“Huh?”
Ginny started to giggle. “Chip, you said ‘desk jockeys are full of shit.’ Soft-cyber translation can be a bit literal. Come on. In first gear, the tractor won’t run away from you. And Bronstein’s right.”
Chip sighed. “I suppose we are bigger.”
At least four voices said, “No, we mean you’re full of shit.”
Chip hopped down, and started hauling adobe pieces. “It’s just bits of sticky Maggot, honest.”
* * *
The push through the area they’d blasted earlier had taken longer than Chip had anticipated. Maybe Doc was right and this was a very sophisticated trap. All he knew was it had taken a hot sweaty twenty minutes to dig their way out. And they were not more than a minute late, at that. Ten minutes earlier and they’d have had a clear run. As it was the Maggots were at least either ahead or behind. But not very far behind. It was obvious that Papa-Maggot was calling all his children home. Or maybe, by the way they were running, Mama-Maggot. All the children, back to the middle of the hive.
That was about all that had saved them. There were just so many Magh’ that the warrior types couldn’t get through. Tractors, while wonderful vehicles in many ways, were not known for rapid acceleration. And there were just too many Maggots to fight off. But they got in each other’s way. Then Ginny had the bright idea of playing “roll-the-barrel” with a half-empty twenty-five-liter diesel drum. It was a great knock-on game.
Thus the few scorps who reached the tractor were possible to fend off as the tractor gathered speed. The creatures were determined, though. Fire used to cause pandemonium. Molotovs still fried them, of course, but it was just bug-popping now—noisier and more splattery than popcorn. They came on, as if driven. Barbed wire was simply trodden down, along with the unfortunate Maggots entangled in it.
Eamon looked regretfully back. “Indade, a pity we can’t mist-and-burn this bedamned passage. Stop them catching up on us, now that they know where we are.”
O’Niel dropped wire-loop Maggot caltrops. “Aye. If they do catch up we’ll be the mayit in the sandwich.”
“Methinks I’ve never tried it in a sandwich,” said Doll, with a bit of regret.
“Open the tap on the trailer. The stuff will burn anyway, even if it isn’t misted,” said Chip.
Bronstein nodded. “True. Let’s set a few more expedient mines, eh Chip?”
Chip shook his head. “I don’t think we can stop. We’ll have to drop the stuff, and you’ll have to fly to catch up.”
“Okay. We’ll do just that. You—Fluff! Open the tap.” The galago looked at Bronstein and went off to comply. A minute later, a sack of fertilizer and a drum of diesel narrowly missed the tiny hidalgo’s delicate ears. He ducked—getting splashed by the brandy river—while avoiding a bundle of hinged cartridge planks.
“Fluff, I do like the aftershave,” said Melene, when he reappeared. “But Bronstein said, ‘please close it now.’ ”
The galago shook his head, mournfully. “My best, she is done. Already I have tried with great effort. The tap, she leaks.”
* * *
Ginny clung with one hand to the ropes of the wildly swaying trailer. Her feet were carefully tangled in the cargo netting that she and Chip had tied there . . . several lifetimes ago. The abrasive, bumpy Maggot-tunnel floor blurred past as she struggled to close the tap. The alcohol must have gotten to the seals . . . hardly surprising, really. It was close to rocket fuel, as she well remembered. A thin stream of seventy-four percent trailed behind them, despite her best efforts with the recalcitrant tap. If she fell now she’d be dragged to hamburger meat.
She managed to pull herself up. “It will not be stopped!”
“Oh . . .”
Bats came hurtling in, and of course the explosion followed.
Then the hot wind came rushing along the tunnel . . . the alcohol wasn’t rapidly going woof as it had when atomized. Instead it was burning steadily. Looking back on their curving trail she saw that even if the Maggots weren’t catching them . . . the flames were. A little firetrail was leaping and hopping down the path laid by the leaking tap.