Artifact: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Lord Linthvar, noble son of Lord Lorinthvor, and of Lady Revilthvill, half-sister of Lord Revolthvor, who was a first cousin, through his mother, Lady Zanthvill, to His Most Noble and Serene Highness, Halthzor, Viceroy of the Rovalli Sector, stood disdainfully in the middle of the squalid cooking area of the building that had been the home of Lyla Cane, one of those revolting and degenerate humans who possessed psychic powers. His two-plus meter frame left bare centimeters to spare between himself and the low ceiling of the room. How could humans bear to live in such shabby and cramped surroundings?
He bent a contemptuous look on Corporal Pillsberry. The patrolman quailed beneath his gaze. Behind him, his three subordinates were all trying hard to look like part of the wall. The Terran female who had been imprisoned with them was slumped in a kitchen chair, wailing noisily. She had been forced to submit to a mind probe and, as Linthvar had expected, had known nothing of value. Her vapid, empty-headed thought processes were without content or imagination, as with females of all species. Her presence annoyed him unreasonably. He focussed his attention on the corporal.
"And this puny Terran psychic disarmed you, and then single-handedly overcame three of your men? I find this difficult to understand. How could a single, miserable human ..." He broke off. "You!" he directed one of the trembling patrolmen. "Release the Terran female. She knows nothing."
He waited as Teal took the repulsively sobbing creature by the arm and led her from the room. Linthvar would never have admitted it to a member of the lower species, but he found the disgusting sounds she was producing grating on his nerves.
He bent his most intimidating frown on the corporal. "Consider yourself on report!" he snapped. He would have broken the man to third classer, had he not known that the upstart female, Tranthzill, would doubtless countermand the order, and the embarrassment of having his decree overturned by a mere woman could not be borne. This was what came of allowing a lowly female, suitable only for bearing children to carry on a family's name, the authority that should rightfully belong only to a male. None of his wives would dare to question his judgment for fear of his displeasure, and he would never countenance any of his seventy-two daughters aspiring to any sort of career or position. They would be married to other noble families and properly spend their lives subservient to their lords' wishes, thereby allying his family to other powerful and wealthy clans, and producing sons for their husbands. He would allow nothing else. Females were useless creatures incapable of rational thought, lacking both courage and intelligence. The humiliation of catering to the whims of a female galled him. Still, Harathvor had entrusted him with a mission. He must act the part until a chance came to carry it out.
The patrolman was returning, minus the Terran woman who, no doubt, was taking her noisy distress elsewhere. Linthvar returned to Pillsberry, standing miserably before him.
"Sublieutenant Brady is in pursuit of your Patrol vehicle. I shall follow, with your men, in my own. You, Corporal, will await the coming reinforcements here, and follow with them."
"Yes, sir." The corporal saluted quickly, doubtless anxious to redeem himself in the eyes of his noble master. Linthvar turned to exit the kitchen, nearly put out his eye on the light fixture, dodged it, and stooped low to get through the back door. His aircar awaited him.
With a final, contemptuous survey of the dwelling, he lifted the skirt of his robe to prevent contact with the muddy ground and strode to the vehicle, followed by Pillsberry's patrolmen. His driver opened the rear door, then shut it firmly behind him.
The Jilectan arranged his robes and glanced in the mirror provided for his convenience. To his annoyance, he discovered that his mascara had become smeared and, with care, repaired the damage. The operation filled the inordinately long time it took the three patrolmen to crowd into the front seat beside his driver. Stupid creatures, he thought, contemptuously regarding the four humans jammed into the small space. Why did they always make the simplest things so complicated?
"Let us go." He spoke imperiously to his driver. "I cannot leave this squalid burrow too soon. To the northwest. At once."
VII
Matthew Philips and Lyla Cane toiled along a rocky defile. The man led and Lyla followed behind. He had so far kept them out of the clutches of the Patrol and Lyla had the feeling that the plain, ordinary-looking little man had a very definite idea of what he was doing and where he was going. Matt Philips was neither flamboyant nor daring in his style, but Lyla had begun to have a good deal of confidence in him. Somehow this doctor, who also worked for the Terran Underground -- the largest criminal organization in the Sector, according to the Jilectans -- impressed her with an air of quiet competence.
