The T.6’s nose lifted higher as the built-in computers, unhampered by fears or regrets, drove it up beyond the atmosphere in a clean, pure curve. Garnett grunted with pain as the ion-boost came on and the high gravities tore at his wounds. The boost worked by seeding the jet stream with calcium particles which were ionised and accelerated by an engine-driven oscillator. To prevent the aircraft building up a huge electrical potential, negative and positive ions were blasted out alternately, recombining in a long reddish flare behind the jet pipe. When the atmosphere became too tenuous for turbine efficiency the fuel flow was terminated and the T.6 continued upwards on ion propulsion alone. Finally that too was shut down and the machine coasted on to find its orbit.
Inside the cockpit Garnett felt small, lonely and cold. With the T.6 in free fall and everything switched off, except for life-sustaining equipment, there was nothing for him to do but wait. In good health and different circumstances he might have been able to enjoy his first look at the unshielded stars, great cities wheeling in the blackness, but he could think only of hot coffee, a yellow-lit book-lined room, a good chair … and rest….
The spacecraft took him swiftly and easily, before he realised what was happening.
It came from behind and Garnett only became aware of its arrival when the stars progressively vanished until only a handful shone in a circle ahead of him. The circle was filled in abruptly and he knew the T.6, large as it was, had been engulfed the way a swooping bird takes a gnat. Lights suddenly shone from above to reveal a grey metal cavern, the walls and ceiling of which were criss-crossed with frames and braces of surprisingly Earth-like design. The silence which surrounded him was gradually replaced by faint sounds and he guessed air was being pumped into the compartment. His guess was confirmed as the T.6, which had been hanging contentedly a few metres above the floor, began to wallow gently and drift to one side in the currents. At the same time the cockpit canopy turned white as a coating of frost materialised on the aircraft. Flexible metal hoses tipped with suction cups snaked put from half a dozen wall panels and the T.6 became steady, held fast.
Garnett took a deep breath. He had known from the start there would be no chance of escape after he shot Xoanon—this simply confirmed it. He opened the cockpit, stood up and launched himelf upwards with his legs. The roof was higher than he had estimated in the dim light and for several long seconds he felt vulnerable and helpless, drifting up into the interlaced structure of beams, cables and pipes. Finally he connected with a truss and worked himself through it into a reasonably secure position, feeling like a bird in the roof of a barn.
While he waited for someone to appear down below Garnett partially unzipped the pressure skin and withdrew the automatic. It was almost a certainty that the aliens knew who had delivered the wing unit so there was little point in trying anything but the the most direct tactics. Besides, with the weapon in his hands he might be in a position to find the answer to his big question—why did the builders of this tremendous ship want the wing of a relatively primitive aircraft? Why did they want it so badly they were prepared to hang in orbit for several years while their puppets carried out the construction? Why … ?
A large section of the wall slid away and Garnett found himself looking down at a group of five aliens silhouetted against powerful blue-white light which streamed into his metal cave.
They appeared to be human, as Dermott had predicted, but humans who floated assuredly in the air like fish, controlling their altitudes with little arm and leg movements which caused disproportionately large shadow plays in the mingling light rays. He had time for a few fleeting impressions—almost childishly small bodies, silt-coloured skin, wispy hair, darkly lambent eyes—then the alients were swimming towards his empty craft. As he took aim it occurred to Garnett that he had completely forgotten to allow for zero gravity conditions when he brought the automatic pistol. Under these circumstances its fierce recoil would make it less effective than a bow and arrow, but it was too late to worry about it—the aliens must not be allowed to get their hands on the wing unit. Pain arced across his chest from the recoil as he fired. The aliens tumbled in panic and dived back through the doorway while thunderous multiple reverberations battered against the metal walls. Knowing he had deliberately aimed to miss, Garnett for the first time understood that a pistol’s sound is one of the most important factors in its potency as a weapon.
He opened the faceplate of his helmet, hardly noticing the smell of the alien air. “Where is Xoanon?” he shouted. “I want Xoanon.”
The aliens remained out of sight but their shadows moved anxiously across the glittering, frosty whiteness of the trapped T.6. Garnett waited with his eyes fixed on the brilliant trapezoid of the doorway, wondering if Xoanon would dare to appear. He watched tensely, aware of his own heart beats, yet when the movement finally came it took him completely by surprise—for it was inside his helmet!
Something cold brushed against his eyebrow and, from close up, a flash of brightness stabbed into his eye.
Sobbing with fear, Garnett scrabbled frantically at the helmet with his free hand, then abruptly he held still. It had been only the tiny flip-down television screen which formed part of the suit’s communications system. The fact that it had dropped into place in front of his left eye meant someone on the alien ship had begun to broadcast on his personal frequency.
Garnett moved his eye forward to the little screen and found himself peering into a large room with pale green lighting and what appeared to be clusters of silver threads running vertically between its floor and ceiling. The room was circular and its walls were banked with what was obviously a tremendously complex instrument array. Several aliens in black coveralls appeared to be entangled in the silver strands at different heights, but as each was positioned close to groups of controls Garnett realised the threads took the place of conventional furniture.
In the centre of the room a single, almost normal, chair held a white-haired man who had one arm missing from just below the shoulder. The slight figure of an alien woman floated behind the chair but Garnett’s attention was fixed on its occupant. There was an authoritative look about the time-scarred face and intent, unflinching eyes which told him….
“You are Xoanon?”
“Yes. And you are Mr. Garnett.”
A violent shuddering fit seized Garnett and pain radiated from different centres in his body. Anything I do, he thought, had better be done soon.
“I’m going to kill you, Xoanon.” At his words several aliens high up in the silver skeins twisted away from their control panels but Xoanon dismissed them with a rapid wave of his single arm. He leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes like gun muzzles.
“Mr. Garnett,” he said quietly, “I have no desire to use violence against you.”
“I can understand that,” Garnett said. “Facing an armed man is rather more difficult than aiming meteorites at him from the safety of your ship.”
“That isn’t my point. If it were necessary I could kill you without leaving this chair. I could, for example, withdraw the air from your sector of the ship.”
“You could,” Garnett conceded, ‘but I have enough oxygen here for several hours. At the end of that time there would be very little left of your wing unit.”
The old man’s face became bleak. “You must not touch the unit, Mr. Garnett. We have waited too long to permit anything to happen to it now. I must advise you that several members of my crew have armed themselves and are returning to the vicinity of your aircraft. I repeat, we have no desire to use violence, but we will not allow you to damage the unit. Now let us talk more reasonably—I know you well enough to be convinced we can be friends.”