Chapter 13

“He wouldn’t come in, sir. Just hammered on the door and said, ‘I’m here, tell Brandd.‘“

“Good enough,” Brion said, fitting his gun in the holster and sliding the extra clips into his pocket. “I’m going out now, and I should return before dawn. Get one of the wheeled stretchers down here from the hospital. I’ll want it waiting when I get back.”

Outside, the street was darker than he remembered. Brion frowned and his hand moved towards his gun. Someone had put all the nearby lights out of commission. There was just enough illumination from the stars to enable him to make out the dark bulk of a sand car.

“Brion Brandd?” a voice spoke harshly from the car. “Get in.”

The motor roared as soon as he had closed the door. Without lights the sand car churned a path through the city and out into the desert. Though the speed picked up, the driver still drove in the dark, feeling his way with a light touch on the controls. The ground rose, and when they reached the top of a mesa he killed the engine. Neither the driver nor Brion had spoken a word since they left.

A switch snapped and the instrument lights came on. In their dim glow Brion could just make out the other man’s hawklike profile. When he moved, Brion saw that his figure was cruelly shortened. Either accident or a mutated gene had warped his spine, hunching him forward in eternally bent supplication. Warped bodies were rare--his was the first Brion had ever seen. He wondered what series of events had kept him from medical attention all his life. This might explain the bitterness and pain in the man’s voice.

“Did the mighty brains on Nyjord bother to tell you that they have chopped another day off the deadline?” the man asked. “That this world is about to come to an end?”

“Yes, I know,” Brion said. “That’s why I’m asking your group for help. Our time is running out too fast.”

The man didn’t answer; he merely grunted and gave his full attention to the radar pings and glowing screen. The electronic senses reached out as he made a check on all the search frequencies to see if they were being followed.

“Where are we going?” Brion asked.

“Out into the desert.” The driver made a vague wave of his hand. “Headquarters of the army. Since the whole thing will be blown up in another day, I guess I can tell you it’s the only camp we have. All the cars, men and weapons are based there. And Hys. He’s the man in charge. Tomorrow it will be all gone--along with this cursed planet. What’s your business with us?”

“Shouldn’t I be telling Hys that?”

“Suit yourself.” Satisfied with the instrument search, the driver kicked the car to life again and churned on across the desert. “But we’re a volunteer army and we have no secrets from each other. Just from the fools at home who are going to kill this world.” There was a bitterness in his words that he made no attempt to conceal. “They fought among themselves and put off a firm decision so long that now they are forced to commit murder.”

“From what I had heard, I thought that it was the other way around. They call your Nyjord army terrorists.”

“We are. Because we are an army and we’re at war. The idealists at home only understood that when it was too late. If they had backed us in the beginning we would have blown open every black castle on Dis, searched until we found those bombs. But that would have meant wanton destruction and death. They wouldn’t consider that. Now they are going to kill everyone, destroy everything.” He flicked on the panel lights just long enough to take a compass bearing, and Brion saw the tortured unhappiness in his twisted body.

“It’s not over yet,” Brion said. “There is more than a day left, and I think I’m onto something that might stop the war--without any bombs being dropped.”

“You’re in charge of the Cultural Relationships Free Bread and Blankets Foundation, aren’t you? What good can your bunch do when the shooting starts?”

“None. But maybe we can put off the shooting. If you are trying to insult me--don’t bother. My irritation quotient is very high.”

The driver merely grunted at this, slowing down as they ran through a field of broken rock. “What is it you want?” he asked.

“We want to make a detailed examination of one of the magter. Alive or dead, it doesn’t make any difference. You wouldn’t happen to have one around?”

“No. We’ve fought with them often enough, but always on their home grounds. They keep all their casualties, and a good number of ours. What good will it do you anyway? A dead one won’t tell you where the bombs or the jump-space projector is.”

“I don’t see why I should explain that to you--unless you are in charge. You are Hys, aren’t you?”

The driver gave an angry sound, and then was silent while he drove. Finally he asked, “What makes you think that?”

“Call it a hunch. You don’t act very much like a sand-car driver, for one thing. Of course your army may be all generals and no privates--but I doubt it. I also know that time has almost run out for all of us. This is a long ride and it would be a complete waste of time if you just sat out in the desert and waited for me. By driving me yourself you could make your mind up before we arrived. Could have a decision ready as to whether you are going to help me or not. Are you?”

“Yes--I’m Hys. But you still haven’t answered my question. What do you want the body for?”

“We’re going to cut it open and take a good long look. I don’t think the magter are human. They are something living among men and disguised as men--but still not human.”

“Secret aliens?” Hys exploded the words in a mixture of surprise and disgust.

“Perhaps. The examination will tell us that.”