The narrow crack in the rock wall that let them exit from the valley in which they had landed, slowly widened to a space three meters across, the floor uneven and ragged, littered with rock debris, and here and there a straggly plant which had adventurously taken root in a pocket of shallow, gritty soil. Lyla was thankful that she had exchanged her office shoes for the walking boots she habitually wore when she went out. In the colony, where manufactured items were expensive and hard to come by, it was a virtual necessity if one wanted to keep one's shoes in good condition. The nearest town where such items could be bought was Muspelheim, nearly four hours away in her aircar which was not, as she had pointed out to Matt, the fastest such vehicle on the market. Lyla normally went there six times a year. In the meantime, she made do. It was a good thing that habit had ruled here. The boots, soled with a thick, non-slip material, were far more suitable than the thin, slip-ons for this place.
They were making progress, she saw, as they half-walked, half-scrambled along the cleft. Ahead, the rock passage ended suddenly in a wider valley. Perhaps the walking would be easier there, she thought.
She jumped at a sudden, sharp report that bounced off the canyon walls, echoing and re-echoing eerily around them. Philips scrambled over debris to the canyon's exit and peered out, pressed back against the rocky wall.
"What is it?" she whispered.
He turned to give her a hand. A short stiff climb, and she made it up beside him.
"There." He pointed.
The sky to the northwest was covered with clouds now. Overhead, it was still blue, but already wisps and streamers of grey had begun to drift across it. Against the grey backdrop there was a flash of light, followed a few seconds later by an echoing report. More flashes now. Barely visible to the watchers, two tiny specks spun in a lethal dance. Flash followed flash, report followed report. Then came a brighter flash that lit up the sky for several seconds, followed by a reverberating explosion that repeated itself in the rocks under their feet. The other speck, trailing smoke, coasted downward to vanish beyond the mountain crest. And there was silence.
"What was it?" Lyla whispered.
"That was our aircar." The doctor's face showed white in the subdued light of the valley.
"What happened?" she breathed, already half-suspecting.
"When you got out ..." Philips had begun to pick his way carefully down the slope before them that led to the valley floor, "I put the car on computer control and ordered it to turn and attack the other Patrol car when it came within a set distance. Whether ours blew up or theirs did doesn't matter. The 'trols are either dead or grounded. The searchers will find the remains of our car sooner or later, and eventually will realize there was no one in it. But it'll take time to trace us, and time is all we need."
Lyla began to laugh breathlessly. "And you said you've never done anything like this before? You're pretty good for a beginner!"
Philips glanced back at her, a half-ashamed, half-pleased grin on his plain features. "I haven't," he said. "I just listen real well."
Lyla raised her eyebrows. "Who do you listen to?"
"Lots of people," he said vaguely, starting on again. "Mostly to a couple of friends of mine who do this sort of thing for a living." His laugh drifted back to her. "Some of the stories they've told -- it makes you wonder how they've stayed alive so long."
She made her way carefully down the rocky slope after him. Five meters below, the evergreen forests began, thick and heavy with bushy undergrowth. The scent of Midgard's evergreens, Earth pine, with a hint of peppermint, hung in the crisp, cold air. From somewhere came the screech of a day owl, one of Midgard's sky hunters. Looking up, she spotted the bird, a streak diving through the air. A moment later it beat its way upward again, something white and leggy hanging limp in its claws.
Below her, Philips missed a step and slid down the last meter and a half in a shower of snow, dirt, and loose gravel. The man sat down hard on the ground, with a jolt that knocked the air out of him. Five meters above, Lyla called out, "Matt! Are you all right?"
Philips wheezed, coughed, and drew a whistling breath, obviously incapable of replying. Lyla felt a thrill of alarm. If the man were hurt they were both in trouble. She scrambled downward, disregarding her own safety. A rock turned beneath her foot and she barely stopped a slide with a quick grab at a scraggly bush protruding from the rocky hillside.
Philips waved a hand reassuringly, still coughing. Lyla relaxed. The doctor had merely knocked the air out of his lungs. He was getting to his feet as she slid down beside him.
"Man!" he gasped. "I haven't done that since I played basketball in high school!"
