28
Stunned by the direct hit from the energy weapon of the water being, the One-Who-Records fought his way upward through a universe shot through with whirling shapes of fire, to emerge on a plateau of mortal agony.
He tried to move, was shocked into paralysis by the cacophony of conflicting motor- and sense-impressions from shattered limbs and organs.
Then I, too, die, the thought came to him with utter finality. And with me dies the once-mighty song of Djann…
Failing, his mind groped outward, calling in vain for the familiar touch of his link brothers—and abruptly, a sharp sensation impinged on his sensitivity complex. Concepts of strange and alien shape drifted into his mind, beating at him with compelling urgency; concepts from a foreign brain:
Youth, aspirations, the ring of the bugle’s call to arms. A white palace rearing up into yellow sunlight; a bright banner, rippling against the blue sky, and the shadows of great trees ranked on green lawns. The taste of grapes, and an odor of flowers; night, and the moon reflected from still water; the touch of a soft hand and the face of a woman, invested with a supernal beauty; chords of a remote music that spoke of the inexpressibly desirable, the irretrievably lost…
“Have we warred then, water beings?” the One-Who-Records sent his thought outward. “We who might have been brothers… ?” With a mighty effort, he summoned his waning strength, sounded a final chord in tribute to that which had been, and was no more.
29
Carnaby opened his eyes and looked at the dead Djann lying in the crumpled position of its final agony against the wall of the hut, not six feet from him. For a moment, a curious sensation of loss plucked at his mind.
“Sorry, fellow,” he muttered aloud. “I guess you were doing what you had to do, too.”
He stood, felt the ground sway under his feet. His head was light, hot; a sharp, clear humming sounded in his ears. He took a step, caught himself as his knees tried to buckle.
“Damn it, no time to fall out now,” he grunted. He moved past the alien body, paused by the door to the shed. A waft of warm air caressed his cold-numbed face.
“Could go inside,” he muttered. “Wait there. Ship along in a few hours, maybe. Pick me up…” He shook his head angrily. “Job’s not done yet,” he said clearly, addressing the white gleam of the ten-mile-distant peak known as Cream Top. “Just a little longer, Terry,” he added. “I’m coming.”
Painfully, Carnaby made his way to the edge of the plateau, and started down.
30
“We’d better make shift to sub-L now, Admiral,” Drew said, strain showing in his voice. “We’re cutting it fine as it is.”
“Every extra minute at full gain saves a couple of hours,” the vice admiral came back.
“That won’t help us if we kick out inside the Delta limit and blow ourselves into free ions,” the general said coolly.
“You’ve made your point, General!” The admiral kept his eyes fixed on his instruments. Half a minute ticked past. Then he nodded curtly.
“All right, kick us out,” he snapped, “and we’ll see where we stand.”
The hundred-ton interceptor shuddered as the distorters whined down the scale, allowing the stressed-space field that had enclosed the vessel to collapse. A star swam suddenly into the visible spectrum, blazing at planetary distance off the starboard bow at three o’clock high.
“Our target’s the second body, there.” He pointed. The co-pilot nodded and punched the course into the panel.
“What would you say, another hour?” the admiral bit off the words.
“Make it two,” the other replied shortly. He glanced up, caught the admiral’s eye on him.
“Kidding ourselves won’t change anything,” he said steadily.
Admiral Carnaby narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to speak, then clamped his jaw shut.
“I guess I’ve been a little snappy with you, George,” he said. “I’ll ask your pardon. That’s my brother down there.”
“Your… ?” the general’s features tightened. “I guess I said some stupid things myself, Tom.” He frowned at the instruments, busied himself adjusting course for an MIT approach to the planet.
31
Carnaby half jumped, half fell the last few yards to the narrow ledge called Halliday’s Roost, landed awkwardly in a churn of powdered wind-driven snow. For a moment, he lay sprawled, then gathered himself, made it to his feet, tottered to the hollow concealing the drifted entrance to the hut. He lowered himself, crawled down into the dark, clammy interior.
“Terry,” he called hoarsely. A wheezing breath answered him. He felt his way to the boy’s side, groped over him. He lay on his side, his legs curled against his chest.
“Terry!” Carnaby pulled the lad to a sitting position, felt him stir feebly. “Terry, I’m back! We have to go now, Terry…”
“I knew…” the boy stopped to draw an agonizing breath, “you’d come…” He groped, found Carnaby’s hand.
Carnaby fought the dizziness that threatened to close in on him. He was cold—colder than he had ever been. The climbing hadn’t warmed him. The side wasn’t bothering him much now; he could hardly feel it. But he couldn’t feel his hands and feet, either. They were like stumps, good for nothing… Clumsily, he backed through the entry, bodily hauling Terry with him.
Outside the wind lashed at him like frozen whips. Carnaby raised Terry to his feet. The boy leaned against him, slid down, crumpled to the ground.
“Terry, you’ve got to try,” Carnaby gasped out. His breath seemed to freeze in his throat. “No time… to waste… got to get you to… Doc Link…”
“Lieutenant… I… can’t…”
“Terry… you’ve got to try!” He lifted the boy to his feet.
“I’m… scared… Lieutenant…” Terry stood swaying, his slight body quivering, his knees loose.
“Don’t worry, Terry.” Carnaby guided the boy to the point from which they would start the climb down. “Not far, now.”
“Lieutenant…” Sickle caught at Carnaby’s arm. “You… better… leave… me.” His breath sighed in his throat.
“I’ll go first,” Carnaby heard his own voice as from a great distance. “Take… it easy. I’ll be right there… to help…”
He forced a breath of sub-zero air into his lungs. The bitter wind moaned around the shattered rock. The dusky afternoon sun shed a reddish light without heat on the long slope below.
“It’s late,” he mouthed the words with stiff lips. “It’s late…”
32
Two hundred thousand feet above the surface of the outpost world Longone, the Fleet interceptor split the stratosphere, its receptors fine-tuned to the Djann energy-cell emission spectrum.
“Three hundred million square miles of desert,” Admiral Carnaby said. “Except for a couple of deserted townsites, not a sign that any life ever existed here.”
“We’ll find it, Tom,” Drew said. “If they’d lifted, Malthusa would have known—hold it!” He looked up quickly, “I’m getting something—yes! It’s the typical Djann idler output!”
“How far from us?”
“Quite a distance… now it’s fading…”
The admiral put the ship into a screaming deceleration curve that crushed both men brutally against the restraint of their shock frames.
“Find that signal, George,” the vice admiral grated. “Find it and steer me to it, if you have to pick it out of the air with psi!”