“These!” Vanessa hissed, turning on Michelle again. “The rest. Where are they? Who’s working them?” She spotted Michelle’s coat, snatched it up, and began searching through the pockets, pulling out the contents and scattering them on the table top among the plates and buffet dishes.
And then more yelling and commotion broke out forward of the salon. There was a crash, the sounds of footsteps running, more banging, and then somebody fired a shot. The guard who was by Michelle wheeled, producing a gun reflexively; the other, at the forward end, was backing from the door, aiming his pistol low toward the floor. A metallic parody of a face appeared above the sill at the bottom of the door, followed by an approximately cylindrical, can-size body equipped with arms in the act of bracing themselves to haul the contrivance over. It was one of the telebot prototypes that Michelle had seen in Garsten’s office. The guard fired at it, splintering wood from the sill, and the bullet ricocheted out of the room evoking more outraged yells forward.
“Hold it, you idiot!” Payne shouted.
The telebot seemed to reassess the situation, ducked back out again, and disappeared off to one side just as a heavy ornamental brass from one of the walls crashed into the spot that it had occupied. A man that Michelle didn’t recognize appeared framed in the doorway briefly, flailing with a fire ax to the crunches of tearing woodwork.
“It’s going for the stairs,” Finnion’s voice yelled from somewhere behind him.
“What in hell is it?” somebody else demanded from somewhere.
There was a mêlée of bodies trying to get past each other and go in different directions at the far end of the room. Then Garsten materialized from among them and strode on in, looking from side to side and around the floor. “That was the same as the one in my office,” he muttered. “Which one of you had my bag? Where is it? . . . Ah, there!” He stooped as he saw the briefcase, and grabbed it up. “Jesus!” He showed it to Vanessa and Payne, pointing at the rent cut vertically down one side.
He cleared the end of the table and tipped out the briefcase to produce a heap of cords and cables; bits of string, wood, and plastic; a carpenter’s measuring tape; and an assortment of metal items in various forms and shapes. “They’re gone!” he exclaimed, gesturing. “All the bugs and walking junk they had in my office was in here. Look, they must have got out through here. Christ, they must be all over the ship!”
Ellipulos came in, looking around demandingly from face to face. “What is that thing? What’s going on aboard my ship?”
Payne showed him the burned mec. “Little machines. There’s more like this around. Get your men looking. Look everywhere.”
Vanessa looked back at Garsten. “How many were there?” she asked, paling.
He spread his hands. “Hell, I don’t remember. It wasn’t exactly a time to be stock taking. I just—”
Vanessa seized the neck of Michelle’s sweater and dragged her to her feet. Her mouth compressed into a tight gash on a face bloodless with rage. “Who’s controlling them? Where from?”
“You’re the scientist. You find out.”
Vanessa took a glass from the table, smashed the rim against the edge, and held the jagged edges close to Michelle’s face. “I’m warning you. . . .” Michelle was paralyzed, unable to react in any way.
Garsten raised a hand, looking alarmed. “Hey . . .” he cautioned. Payne took a step forward and caught Vanessa’s arm.
And then something dropped from among the figurines and trophies along the top of the wall cabinet, onto Vanessa’s head. She screeched, dropped the glass, and began tearing wildly at her hair. . . .
Corfe felt as if he were in one of those nightclub acts where the performer gets lots of china plates spinning on top of flexible canes that have to be tweaked periodically to speed the plate up again before it falls off. By the end, the act reduces to a nonstop panic of running frantically back and forth across the stage, rescuing one platter after another seemingly just on the verge of crashing.