“I hope like hell we don’t have to come back!” said Chip, thrusting the tractor into neutral and putting the blade down with almost-skill.
Eamon fluttered up. “Here, take this damned thing. Indade, it was near the death of me.” Eamon thrust his makeshift headband at Ginny.
She took it. “Uh. Why?”
“It slipped over my eyes when I was dive-bombing them,” the bat said angrily. “To the very divil with fashion and image! It could have killed me! Pure suicide wearing that thing.”
“I mean why did you wish to wear it in the first place?” she asked, staring at the red splotch.
The bat scatched his head and nearly fell out of the air. He corrected and explained. “I saw a picture of this dive-bomber, from human history somewhere. It struck me as remarkably stylish. I’ve had a fancy to try it for some time. And this may be my last flight . . .”
“I’ll try it instead.” She smiled at him. “I thought I was going to lose my glasses back there.”
“And welcome!” said the bat fervently. “Now, let’s have that barrel of diesel up there.”
“Chip! Come and knock us a few holes with the four-pound,” shouted Bronstein. “And let’s set a few expedient mines on this side.”
“You all right?” asked Chip, with unprecedented solicitude, when he got back to the idling tractor. Virginia was staring at the chainsaw.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’ve just never killed anything before. Not on purpose.”
She didn’t know how she was cutting him to the quick right then. How he’d comforted Dermott after the first bloody fight, when that big tough farmgirl had started quietly weeping. “Get used to it,” he said, shortly. “It’s them or us.”
Less than two minutes later, the first two runner-Maggots charged into the barbed wire . . . as the tractor drove away. The explosion behind them was a sweet, sweet sound.
* * *
Some time later, they slithered to a hasty halt against the inner wall of the spiral arm of the tunnel. Naturally, Chip miscalculated. There was a crunch.
Bronstein immediately began giving orders. “Right! I’ll need shot holes . . .”
“Er, Bronstein.” interrupted Chip. “I can see darkness though that wall. We hit it quite hard.”
Bronstein looked. “So reverse off and hit it again.”
“Indade, ’tis a black shame not to blow it to glory,” groused O’Niel.
Fal snorted. “Methinks it is not as much of a shame as that, that . . . otter, telling our women that we should give them . . . candy, when we wants a bit of slipping of the muddy conger.”
“Otter? Which otter?” The bat looked puzzled.
“Her.” The rat pointed with an elbow to Virginia, as he dug for his bottle. “Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her. Want a drink?”
“She looks fairly human,” said the bat, half-uncertainly. He was speaking about the affronted Virginia as if she weren’t there. “To be sure, ’tis always hard to tell by looking. I could have a feel, I suppose. As for the drink, well—after last time, begorra, Bronstein gave me hell. She said I could choose between drinking or flying. So I decided to give it up.”
Fal took a deep pull from the bottle. “Rather you than me. It’s a rat’s life, and then you die. Alcohol simply makes the getting to be dead a bit more lubricated.”
O’Niel shook his head. “No, I meant the flying. I far prefer this mechanical transportation to the hardworkin’ flapping o’ the wings. Pass the bottle, then.”
Behan stared at him in horror. “You’re not fit to be a Batty!”
“Ah, the divil take you and your politics,” said O’Niel, wiping his lips and passing the bottle back, as Chip attempted to cautiously reverse. The trailer made it a nightmare.
Siobhan fluttered up. “You’ve got to move faster, Chip. They’ll be through here any minute.”
“I can’t!” said Chip through clenched teeth. “She jackknifes.”
“I have an idea,” said Nym. “Switch her off.”
Without thinking, Chip complied. Then he realized who was giving orders. “Nym! What the hell are you doing?” The rat was fiddling with the ropes tying the drive shaft in place.