Volcano Island Ch 8
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter 8
As they emerged from the building the ground quivered slightly. There was a fierce growl nearby and a horrified squeal. Stoically, the five ignored it.
They approached another large building, one in a disastrous state of ruin. Mark's light played over the walls.
"Whatcha think?"
Cautiously, Alan lowered his shielding. Nothing.
"I don't know, Mark. I'm not picking up much. This whole place has sort of an eerie feel. I'm not really sure I'd know, even if we found the library."
"I thought you'd fixed that."
"Mostly, I think. I'm still not a magician."
Mark sighed. "Okay. Let's go see."
They approached slowly, feeling ahead of them for any forcefield that would halt their progress. The largest volcano rumbled and the ground quivered again.
They went up the crumbling steps. At the top, a doorway gaped blankly.
Mark flashed his light within. "Doesn't look like much. Dust an' junk."
"I don't think this is it," Lyla said. "It doesn't feel like much of anything."
Alan concurred. "This is a dead end. Let's go."
They started down the steps when the volcano rumbled again and then let go with a "bang" that was a palpable blow to the ears. The steps beneath them heaved and began to tremble violently. Alan glanced over his shoulder. "Run!"
They did so, and behind them came the crash of collapsing stone as the building literally disintegrated.
Instead of subsiding, the shaking grew more violent. Their run became more erratic as they staggered, trying to keep their feet as they fled the falling debris. They reached the broken ground at the foot of the steps and rushed toward the dubious safety of a clearing some distance away.
The shaking began to decrease and then abruptly strengthened again. Jeff dived past lashing branches, dragging Shelly by one wrist, Alan and Mark on his heels. They skidded to a stop in the center of the clearing and crouched down, covering their heads with their arms.
Someone screamed shrilly to their right. Another concussion made Alan's ears ring, and the shaking increased. Somewhere not far away, something -- probably a tree, he thought -- came down with a terrific crash and there was an agonized howl of pain -- unmistakably the voice of a man. Patrol search parties were in the area and had been caught by the quake.
Shelly was screaming something, jerking against Jeff's grasp on her wrist. Alan shouted at his companions and pointed to where another building, shrouded by jungle, loomed against the reddish glow of the volcano. He led the way to it and ducked into the arched doorway. Jeff was there an instant later, holding Shelly, who was twisting and fighting in his grasp, and crying her partner's name.
"Hold still, baby!" Jeff shouted. "We'll find her when it quits!"
The ground continued to shake.
"Alan!" Shelly's hand gripped his shoulders. "I can't contact Lyla! I think she's dead! I'm going to look --"
Jeff grabbed her. "You're staying right here 'til this quake quits, baby!"
Alan opened his shields, searching for Lyla Watson's mind. Nothing, but not far away he detected the presence of six Terran males. Patrolmen. He shut his shields again. If they were nearby, the Jilectan could easily be scanning the area for members of the Terran Underground. There was no point in guiding him straight to them.
The ground's convulsions seemed to be lessening, and then, with a sharp jolt that knocked all four of them from their feet, suddenly ceased. To the north, Alan had a clear view of the volcano which had caused all the trouble. White hot lava was creeping down its side.
Dangerous place, he thought, somewhat inadequately. Kaley and his bright ideas! As soon as they found Lyla, they were heading back to the ship, archives or no archives, to wait for morning.
Another small jolt rocked them, and the ground became stationary once more.
"You all right?" Mark asked, keeping his voice low because of the obvious proximity of Patrol searchers.
"Fine," Alan said, somewhat breathlessly . "Now we have to find Lyla."
They all turned to Shelly. She was concentrating, her eyes closed. There was a long, tense moment of silence.
At last she shook her head. "I can't contact her!" she whispered. "I think she's dead!"
"Do you have anything to trace her with?" Alan asked quickly.
Shelly nodded, digging into a pocket of her coverall. "A lock of her hair." She thrust a small plastic case into Alan's hands. "I'm not a good tracer, Alan, and if she's dead --"
Alan opened the case and shook out the lock of hair. Instantly, Lyla's status was clear to him. "She's not dead." He spoke firmly. "I'm a good tracer, Shelly. I'll find her. This way -- but be quiet. There's Patrol nearby."
**********
Strike Commander Thoroski opened his eyes.
Someone was speaking, the voice familiar, but very far away.
Thoroski lay still, unable for the moment to move, aware over the sound of the voice of pain in his head and shoulder.