“You’re either stupid or incompetent,” Hys said bitterly. “The heat of Dis has cooked your brains in your head. I’ll be no part of this kind of absurd plan.”

“You must,” Brion said, surprised at his own calmness. He could sense the other man’s interest hidden behind his insulting manner. “I don’t even have to give you my reasons. In another day this world ends and you have no way to stop it. I just might have an idea that could work, and you can’t afford to take any chances--not if you are really sincere. Either you are a murderer, killing Disans for pleasure, or you honestly want to stop the war. Which is it?”

“You’ll have your body all right,” Hys grated, hurling the car viciously around a spire of rock. “Not that it will accomplish anything--but I can find no fault with killing another magter. We can fit your operation into our plans without any trouble. This is the last night and I have sent every one of my teams out on raids. We’re breaking into as many magter towers as possible before dawn. There is a slim chance that we might uncover something. It’s really just shooting in the dark, but it’s all we can do now. My own team is waiting and you can ride along with us. The others left earlier. We’re going to hit a small tower on this side of the city. We raided it once before and captured a lot of small arms they had stored there. There is a good chance that they may have been stupid enough to store something there again. Sometimes the magter seem to suffer from a complete lack of imagination.”

“You have no idea just how right you are,” Brion told him.

The sand car slowed down now, as they approached a slab-sided mesa that rose vertically from the desert. They crunched across broken rocks, leaving no tracks. A light blinked on the dashboard, and Hys stopped instantly and killed the engine. They climbed out, stretching and shivering in the cold desert night.

It was dark walking in the shadow of the cliff and they had to feel their way along a path through the tumbled boulders. A sudden blaze of light made Brion wince and shield his eyes. Near him, on the ground, was the humming shape of a cancellation projector, sending out a fan-shaped curtain of vibration that absorbed all the light rays falling upon it. This incredible blackness made a lightproof wall for the recessed hollow at the foot of the cliff. In this shelter, under the overhang of rock, were three open sand cars. They were large and armor-plated, warlike in their scarred grey paint. Men sprawled, talked, and polished their weapons. Everything stopped when Hys and Brion appeared.

“Load up,” Hys called out. “We’re going to attack now, same plan I outlined earlier. Get Telt over here.” In talking to his own men some of the harshness was gone from his voice. The tall soldiers of Nyjord moved in ready obeyance of their commander. They loomed over his bent figure, most of them twice as tall as he, but there was no hesitation in jumping when he commanded. They were the body of the Nyjord striking force--he was the brains.

A square-cut, compact man rolled up to Hys and saluted with a leisurely flick of his hand. He was weighted and slung about with packs and electronic instruments. His pockets bulged with small tools and spare parts.

“This is Telt,” Hys said to Brion. “He’ll take care of you. Telt’s my personal technical squad. He goes along on all my operations with his meters to test the interiors of the Disan forts. So far he’s found no trace of a jump-space generator, or excess radioactivity that might indicate a bomb. Since he’s useless and you’re useless, you both take care of each other. Use the car we came in.”

Telt’s wide face split in a froglike grin; his voice was hoarse and throaty. “Wait. Just wait! Someday those needles gonna flicker and all our troubles be over. What you want me to do with the stranger?”

“Supply him with a corpse--one of the magter,” Hys said. “Take it wherever he wants and then report back here.” Hys scowled at Telt. “Someday your needles will flicker! Poor fool--this is the last day.” He turned away and waved the men into their sand cars.

“He likes me,” Telt said, attaching a final piece of equipment. “You can tell because he calls me names like that. He’s a great man, Hys is, but they never found out until it was too late. Hand me that meter, will you?”

Brion followed the technician out to the car and helped him load his equipment aboard. When the larger cars appeared out of the darkness, Telt swung around after them. They snaked forward in a single line through the rocks, until they came to the desert of rolling sand dunes. Then they spread out in line abreast and rushed towards their goal.

Telt hummed to himself hoarsely as he drove. He broke off suddenly and looked at Brion. “What you want the dead Dis for?”

“A theory,” Brion answered sluggishly. He had been half napping in the chair, taking the opportunity for some rest before the attack. “I’m still looking for a way to avert the end.”

“You and Hys,” Telt said with satisfaction. “Couple of idealists. Trying to stop a war you didn’t start. They never would listen to Hys. He told them in the beginning exactly what would happen, and he was right. They always thought his ideas were crooked, like him. Growing up alone in the hill camp, with his back too twisted and too old to be fixed when he finally did come out. Ideas twisted the same way. Made himself an authority on war. Hah! War on Nyjord--that’s like being an ice-cube specialist in hell. But he knew all about it, though they never would let him use what he knew. Put granddaddy Krafft in charge instead.”