The remark was so unexpected that she caught herself in a laugh. The thought of Matt Philips on a basketball court produced a ridiculous picture. The doctor grinned.
"Don't believe me? I was my team's MVP two years running."
"You're kidding ... aren't you?"
"Nope." He ducked to avoid an overhanging branch, and led the way into the evergreens. "I didn't know I was a psychic back then. I always knew exactly what move the other guy was going to make -- which way to jump. Our local newsstrip dubbed me 'the Mighty Midget'."
"I guess that might be a big advantage," she admitted. "Being a psychic, that is. I figured it out about myself when I was in premed."
"Oh? What made you realize it?"
"I was on the college null-grav stunt tag team," she explained.
Philips stopped and turned to look at her with a considerable accretion of respect. "Null-grav stunt tag, huh? Impressive."
"Thanks. Well, I was the team's star player in my senior year. I always knew where the other players were and what they were planning, and could adapt my strategy accordingly. And, being little, and fast, they had a hard time trying to tag me. When I realized I was 'seeing' what people were doing behind me -- well, it was pretty obvious."
"When was this? What year?"
"Seventy. Two years after the Jils started their anti-Terran psychic campaign. I suppose that must be why I figured it out -- they brought it to my attention. Up until then, nobody thought much about psychics."
"I know," agreed Philips. "You know, that's an interesting thing about Terran psychics."
"What is?"
Philips lifted a long, trailing vine laden with small, purple berries, for her to duck beneath it. Lyla recognized it instantly. Chill berries, they were called, a fairly plentiful fruit in these parts. Her first and only experience with them had left an indelible impression on her memory.
The evergreen forest was thick here. They had gotten past the heavy underbrush at the forest's edge, and the ground was reasonably clear. The giant trees blocked off most of the sunlight for the lesser plants.
And the trees were mammoths of their kind, rising higher than the fabled redwoods of Terra; the mighty trunks reared skyward, massive trees, untouched by human axe or fire. The ground was soft underfoot with the accumulated layers upon layers of fallen needles, and the heavy scent was so thick that it was almost intoxicating. Here and there, patches of snow glistened, but the giant evergreens had effectively filtered out most of the snowfall so far this season.
"What's interesting about Terran psychics?" Lyla repeated.
"Well -- it's pretty obvious Terran psychics have been around quite a while," he said. "Look at our history -- witches, soothsayers -- and then a fringe element of people a century or two ago claiming psychic powers. Nothing very consistent or spectacular. Now and then somebody was apparently good enough that law enforcement officials went to them on tough cases. Theories suggested really terrific possibilities, but the so-called psychic scientists just couldn't produce them. And then -- all of a sudden, about seventy years or so after we met the Jils -- wham! Psychics -- good ones! -- are turning up everywhere. What happened?"
Lyla considered that. "I never really thought about it before. What's your idea?"
Philips paused, then sat down on a fallen branch. "Let's rest a minute. Keep a sharp eye out."
"Don't worry, I will." Lyla sat down, too, facing away. "You don't often find the big dinosaurs in forests like this, but it's happened before. Snow doesn't bother them, you know. They're warm-blooded. Go on."
"Well, it's been a kind of hobby of mine over the years, and I've done some research -- historical records and so forth. I'm pretty convinced that psychics have been around a long time in undeveloped form." He paused, obviously formulating the next thought. "As an analogy, think of a sugar solution."
"I beg your pardon?" Lyla turned around to stare at him in surprise.
Philips grinned. "You've seen sugar solutions. Sugar in water. You keep adding sugar until no more will dissolve. Then you heat the solution, dissolve more sugar, strain off the excess and let it cool."
"And you've got a supersaturated solution."
"Exactly. What happens if you drop in another sugar crystal?"
"It crystallizes out, of course."
"Right again." Philips nodded. "Now, think of the water in your beaker as the human race in general, and your sugar crystals as the psychics in particular. For a long time it was like an ordinary sugar solution. Your psychics blended into the general population and disappeared, except for a very few, who apparently discovered something about their powers. Even then, nothing much happened. The psychic gene was relatively rare. But just being a psychic is a survival characteristic. Psychics are successful, even if they don't know what they are. And not only are they successful, they're almost always intelligent, and with an array of other abilities that aren't necessarily 'psychic' per se. They have excellent memories, for one. And they have an edge on their competition, just by virtue of what they are. So the psychic gene spread, and became more common -- until, in the last couple of centuries they've been in a situation analogous to your supersaturated solution. And then somebody dropped in another crystal."