Slowly, the sound grew clearer, and gradually it dawned on him that they were not speaking to him. There were two voices -- two distinctly different voices -- and they were addressing one another. Cautiously, Thoroski lifted his head and forced his eyes to open.
He was lying in the deep shadow of a recessed doorway, and the throes of the quake had ceased. Outside the doorway, he saw the yellow illumination of Patrol handlights and the dark forms of patrolmen. They seemed very occupied, and once again he heard their voices.
"Okay, I got her foot loose. Pull her out, but keep her body straight. That's it."
The voice belonged to Dr. Wayne Gallagher. Carefully, Thoroski rose to his knees, trying to be absolutely silent and blinking his eyes to clear his vision.
It was apparent that the men were unaware of his presence and it was also apparent, since Gallagher had been using the feminine pronoun, that the person they were engaged in rescuing was not a patrolman.
That meant only one thing to Thoroski. An Underground agent had been discovered by his men.
"Okay, doc, she's loose."
Thoroski recognized that voice as well. That was Patrolman Arnold Paine -- Painful ol Arnie, as his shipmates called him. Thoroski's lips tightened and he reached for his blaster.
It wasn't in his holster and now he recalled that he had been holding the weapon when the quake had struck. He must have dropped it when he had fallen.
Frantically, he groped in the darkness for it, knowing that his chances of finding it were slim. Paine was speaking again.
"She's sorta cute, isn't she?"
Gallagher's voice cut into his. "Damn you, Paine! Get your hands off her right now!"
There was the sound of cloth tearing. "Aw, what the hell, Doc? She ain't gonna know. An Undergrounder --"
"Get away from her!"
The patrolman grumbled something under his breath, and Thoroski saw his silhouette move back. Thoroski caught the gleam of his eyes in the light of Gallagher's handlight. His visor was open, and Thoroski felt a wave of anger. Leave it to that jerk to try to molest an unconscious woman.
Gallagher was bending over her, muttering to himself as he bandaged her forehead, and Thoroski's hand closed on something cold and metallic, wedged between two rocks beside him. His blaster.
Carefully, he freed it, flicking the setting to stun. Paine pushed the transmit control on his helmet.
"Patrolman Paine to Strike Command --"
Thoroskii's weapon hummed and the man collapsed. Gallagher's head jerked up, his hand fumbling for his blaster. Thoroski's weapon hummed again and the doctor slumped forward over the body of his patient.
Moving quickly, he holstered his blaster and went to the three unconscious figures. Reaching down, he switched off the transmitter in Paine's helmet. Pulling Gallagher's limp body off of her, he examined her quickly. A young, round, dirty face, framed by tangled dark hair was revealed in the illumination of his handlight. She had no injuries that he could see except the cut on her forehead. A half-applied dressing hung from it.
Quickly, Thoroski completed the bandaging job and lifted the woman in his arms.
She was small and slight -- a psychic, probably, Thoroski surmised -- and her weight was negligible. He lifted her effortlessly to one shoulder and bent to switch off Paine's and Gallagher's lights.
The doorway he had been heading for when the quake had hit loomed darkly before him against the slightly lighter substance of the building. He went softly toward it, not switching on his light, and peered out.
Except for the shouts of his men in the distance, it was quiet. Evidently the local wildlife had been temporarily silenced by the quake. Something chirped to his right, making him jump. Something else trilled, and gradually, the voices of the jungle night began to resume.
The glow of the largest volcano to the north and west dimly lit up the scene -- enough, at least, for him to see somewhat. He moved quickly forward, out of the building and into the tangled underbrush.
**********
Dr. Wayne Gallagher groaned.
He was lying on his face in a pile of rubble, most of which seemed to consist of sharp, pointed stones. His head pounded like a trip hammer and he was sick -- horribly sick.
He lay completely still, trying to breathe slowly and evenly. Somewhere close by, somebody groaned.
What had happened? How had he arrived here?
Slowly, the memories took shape.
He had been with Thoroski's party, sent out to take care of any injuries that might occur during the search of this hazardous island, and there had been a terrific quake. The search team had scattered for cover and a wall had come down, knocking Gallagher flat.
When he recovered, he had found Patrolman Paine beside him, and the man had been saying something about a woman. Gallagher had gone with him, and sure enough, had discovered the little, dark-haired girl, half-buried in the wreckage.
They had managed to free her, and he had been engaged in bandaging her forehead when there had come the soft humming sound of a stunbolt.
Very gingerly, Gallagher lifted his head. He had never felt so sick in his life, and the dark jungle around him spun dizzily. As he moved, his stomach gave an ominous lurch.
