A pillar of flame punched a hundred feet into the black sky over Helskel. The column of brilliant light spewed flying tongues of flame, and burning debris and wag parts rained onto the dusty streets and atop the nearest buildings. Hungry flames jumped from shack to hovel to geodesic dome to the rear wall of the saloon.
The sec men had been slammed to the ground by the concussion. They had their heads up and were staring at the conflagration like hypnotized moths. One tried to shoot at the dune buggy as it swung past, but Jak had his pistol out and working first. The .357 Magnum slug turned the sec man’s face into a wet smear, and then J.B. floored the pedal, sending the vehicle roaring out of Helskel. Behind them, the lights of the ville were completely obscured by the inferno.
“How she handle?” Jak asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the roar of the engine.
“Great,” J.B. said, smiling. The smile fled his lips. “I still miss the Hotspur, though.”
Doc leaned forward, patting his shoulder. “Do not bother yourself over the loss, John Barrymore. If this were tit for tat, we have just paid Helskel back for its loss, and then some.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Out in the city, someone coughed and cursed. Ryan pushed against one of the tall doors with a shoulder, and it swung open silently on oiled hinges. Stepping over the dim threshold, he pulled the door back into place. He stood there, surveying the gloomy interior of the big, high-ceilinged room.
It was about sixty feet long, lined on three sides with bookshelves to the ceiling. There were comfortable armchairs, upholstered in red leather, scattered about, and a huge globe of the earth stood in one corner. At first glance the room appeared to be a combined library and office. The carpet was a medium blue, and a replica of the seals emblazoned on the doors was embroidered in thick gold thread. The lighting, from shaded lamps, was subdued. The only odd feature was a fireplace, logs glowing cheerily in the hearth.
An immense circular desk dominated the fourth wall. It was strewn with papers. Blinking in the semigloom, Ryan saw a man sitting at the desk. He was as motionless as a statue, not even reacting when the huge door had opened and closed.
He was dressed all in black, with a thatch of cropped white hair and a neatly trimmed gray mustache. His deep-set slitted eyes, in shadowed sockets, were without movement or the spark of life.
Ryan stared at him, not speaking, a little demoralized by the hush and vastness of the room. The man stared back. Finally Ryan raised both blasters and barked, “To your feet. Hands where I can see them. Quick!”
The man complied, silently and smoothly, without so much as a squeak of leather or wood. Ryan started to step toward him when the wall on his left seemed to explode like a grenade.
Splintery fragments flew in every direction, and something clipped him a stunning blow on the left temple. The whole side of his head went numb, and he reeled drunkenly, lurching to one knee. He stopped himself from falling, but he dropped the SIG-Sauer in the process.
His eyeball felt like it was spinning, and bits of dirt and pain-haze clouded his vision. He brought up the Walther MPL, lifting his head, searching for a target, tasting the coppery salt of blood at the corner of his mouth. He felt it crawling down the side of his face. Something heavy and metallic swung down from his right side, smashing across his wrist with nerve-numbing force. The blaster skidded quietly across the carpet.
Ryan sprang to his feet, reaching for his panga, and found himself face-to-face with Doug. Behind him he saw a man-sized recess between the bookcases. The man held a sawed-off Browning B-80 autoshotgun, and he snapped the bright brass out of the blaster’s receiver. The shot had blasted a hole in the wall next to Ryan’s head, and he had caught a spray of splinters.
The one-eyed man wiped his face on a coat sleeve and slowly dropped his hands to his sides. Doug stared at him impassively and said, “You asked about the Commander’s location. You’ve found it.”
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