They had a captive audience. It was certainly the best show the two surviving Maggots of the patrol would see for the rest of their lives. At the rate the water around the barbed-wire bound Maggots was rising . . . “the rest of their lives” was about three minutes off. He hoped that Eamon had finished dying by then. Even the fat lady in that opera that the Company had bussed the Vats off to watch as part of their “cultural education” had died quicker, and with less histrionics. With less noise, even.
Finally Eamon, with a last despairing shriek, flopped over backwards with Chip’s knife apparently protruding from his chest. The water was rising steadily. Eamon should have chosen to die a bit higher up. If Bronstein and Doc were right, the audience was far larger than the two victims. It wouldn’t do to have the late leading bat get to his feet, just because his ears were getting wet. But Eamon lay and allowed the water to creep higher and higher. The Maggot eyes were lost in the muddy water. Only Eamon’s nose protruded when the rest of the rest of the dramatic company got to their feet.
“I’ faith. Do you think he really did it?” whispered Doll in a hushed voice.
Chip was one of the three who ran into the water’s edge to see.
Eamon sat up. Spat water. “Here’s your knife, Connolly. I cut myself on the damned thing. Bah. I hate getting wet, indade. Well, could you rats have done better?”
He got the standing ovation he deserved.
Still wearing their chitin “shoes” they retreated from the scene, in case another Maggot patrol came to check on the previous one. The rats, nature’s own looters, had carted away two of the Maggot patrol killed before the “command performance.”
Well . . .
They carried them about thirty yards, before begging Chip to give them a hand. He did, simply because hungry rats are dangerous rats. The shrew genes gave them phenomenal metabolic rates. They hid out on the hillock, amid a slabby tumble of rocks. They chose a good high spot, but it proved unnecessary. At about midnight the Magh’ engineers must have arranged some essential drainage, and the huge dam’s level began going down.
And not one Maggot came looking for them.
* * *
“Now that we have shaken our pursuit,” said Bronstein, “we can rest, recuperate and plan.”
One of the rats burped. “Got another bit of Maggot going spare there, anyone?” asked fat Fal.
“Do you rats never think of anything but your stomachs?” snapped Bronstein.
“Hur. Of course. Are you offering, sweetie?” Pistol gave her a lewd wink.
“Nice legs,” opined Nym. “Shame about the face.” Bronstein swiveled her face and gave the huge rat a look that combined irritation with wariness. The trouble with Nym was that it was hard to tell when he was being serious.
“Stop teasing Bronstein, you guys,” said Chip. He was little low on humor with the guzzling rats himself. Half an energy bar had provided a challenge for his teeth, and precious little for his stomach.
Suddenly Bronstein’s face broke into a nasty, toothy smile. “I hope the gluttons are enjoying their Maggot-feast. It is their last one, to be sure. You do realize, rats, that we can’t kill any more Maggots.”
“Why not, Bronstein?” demanded Fal. “Do you have a conscience suddenly? I will not stop for that!” His nose twitched. “Maggot’s not a patch on a fine grasshopper, mind you, but it is still better than that muck the Company fed us in the trenches. And there is plenty of it.”
“You fool. The minute we kill one they’ll be after us again. And there are a million Maggots to every one of us.”
She had the satisfaction of knowing she’d silenced them. Then, Doc spoke up. “Indeed there is more.”
“What!”
“Well, imprimis there is eating. Then, as the ancient Pistol indicated, secundum, there is sex, and tertius—I said there was more—there is strong drink. These are the philosophical contentions of rats.”
Bronstein buried her face in her wings.
* * *
Reason’s moon was bigger than Earth’s. Even the crescent sliver was enough for Chip to see the still-working construction-Maggots. The tunnel-mound was getting wider and higher.