He lowered the gun, stepped outside, ran to the corner of the building. The fourth Djann was crouched in the open, thirty feet away; Carnaby saw the glitter of a weapon gripped in the hand-like members springing from its back. He brought the gun up, fired in the same instant that light etched the rocks, and a hammer-blow struck him crushingly in the side, knocked him back against the wall. He tasted dust in his mouth, was aware of a high humming sound that seemed to blank out his hearing, his vision, his thoughts…
He came to, lying on his side against the wall. Forty feet away, the Djann sprawled, its stiff limbs out-thrust at awkward angles. Carnaby looked down at his side. The Djann particle gun had torn a gaping rent in his suit, through which he could see bright crimson beads of frozen blood. He groped, found the rifle, dragged it to him. He shook his head to clear away the mist that seemed to obscure his vision. At every move, a terrible pain stabbed outward from his chest. Ribs broken, he thought. Something smashed inside, too. It was hard for him to breathe. The cold stone on which he lay seemed to suck the heat from his body.
Across the hundred-foot stretch of frost-shattered rock, a soot-black scar marked the spot where the escaping Djann had gone over the edge. Painfully, Carnaby propped the weapon to cover the direction from which attack might come. Then he slumped, his face against the icy rock, watching down the length of the rifle barrel for the next move from the enemy.
25
“Another four hours to shift, Admiral,” General Drew, the battle commander acting as co-pilot aboard the racing interceptor said. “That’s if we don’t blow our linings before then.”
“Bandit still holding position?” The admiral’s voice was a grate as of metal against metal.
Drew spoke into his lip mike, frowned at the reply. “Yes, sir, Malthusa says he’s still stationary. Whether his locus is identical with the LN beacon’s fix or not, he isn’t sure at that range.”
“He could be standing by off-planet, looking over the ground,” the admiral muttered half to himself.
“Not likely, Admiral. He knows we’re on his tail.”
“I know it’s not likely, damn it!” the admiral snarled. “But if he isn’t, we haven’t got a chance…”
“I suppose the Djann conception of honor requires these beggars to demolish the beacon and hunt down the station personnel, even if it means letting us overhaul them,” Drew said. “A piece of damn foolishness on their part, but fortunate for us.”
“Fortunate, General? I take it you mean for yourself and me, not the poor devil that’s down there alone with them.”
“Just the one man? Well, we’ll get off more cheaply than I imagined then.” The general glanced sideways at the admiral, intent over the controls. “After all, he’s Navy. This is his job, what he signed on for.”
“Kick that converter again, General,” Admiral Carnaby said between his teeth. “Right now you can earn your pay by squeezing another quarterlight out of this bucket.”
26
Crouched in a shallow crevice below the rim of the mesa where the house of the water beings stood, the One-Who-Records quivered under the appalling impact of the death emanations of his link brothers.
“Now it lies with you alone,” the fading thought came from the One-Who-Commands. “But the water being, too, is alone, and in this… there is… a certain euphony…” The last fragile tendril of communication faded.
The One-Who-Records expelled a gust of the planet’s noxious atmosphere from his ventral orifice-array, with an effort freed his intellect of the shattering extinction-resonances it had absorbed. Cautiously, he probed outward, sensing the strange, fiery mind-glow of the alien…
Ah, he too was injured! The One-Who-Records shifted his weight from his scalded forelimb, constricted further the flow of vital fluids through the damaged section of his epidermal system. He was weakened by the searing blast that had scored his flank, but still capable of action; and up above, the wounded water being waited.
Deftly, the Djann extracted the hand weapon from the sheath strapped to his side, holding it in a two-handed grip, its broad base resting on his dorsal ridge, its ring lenses aligned along his body. He wished briefly that he had spent more li periods in the gestalt tanks, impressing the weapon’s use syndromes on his reflex system; but feckless regrets made poor scansion. Now indeed the display podium of existence narrowed down to a single confrontation: a brief and final act in a century-old drama, with the fate of the mighty epic of the Djann resting thereon. The One-Who-Records sounded a single, trumpet-like resonance of exultation, and moved forward to fulfill his destiny.
27
At the faint bleat of sound, Carnaby raised his head. How long had he lain here, waiting for the alien to make its move? Maybe an hour, maybe longer. He had passed out at least twice, possibly for no more than a second or two; but it could have been longer. The Djann might even have gotten past him—or crawled along below the ridge, ready now to jump him from a new angle…
He thought of Terry Sickle, waiting for him, counting on him. Poor kid. Time was running out for him. The sun was dropping low, and the shadows would be closing in. It would be icy cold inside the hut and down there in the dark the boy was slowly strangling, maybe calling for him…
He couldn’t wait any longer. To hell with the alien. He’d held him long enough. Painfully, using the wall as a support, Carnaby got to his hands and knees. His side felt as though it had been opened and packed with red-hot stones—or were they ice-cold? His hands and feet were numb. His face ached. Frostbite. He’d look fine with a frozen ear. Funny, how vanity survived as long as life itself…
He got to his feet, leaned against the building, worked on breathing. The sky swam past him, fading and brightening. His feet felt like blocks of wood; that wasn’t good. He had a long way to go. But the activity would warm him, get the blood flowing, except where the hot stones were. He would be lighter if he could leave them here. His hands moved at his side, groping over torn polyon, the sharp ends of broken wires…
He brought his mind back to clarity with an effort. Wouldn’t do to start wandering now. The gun caught his eye, lying at his feet. Better pick it up; but to hell with it, too much trouble. Navy property. But can’t leave it here for the enemy to find. Enemy. Funny dream about a walking oxy tank, and—
He was looking at the dead Djann, lying awkward, impossible, thirty feet away. No dream. The damn thing was real. He was here, alone, on top of Thunderhead—
But he couldn’t be. Flitter was broken down. Have to get another message off via the next tramp steamer that made planetfall. Hadn’t been one for… how long… ?
Something moved, a hundred feet away, among the tumble of broken rock. Carnaby ducked, came up with the blast rifle, fired in a half-crouch from the hip, saw a big dark shape scramble up and over the edge, saw the wink of yellow light, fired again, cursing the weakness that made the gun buck and yaw in his hands, the darkness that closed over his vision. With hands that were stiff, clumsy, he fired a third time at the swift-darting shape that charged toward him; and then he was falling, falling…