"Of course!" Lyla exclaimed suddenly, as realization dawned. "The Jils, themselves, were the missing factor!"
"Exactly. At least I think so. When we met the Jils, somehow it triggered the appearance of human psychic powers -- crystallized them, if you will -- and, all of a sudden, you've got psychics such as Terra has never seen."
"It fits," said Lyla, slowly. "But what do you suppose would have happened if we had never met them?"
Philips shrugged. "I think that, instead of being forced into sudden appearance, they would have developed slowly. The psychic gene is actually still in the minority in the human race, but it is spreading. Eventually just about everyone would have had it. It must have been that way with the Jilectans at one time. Then, with that many psychics, someone would have been bound to discover his powers, just as the occasional one has done here and there in the past. That would have done it -- the crystal would have been dropped, so to speak. Of course, it probably wouldn't have happened for another thousand years."
"Ironic isn't it," Lyla said. "The Jilectans, themselves, supplied us with the weapon we needed to defeat them."
"Yes, it is," Philips agreed. "And the most ironic thing of all is the fact that our best psychics are better than their best -- which is exactly the opposite of their propaganda."
Lyla turned again to look hard at him. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "Absolutely positive. Apparently, our species has a wider range, and a better aptitude in general. And we're more sensitive in the reception department -- more fine-tuned, if you will. We can sense Jilectans without half trying, but they have to work to locate a Terran psychic. Many of them flatly deny the truth; it's hard to admit a species that you've been brought up to believe inferior is superior to you in your own specialty."
Lyla considered that. "I guess it would be. I begin to see why they hate us so much."
Philips stood up. "We better get moving."
They started onward once more, Lyla thinking hard about what he had said. Matt was silent for several moments.
"That's part of it," he said, finally. "What would you do in their place? Their species has never been seriously challenged in the three centuries they've been star travelers -- except by each other. They've had their internal conflicts, and I've begun to suspect the Autonomy isn't the only Jilectan nation out there, although the others are probably a long ways off. But until we came along, they never had a really dangerous outside threat. Now they do. They've been the conquerors all throughout their recorded history. Their psychic powers gave them that. They can't afford competitors."
"And all the rest is just window dressing," Lyla said.
"That's right. They understand Terrans pretty well. The propaganda is designed to divide our species against itself; to stir up jealousy of psychics in the nons, convince some that we're less than human, so they'll feel it's all right to persecute us. It's an old trick that human tyrants have used with a lot of success throughout our own history. But they're going to lose, Lyla. Believe that. Some very far-sighted men and women have worked hard to see to that. They created the Terran Underground, and the Psychic Breeding Program, to increase our numbers deliberately instead of by accident. The number of Terran psychics has exploded in the last quarter century, and is doubling about every eight years. There are three psychic sanctuary worlds where most of that is taking place, and that's where we'll take you and the others. And we'll have a use for you. Nova Luna is swarming with little psychic kids, and pediatricians are at a premium. I'm going to pull every string I can to get you assigned there." He glanced at her. "You'll see. We're going to win."
"I hope you're right, Matt." She said it soberly. "But it isn't enough -- not after what they've done. It never will be." The old bitterness welled up again, and she tried to push it away, her automatic defense for what she could not change. There was no use dwelling on it; she'd told herself that a million times. No use at all. He was gone -- forever -- and it was the Jilectans' fault. All she could do now was survive to make them pay. She'd sworn that the day he died. She would live to make them regret what they'd done.
Matt Philips had turned to look at her with surprising comprehension on his face. He said nothing at first, then put a hand on her arm.
"They killed someone you loved." It was not a question. "At a guess, I'd say it was your husband."
Lyla nodded and looked away, feeling the infuriating tears pricking behind her eyelids.
"I thought as much." The doctor's voice was kind. "If it's any comfort, Lyla, you're not alone, although I'm sure it doesn't make any difference in the way you feel."
"No," she said. "No difference."
"It doesn't." There was no expression in the voice; merely a statement of fact.
