago. Their motors, working against the wind, had tired swiftly, and the ships had to get back before the vegetable-muscle motors died of exhaustion.