He was lopsided in his stance; that will be from his snapped spine, Khuv supposed. And he marvelled at his own ability to accept this impossible thing, just like that. A broken spine, and Grenzel still mobile, however awkward. But why not, for he was also dead! Nor was that the end of it. He was wearing white coveralls. They smouldered down his right side, where they hung in rags. Tatters of flesh hung with the rags, grey and red, but there was very little blood in evidence; these things didn’t bleed too readily. There were three small holes in Gren-zel’s right shoulder, neat as the dots on a dice, where a burst of bullets had printed full stops on his coveralls; but at the back the holes were the size of small apples, coloured a ragged, reddish-black. Grenzel hung his shoulder on that side, adding to his lopsidedness. His difficulty with the clamp was that he worked at it left-handed.
Khuv took Litve’s flame-thrower, called out to the men ahead: ‘Give me a burst of covering fire when I call for it – just a concentrated burst – and I’ll deal with this bastard. But first of all, can one of you boys take out that light?’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, sir?’ a shout came back. ‘I mean, this one hardly seems human!’
How right you are! ‘Yes, just put out that light.’ Above the door was a lamp in a wire basket. On instructions from the Sergeant, one of his men shot it out. There was a crack! – a tinkle of glass – and the buckled wire basket was torn from its housing. The light in the corridor was at once reduced, turning the place to a smoky tunnel.
‘When I yell “now”,’ Khuv reminded, ‘one burst and then keep your heads down.’
Grenzel had vanished for a moment, but now he reappeared, stood half-silhouetted in the doorway. He had his gun with him, which he propped against the wall before returning his attention to the clamp. Behind Khuv and Litve the converging corridors were suddenly full of milling people; their hushed yet massed voices were like the susurration of a congregation in a great sounding church. Litve called back: ‘Stay still! Be quiet. Just wait where you are.’
Khuv checked that his weapon was primed and ready for action. It was still fairly heavy, indicating that there was no lack of fuel. Then he shouted: ‘Now!’ There came an answering burst of fire and Grenzel staggered back. Khuv crouched down, ran forward. Grenzel sensed or saw him, grabbed up his gun, fired a short burst and ran out of bullets. Khuv heard the whip and buzz of angry lead, heard voices back down the corridor cry out their agony. Then he opened up with his flame-thrower, stabbed its blade of near-solid heat right at the yellow wolf-eyes burning in Grenzel’s silhouetted face.
All shadows fled as the flame-thrower roared. Grenzel was scorched, and screeched like a run-over cat. He dropped his useless gun, and in the next moment Khuv was on him. He hosed him down with fire, burned him to a blistered crisp that burst into flame and stuck itself to the metal wall. Then Grenzel slid down the wall, toppled over and lay still. Khuv stopped firing, stood back. The flames gradually died down and Grenzel’s remains hissed and crackled, issuing vile black smoke.
Then Litve came forward with the Sergeant, and Khuv told the latter: ‘See that all of these people get safely out of here. They’re not out of the woods yet.’ Without waiting, he and Litve went on to Failsafe Control.
With frightened people hurriedly filing past them, they stood in the corridor and banged on the metal door.
Luchov’s voice, shrill, terrified, came through to them: ‘Who is it? What’s happening?’
‘Viktor?’ Khuv answered. ‘It’s me, Khuv. Open up.’
‘No, I don’t believe you. I know who you are. Go away!’
‘What?’ Khuv glanced at Litve. Then he guessed what had happened. Agursky had been here. He banged again on the door. ‘Viktor, it is me!’
Then where’s your key?’ All of the listed Failsafe Duty Officers had keys to this room.