Lyla didn't answer at first, and he didn't speak again, but she knew he was waiting.
"We'd been married only two and a half years," she said harshly. "They took all but that away from us."
"How did it happen?" he asked gently.
She wiped a hand defiantly across her eyes, surprised that she wanted to tell him. Even Harris didn't know how his father had died.
"Harris was an obstetrician at Sugarloaf General," she began, all at once. "Harry was a baby -- just about a year old. His father worked late that night -- coming home by ground car, a car ran him off the road."
"Were you there?"
"I was at home." The reply was flat. "But he called me. We always knew if the other was worried or sick or ... hurt. He knew he was a psychic when we met; we were always able to communicate, no matter where we were."
"Psychic partners," Philips said.
She shrugged. "I suppose so. It was as if we were two parts of something whole and better than one alone. But that night he lived long enough to warn me He'd been able to read minds before we met. We didn't try it while were married ... we were afraid we'd be discovered. But he read the minds of the men in the other car before he died. They were Viceregal Patrol, acting under Jilectan order. He told me to run, with Harry, before they could catch up with me. Then one of them shot him down -- leaned in the window and shot him in cold blood." Lyla took a deep breath to control her voice.
"I got a good look at his face," she continued. "He wasn't wearing that ugly helmet that they normally wear. He was dressed just like anybody. I saw him right through Harris' eyes. If I ever see him again I'll know it." She stopped.
Matt was silent. For several minutes they walked on through the trees with only the quiet noises of the forest to accompany the faint crunch of their footfalls in the evergreen needles. Somewhere a bird called.
"How did you get away?" Matt asked, finally.
"I didn't want to." She said it flatly. "I wanted to wait for them to come, and kill them for what they did to Harris. If it hadn't been for Harry, I would have. But I couldn't let Harris' only child -- our son -- die. He was all I had left of Harris. So I ran. I took only what I could carry -- and Harris' laser pistol." She gave a tight laugh. "Do you know, I'd never fired so much as a stunner before that night. They had someone watching the house."
"What did you do?" he asked, quietly.
"He tried to stop me," she said. "I knew what he was the instant I saw him. He tried to flag me down, and when he saw that I wasn't going to stop he pulled out a blaster. I shot at him. I missed, of course. I didn't have the slightest idea how to aim. But he ducked. I ran him down with the ground car. I never knew if I killed him or not, and I didn't care."
Philips' hand tightened on her arm. "Good for you," he said unexpectedly. "You must have taken him by surprise. It's the only way you could have gotten away. They didn't know as much about psychic partners then. So, then what did you do?"
"I got downtown and abandoned the car," she said, "then I made it to a bank terminal and pulled out all of our money in cash before they could catch up with me, and disappeared. I got out of town on an airbus before they had time to set up any searches." She laughed shakily. "I guess I was running on instinct then. I only knew that I had to get as far away as I could as fast as I could. Later I thought it over and decided what to do. It took me two weeks to get from Brasilia to San Antonio. I used my ability to read minds to find people who could help me. I hunted around until I found a man who had his own reasons for wanting to leave the planet. I knew the Jilectans would be looking for a woman and child, not a family."
"Good thinking."
"Thanks. Well, you know, back then they were still subsidizing families that would agree to colonize. We found the people who could get us forged identity cards. I got a set for us, as a family, and two that I didn't tell him about -- one for Harry and one for me. That took the last of my money. Then we applied to the Colonial Commission for the tickets to Midgard. They paid for us, no questions asked, of course. We got to Midgard and went our separate ways. Laura Allen ceased to exist when I walked out of the Asgard Spaceport, and I became Lyla Cane. I lived in Asgard for a year as a waitress in one of the eateries there, then I took the local qualification exam. They didn't even bother to check my background. Midgard was a struggling colony then, and they needed doctors. I moved to Ragnarok after that, and stayed there as the town doctor. But I never forgot what they did to Harris." She met his gaze fiercely. "I promised myself that if I ever had the chance, I'd make them pay."
"I know," said Matt, soberly. "You're not alone."
"About six months after I got to Midgard," she continued, "Alan Westover killed Lord Salthvor in that shootout right here on Midgard, and he and the Strike Commander vanished. I was glad he killed that creature. I'm still glad. I felt like he was paying them back -- a little -- for Harris' life. I only wish I'd been able to do it myself!"