From behind him came the miserable, unmuted noises of a man losing his supper. The sound pushed Gallagher over the brink and he, too, began to retch.
At last, the spasms subsided. Gallagher wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and was instantly sorry. Behind him, he heard the voice of Arnold Paine, groaning and cursing by turns.
Too bad, Gallagher thought heartlessly. He didn't like old Paine anyway, and it was a cold sort of comfort that painful old Arnie and he should be sharing the same misery. Fruitlessly, he rubbed his sleeve against a stone surface, trying to remove the saliva, and then gave up.
Something was jabbing him in the elbow. Gallagher moved away from it, groping around in the darkness for his handlight. He located it at last and switched it on.
The girl was gone. Gallagher realized the fact with a wash of relief. He hadn't really wanted to carry that nice little thing back to Pomothvor. The so-and-so would have made mincemeat of her and then handed Gallagher the pieces to patch back together so she would be in good shape for her execution.
'Man!' he thought. 'I'm one lousy 'trol if there ever was one -- being glad that an Undergrounder has escaped.' Thoroski had been right. He'd better stay away from Pomothvor until this trip was over!
Paine had managed to sit up, still groaning and cussing fluently. He pulled off his helmet, rubbed his neck and glowered at Gallagher.
"What the devil happened? Who stunned us?"
Gallagher stared back into the man's coarse, heavy features. "I don't know. An Underground agent, probably. They've somehow learned we're here, and I wouldn't be surprised if they know what we're looking for. Word appears to have gotten out."
"Yeah," Paine growled. "They took the girl, too. Damned Undergrounders! Pomothvor's going to be really pissed." He replaced his helmet and pressed the transmit control. "Patrolman Paine to Strike Commander Thoroski. Come in!"
The soft, oddly accented voice of a Procyon native responded. "Thish ish Shubcommander Ch'Dreel. Shtrike Commander Thoroshki hash not replied to hish hail shince the quake hit. Do you wish to report shomething, Patrolman?"
The patrolman began to relate their experiences to the Subcommander, but Gallagher was no longer listening. He found himself staring at the thing that had been poking him in the elbow a few minutes before, revealed now in the beam of his handlight.
Gallagher had the impression that he had been staring at it for several moments without actually seeing it.
Bold, black letters on a white background, the small, black-etched star on one corner. Gallagher picked the object up, bringing it closer to his eyes and squinting in the dimness.
It was the nameplate of Strike Commander Thoroski.
A slow prickle ran up his spine and for a moment time seemed to stand still. His own words echoed in his brain.
" They've somehow learned we're here, and I wouldn't be surprised if they know what we're looking for. Word appears to have gotten out."
Thoroski?
There had been a diphaser malfunction during the journey to this place. An unfortunate accident? Perhaps ….
He shoved the nameplate hastily into his belt pouch. What he was considering was ridiculous! Sven Thoroski was the Strike Commander of a Patrol battlecruiser -- the best Strike Commander in the Fleet!
Except Thoroski didn't like the Jils ….
Oh, posh! Nobody liked the Jils! That was no reason to be suspecting Sven. Besides, Thoroski had been probed by the aliens, many times. And when Alan Westover had been captured by the Patrol, the Strike Commander had attended the interrogations and made no attempt to aid the prisoner. Thoroski couldn't be an Underground agent!
Oh well, he could always report the incident of the nameplate to Pomothvor when he got back. Payne needn't know of it. It was none of his business anyway, and besides, Sven had been in the building when the quake had hit. Why, of course! That explained everything! There was no mystery at all.
Except that Thoroski certainly didn't seem to be in the building now, and wasn't answering his hail. Was it possible that he had lost the nameplate while rushing through the building, then had exited and been knocked down by falling rubble? In that case, he should be close by.
Paine switched off his communicator. "Ch'Dreel says we're supposed to keep looking. Say, what's eating you, Doc?"
Gallagher stood up. "Nothing. Still a bit queasy."
"Yeah?" Paine grinned broadly. "Not me. I feel fine now."
Gallagher scowled at the man. "Congratulations, Patrolman. Get moving. I'll follow."
"Okay." Paine led the way out of the building and Gallagher went after him. Paine strode rapidly ahead, not glancing back, and Gallagher allowed the distance between them to lengthen. When the voices of other searchers became audible, the Patrolman broke into a run, crashing through the shrubbery. Gallagher flicked off his handlight, waited a moment, and then quietly turned, retracing his steps to the spot where he had discovered the nameplate.
**********
tbc
