Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 62

WALTER: You kids have got to have your chance.

VEIKKO: Oh, G.o.d. But Marc might kill you.

WALTER: It's possible. But he might think twice. Suppose the course director autopilot broke? It's not too tricky manoeuvring Kyllikki in fine weather. But given a storm-and there might be one lurking out there-this big four-poster is a b.i.t.c.hkitty to steer manually.

VEIKKO: I remember the gale in the Ross Sea! ... So you think that even if you-you think Marc won't dareWALTER: I'm going to try it, and hope that Marc won't kill me when he finds out. But whatever happens, happens. I don't know when my chance will come, but when it does, I'll grab it. The things are locked up tight, but I'll figure some way to neutralize them.

VEIKKO: Oh, Walter. Oh, Daddy.

WALTER: See that you and Irena don't get yourselves killed by the d.a.m.ned goblins or whatever they are. If anything happened to you, I don't think I could go through with this.

VEIKKO: We've got the base camp all dug in and there are plenty of weapons. We'll be fine. But you-whenWALTER: When I can. Don't worry. Call me tomorrow if possible.

Otherwise, on Tuesday.

VEIKKO: The Tanu with us say that the Firvulag will probably quit when their sacred Truce begins at dawn on Wednesday.

WALTER: Well-that's something. Take care, son. Someone's just come into the wheelhouse and I'll have to let you go.

VEIKKO: Good luck ...

Walter thumbed the autopilot and turned smiling from the wheel. "h.e.l.lo, Alex. Come in."

"A wand'ring minstrel I," Manion sang, "a thing of shreds and patches." He began to rub industriously at the port-frames with his polis.h.i.+ng rag.

Walter said distinctly: "Alex. Stop that. Come here and listen to me."

The docilated man obediently lowered his cloth and stood before Kyllikki's captain.

"You're the best PK-head of us all, Alex. And not too shabby a coercer either. I wonder if you're strong enough to get past the docilator. I wonder if your coercion can push down the command-set if I give you the proper inspiration. Listen Alex!

I know how you and I can help the children!

I need your help.

Do you understand?"

A broad smile spread slowly across the ravaged face. Manion sang softly: Am I alone, and un.o.bserved? I am!

Then let me own I'm an aesthetic sham!

Walter grasped him by the arms. "Can you do it? Have you been picking away at it from the inside? You know I can't turn the docilator off."

Alex sang: This air severe is but a mere veneer!

This cynic smile is but a wile of guile!

This costume chaste is but good taste misplaced!

"Good man! I want you to go down to the forward hold with me-and break Marc's fancy lock."

Alex whispered: With catlike tread upon our prey we steal; In silence dread our cautious way we feel ...

"I'm going to sabotage the X-lasers, Alex, so that Marc can't use them against the children. He'll still have the other weapons, of course. But the kid's sigma-s.h.i.+elds can turn them aside. And there's a fair chance that our metaconcert potential has dwindled at the same time that the Little King's has been growing. When Marc finds out what we've done, he might kill us. But he needs you badly, and n.o.body can sail this tub as well as I can-so there's a chance. And if we make it to Europe, who knows what might happen? Marc might even change his mind about using force against the kids if the h.e.l.l-zappers aren't an option anymore."

Alex sang: When a felon's not engaged in his employment (his employment) Or maturing his felonious little plans (little plans), His capacity for innocent enjoyment (-cent enjoyment) Is just as great as any honest man's.

With tremulous slowness, one eyelid dropped shut, then opened again. Alexis Manion had definitely winked.

"Marc's out jumping and the rest of them are asleep or busy,"

Walter said. "Let's go do it right now, shall we?" He took the physicist by the hand and led him away like a happy child.

CHAPTER TEN.

Bets! Wake up guy! Wake up it's time to march!

Mr. Betsy stirred. A manicured hand crept from the interior of his silk-and-swansdown sleeping bag and hooked over the opening of his balaclava, which had ridden up to the vicinity of his receding natural hairline. A finger pulled the pink knitted helmet down so that a single green eye peered from the woollen slot and read the illuminated digits on the inturned wrist chronograph: 0216. The grey torc tingled, banis.h.i.+ng sleep.

Mr. Betsy's telepathic voice was surly: Good grief Ookpik it can't be starting time I just went to bed!

Bad news. Elizabeth sent word our Tanu fa.r.s.ensor that Firvulag coming up fast on Bettaforca. Also Basil on mountain says weather looking iffy. We can't wait until dawn to start climb. Ten minutes.

Betsy said aloud, "Oh, friggerty fudge."

Ookpik said: And don't forget your gun.

Growling feebly, Betsy levered himself upright and hopped across the hut like an acrobatic caterpillar enveloped in its coc.o.o.n. He lit the hut lantern and knelt in front of the oven of the cooking unit, where his boots and outer clothing had spent the brief night toasting at fifty degrees Celsius. He checked the outside temperature and was surprised to find it hovering just above freezing. Right. Never mind the down pants and jacket for now: on with the breathable grintlaskin wet-wind gear over his layered woollies, snap on the boots, then the snow gaiters and climbing harness. To extract the perspiration from his sleeping bag, he stuffed it into the oven for a few moments and let the busy little microwaves do their work. Then the bag and down clothing went into his pack. He pulled on his mitts and grabbed ice-axe and Weatherby Magnum blaster.

Six minutes. Mr. Betsy allowed himself a satisfied smirk as he stepped out into the alpine night.

A warmish wind was blowing from the west and the freshfallen snow of yesterday had gone slushy. The camp was blacked out as a safety precaution, but Betsy saw dark shapes moving among the huts of the gold-torc soldiery. A fuzzy half-moon lit Monte Rosa with wan, greenish radiance. The ma.s.sif was crowned with an unusual double cloud formation, a smooth cap curving over the highest elevation, surmounted by an elongate, eastward-trailing plume.

After a quick visit to the latrine, Betsy came into the climbers' staging hut. Ookpik was the only one there as yet, hunched on a bench next to the grub buffeteria, drinking tea and nibbling slugs Villeroy.

"I'm glad somebody in this outfit is quick on the aufgesprungen," the Eskimo remarked wryly. "The rest of the team are still stumbling around looking for their socks-and that includes our redoubtable leader, Dr. Thongsa. Have some tea, Bets. The French-fried slimies aren't too bad. You see that cloud on the mountain?"

"Yes," said Betsy shortly. He dropped his gear and shucked his mittens. "Lord Bleyn was doing his best to put a good face on matters yesterday. I might have known we'd never get out of here so easily! Those Firvulag must be able to conceal their movements somehow if they've managed to come so close without Elizabeth fa.r.s.eeing them. They weren't supposed to arrive until late tomorrow. A night start over the glacier snout in warm weather like this could be extremely hazardous."

Ookpik scrutinized a gasteropod fritter before popping it into his mouth. "That's not the only waktoo hitting the fan, good buddy. I farspoke Basil myself. Couldn't sleep."

Betsy ladled a big dollop of honey into his tea. "I thought you couldn't broadcast more than a few hundred metres?"

"I've been practicing. You'd be surprised how sheer panic jacks up the old cerebral output ... Anyhow, Stan's worse."

"Oh, my."