Matt didn't say anything for several minutes after she had finished. Lyla stared straight ahead, surprised at herself. Why had she told him her story so freely? She'd never told anyone but Brenda, after they'd become friends. Harry knew the Patrol and, of course, the Jilectans behind them, had been responsible for his father's death, but she'd never given him any details. Why had she told Matt, whom she had known for less than four hours, her life story? Something about the man reassured her, she knew. Somehow, she'd felt she could trust him.
"I can understand your feelings," he said quietly, at last. "I was already in the Terran Underground then, but when I heard about Salthvor, I felt the same way."
That was a surprise. Somehow she'd never associated this calm, matter-of-fact man with such emotions. But then, she reflected, she didn't really know Matt Philips, and besides, why should she assume she had a corner on grief? He'd said so before. She just hadn't realized he might be speaking of himself.
"It was sixteen years ago," he said abruptly. "I was working at Blue Heather General, on Bellian. There was a young nurse on one of the medical wards there, named Anna Stevens." She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten for an instant. "We were engaged to be married."
"Stevens?" she said suddenly. "Isn't your partner named Stevens?"
"Lewis is her brother," he said shortly. "He worked as an orderly in another part of the hospital. He was nineteen, still going to school. But it was Anna who was important to me, then. It wasn't until later that I realized that she'd been my psychic partner, as your husband must have been yours."
Lyla nodded wordlessly.
"She was on duty one day," he continued, and Lyla could feel the emotion hidden beneath the expressionless voice. "I was on the ward at the time, doing my rounds, when the Viceregal Patrol showed up."
"Just like that?"
He nodded. "They didn't even try to hide who they were -- on Earth they tend to be more careful, but in the colonies they aren't. They just came stomping onto the ward. Anna must have known at once that they were after her. I did. She ran. I tried to stop them, argue with them -- anything to slow them down and give her a little time to get away."
"What happened?" Lyla whispered.
"One of them hit me -- knocked me against a wall and gave me a concussion that took me effectively out of the engagement," he said bitterly. "I owe it to Lewis that they didn't pick me up after everything else was over. When I came to, I was, somewhere else -- in an apartment that turned out to be a contact point for the Terran Underground. Lewis was there, and he told me what had happened." She saw both of his fists clench suddenly.
"She ... died?"
He nodded. "She tried to make it down the fire escape, and some 'trol -- some half-witted bully boy -- hit her with a stun beam. She fell fifteen stories." He broke off, his jaw muscles working.
Lyla put a hand on his arm as he had with her. "Matt, I'm sorry."
"Lewis got me out," he continued, "while the 'trols were still milling around outside, after Anna fell. He hadn't arrived in time to help her either, even if he'd been able to. The Terran Underground arrived right after that, too late to help Anna, of course, but they got the two of us away. They picked up Lewis' family, too, before the Patrol could, and they offered us the chance to pay the Jils back for Anna's life. I've been paying them back in my own fashion ever since. Lewis and I became partners after that, although the link we have isn't as strong as the one Anna and I had. And, believe me, when Alan killed Lord Salthvor, he made himself a friend for life. The ship docked on Bellian the day Anna died was the Javelin, one of the ships under his supervision. That bastard gave the order that killed her. Alan settled that part of the debt. The rest of it won't be settled until we drive the Jilectans out of the *Terran* sector --" he said the name distinctly, "permanently."
VIII
Maureen Hammond slapped a last handful of snow on their makeshift shelter. The black clouds covered half the sky and were beginning to obscure Alpha Centauri. The breeze was distinctly warmer than it had been, and now more a wind than a breeze. The storm was on its way.
A blur of motion overhead caught her eye, and she looked up just as Hildebrand shouted.
"Holy smoke! Look at that!"
An aircar was circling above them, perhaps three hundred meters in the air. As she watched, another joined it, and the first one wheeled suddenly to bear down on the newcomer.
"What in the galaxy ..." Lara began.
There was a simultaneous flash of light and a sharp "crack" that almost deafened them, and then a second. In stunned incredulity, Maureen stared at the scene and then ducked for cover. The cars were shooting at each other! They were witnessing an aircar battle in the sky practically over them.
