charge the batteries to keep it going . . .
But the Icarus was no longer a space-vessel. The protective plastic had been
knocked away in an irregular small patch just below the center of the forward
port, and a hole burned through the wood with a white-hot metal bar (there were
no drills available, and the composition could not be drilled by ordinary
methods, anyhow). Protruding through the opening was the muzzle of Leland’s
auto-rifle, fully loaded, and on the control board two more clips collected from
the scrap heaps of nearby communities lay ready. When asked why he chose the
auto-rifle instead of the far more dangerous electro, he merely said “Noisier,”
and let his associates puzzle it out. Barret’s women had repaired and repacked
the ship’s parachute.
Behind Marshall, hidden watchfully in the undergrowth, were the twenty-one
individuals of Barret’s tribe; Barret himself was in a tree-top directly above.
“See anything?” Marshall called guardedly.
“Not yet,” Barret’s voice drifted back from the matted leaves. “They get
breakfast in bed, the slobs. Wup–wait a minute–yeah, there’s one. Coming this
way, too.” As if in confirmation, a dull droning became audible from the
direction of the city.
Marshall jumped quickly into the ship, slammed the port; then his head bobbed
out of the emergency at the top.
“Your men out of the way of my exhaust, Brains?” he asked.
“Yup,” said Barret cheerfully. “Here comes your lamb to the slaughter. He’ll
pass a little to the right, I think. He is the lousiest pilot I ever saw.