“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!”
“I’ve got it!” Drew barked. “Steer right, on 030. I’d range it at about two thousand kilometers . . .”
33
On the bald face of an outcropping of wind-scored stone, Carnaby clung one-handed to a scanty hold, supporting Terry with the other arm. The wind shrieked, buffeting at him; sand-fine snow whirled into his face, slashing at his eyes, already half-blinded by the glare. The boy slumped against him, barely conscious.
His mind seemed as sluggish now as his half-frozen limbs. Somewhere below there was a ledge, with shelter from the wind. How far? Ten feet? Fifty?
It didn’t matter. He had to reach it. He couldn’t hold on here, in this wind; in another minute he’d be done for.
Carnaby pulled Terry closer, got a better grip with a hand that seemed no more a part of him than the rock against which they clung. He shifted his purchase with his right foot—and felt it slip. He was falling, grabbing frantically with one hand at the rock, then dropping through open air—
The impact against drifted snow drove the air from his lungs. Darkness shot through with red fire threatened to close in on him; he fought to draw a breath, struggling in the claustrophobia of suffocation. Loose snow fell away under him, and he was sliding. With a desperate lunge, he caught a ridge of hard ice, pulled himself back from the brink, then groped, found Terry, lying on his back under the vertically rising wall of rock. The boy stirred.
“So . . . tired . . .” he whispered. His body arched as he struggled to draw breath.
Carnaby pulled himself to a position beside the boy, propped himself with his back against the wall. Dimly, through ice-rimmed eyes, he could see the evening lights of the settlement, far below; so far . . .
He put his arm around the thin body, settled the lad’s head gently in his lap, leaned over him to shelter him from the whirling snow. “It’s all right, Terry,” he said. “You can rest now.”
34
Supported on three narrow pencils of beamed force, the Fleet interceptor slowly circuited the Djann yacht, hovering on its idling null-G generators a thousand feet above the towering white mountain.
“Nothing alive there,” the co-pilot said. “Not a whisper on the life-detection scale.”
“Take her down.” Vice Admiral Carnaby squinted through S-R lenses which had darkened almost to opacity in response to the frost-white glare from below. “The shack looks all right, but that doesn’t look like a Mark 7 Flitter parked beside it.”
The heavy Fleet boat descended swiftly under the expert guidance of the battle officer. At fifty feet, it leveled off, orbited the station.
“I count four dead Djann,” the admiral said in a brittle voice.
“Tracks,” the general pointed. “Leading off there . . .”
“Put her down, George!” The hundred-foot boat settled in with a crunching of rock and ice, its shark’s prow overhanging the edge of the tiny plateau. The hatch cycled open; the two men emerged.
At the spot where Carnaby had lain in wait for the last of the aliens, they paused, staring silently at the glossy patch of dark blood, and at the dead Djann beside it. Then they followed the irregularly spaced footprints across to the edge.
“He was still on his feet—but that’s about all,” the battle officer said.
“George, can you operate that Spider boat?” The admiral indicated the Djann landing sled.
“Certainly.”
“Let’s go.”
35
It was twilight half an hour later when the admiral, peering through the obscuring haze of blown snow, saw the snow-drifted shapes huddled in the shadow of an overhang. Fifty feet lower, the general settled the sled in to a precarious landing on a narrow shelf. It was a ten-minute climb back to their objective.
Vice Admiral Carnaby pulled himself up the last yard, looked across the icy ledge at the figure in the faded blue polyon cold-suit. He saw the weathered and lined face, glazed with ice; the closed eyes, the gnarled and bloody hands, the great wound in the side.
The general came up beside him, stared silently, then went forward.
“I’m sorry, Admiral,” he said a moment later. “He’s dead. Frozen. Both of them.”