Mordan considered the question. “I think I would rather try to argue around to my viewpoint. I’m afraid there isn’t much of the martyr spirit in me.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Somewhat later Mordan said, “Felix, I think they have taken to drawing our fire. I don’t think that was a face I shot at last time.”
“I believe you’re right. I couldn’t have missed a couple of times lately.”
“How many shots have you left?”
Hamilton did not need to count; he knew-and it had been worrying him. He had had four clips when he left for the Hall of the Wolf-three in his belt, one in his gun, twenty-eight shots in all. The last clip was in his gun; he had fired two shots from it. He held up one hand, fingers spread. “How about you?”
“About the same. I could use half charge for this sparring.” He thought a moment. “Cover both doors.” He crawled rapidly away through the stacks to where the two women kept guard on the rear door.
Martha heard him and turned. “Look at this, chief,” she insisted, holding out her left hand. He looked-the first two joints of the forefinger were burned away and the tip of the thumb-cleanly cauterized. “Isn’t that a mess?” she complained. “I’ll never be able to operate again. No manipulation.”
“Your assistants can operate. It’s your brain that counts.”
“A lot you know about it. They’re clumsy-every blessed one of them. It’s a miracle they can dress themselves.”
“I’m sorry. How many charges have you left?”
The picture was no better here. Phyllis’s lady’s weapon had been only a twenty-gun to start with. Both Mordan’s and Monroe-Alpha’s were fifty-guns, but the gun expropriated from Monroe-Alpha had started the evening even more depleted than Mordan’s. Phyllis had withdrawn Martha from anything more than stand-by when she had been wounded, planning to use the gun herself when her own was exhausted.
Mordan cautioned them to be still more economical with their shooting and returned to his post. “Anything happened?” he asked.
“No. What’s the situation?”
Mordan told him.
Hamilton whistled tunelessly, his eye on his target. “Claude?”
“Yes, Felix.”
“Do you think we are going to get out of this?”
“No, Felix.”
“Hmmm…Well, it’s been a nice party.” A little later he added, “Damn it-I don’t want to die. Not just yet…Claude, I’ve thought of another joke.”
“Let’s have it.”
“What’s the one thing that could give life point to it-real point?”
“That,” Mordan pointed out, “is the question I’ve been trying to answer for you all along.”
“No, no. The question itself.”
“You state it,” Mordan parried cautiously.
“I will. The one thing that could give us some real basis for our living is to know for sure whether or not anything happens after we die. When we die, do we die all over-or don’t we?”
“Hmm…granting your point, what’s the joke?”
“The joke is on me. Or rather on my kid. In a few minutes I’ll probably know the answer. But he won’t. He’s sitting back there right now-in a way-sleeping in one of those freezers. And there is no way on earth for me to let him know the answer. But he’s the one that will need to know. Isn’t that funny?”
“Hmm…If that’s your idea of a joke, Felix, I suggest that you stick to parlor tricks.”
Hamilton shrugged jauntily. “I’m considered quite a wit-in some circles,” he bragged. “Sometimes I wow myself.”
“Here they come!” It was an organized rush this time, spreading fanwise from both doors. They were both very busy for perhaps two seconds, then it was over. “Any get through?”
“Two, I think,” Mordan answered. “You cover the stairs. I’ll stay here.” It was not personal caution, but tactics. Mordan’s eye and hand were fast, but Hamilton was the younger, abler man.
He watched the stairs on his belly, most of his body shielded by the stacks. He was lucky on the first shot-his man stuck his head up facing the other way. Hamilton sent him down with a hole in the back of his skull and his forehead blown away. He then shifted quickly to the far side of the stair well. But his gun was empty.