The other students were diving into the rocks, trying to make themselves as small as possible -- all but Candy Montez who stood rooted to the spot, her face white and terror-stricken, her mouth wide open to scream, although no sound emerged.
Crack! The flash from the car's blasters lit up the cloud-covered sky, and the report shook the rocks around them. The second aircar returned fire.
"For God's sake, Candy! Get down!" Gary shouted. Candy did not respond.
"Candy!" Lara yelled.
Another ear-shattering report seemed to jar the girl's vocal cords out of their paralysis. She commenced to scream like a steam whistle.
"Oh my God! Candy, duck!" Gary shouted.
Candy continued to shriek. Her brother and Jack Gorman moved, together.
Their rush bowled her over, and their rolling bodies came up hard against the mound of rocks where their fallen tree rested. Gary wrestled her back under an overhanging spur, then clapped his hand over her mouth as the screams continued unabated.
"Candy, shut up!" Jack shouted. The last word was drowned in a tremendous report from above. Maureen scooted herself as tightly against the rock wall as she could, peering upward at the impossible sight taking place above her. The aerial maneuvers had taken the vehicles higher, and out over the canyon, but she could almost see ... yes! That black and scarlet emblem on the sides of the cars. Surely that was the insignia of the Viceregal Patrol!
"It's the Patrol!" she shouted. "Why are they trying to shoot each other down?"
Hildebrand, huddled next to her, was also peering upward. "Who cares? What the hell are 'trols doing on Midgard, anyway? This isn't the Autonomy!"
The aircar battle had moved still higher and farther out over the canyon. They could no longer see the cars from their position without relinquishing their cover. Only the repeated sounds of blaster fire told them the fight still raged. The huge canyon caught and reflected back the sounds of the blasters, until it was hard to tell which was real and which was only an echo.
There was a final report, and suddenly the cliffs were rocked by a louder explosion. The noise was picked up by the canyon and magnified back in waves of sound that battered Maureen as she crouched in her meager shelter. It felt like a quake; the ground shuddered, and little showers of gravel pattered around them. Far to their left at the edge of the cliffs, a small portion of the rock wall detached itself and rumbled downward into the echoing chasm.
"It exploded!" Jack Gorman shouted. "The other one's hit!"
Maureen raised her head and scrambled to peer around the edge of her shelter.
The remaining vehicle was losing altitude noticeably, and trailing fire from its rear end. Its nose dropped, and the aircar wheeled sharply south, gathering speed and sinking fast. Abruptly four figures as small as dalia flies ejected and began to sink slowly downward after their car. The vehicle's descent accelerated all at once, and it passed from view below the lip of the canyon; the men followed. There was a tense silence.
Then Maureen got to her feet and started in the direction of the canyon. Lara called after her.
"Careful, Mo! You don't know if any rocks were loosened!"
"Sure." Maureen did not stop, and within a few moments she had reached a position where she could peer down into the canyon.
Huddled in shadow, with thick mists drifting from the river, the floor of the mighty chasm was invisible to her. The rays of Alpha Centauri did not reach here now, and it might as well have been night. She returned to the others, standing by their rude shelter. A snowflake drifted by her nose. Unnoticed during the aircar battle, it had begun to snow.
"We better get under cover," Hildebrand said, unnecessarily.
The next few moments were occupied as they crawled stiffly into their amateur igloo. Lara asked the question, after they had settled into more or less comfortable positions. "Could you see anything?"
"No. Too dark." Maureen fished in her backpack. "I've been saving these. I managed to smuggle along some nutriwafers. Anybody want some?"
They all did. Nutriwafers were dry and tasteless, but under the circumstances, no one cared. They munched in silence for a time.
"Think we ought to try to help?" Jack asked, finally.
"Why?" Gary Montez's voice didn't sound particularly enthusiastic. "We can't get down there in the first place, and they've most likely already called for help. Besides, there's a good chance they aren't supposed to be on Midgard at all. What if we've seen something we aren't supposed to see? You know what the Jils do to people who do that."
There was an uneasy silence, then Candy's voice spoke with that irritating whine that Maureen was beginning to recognize since the beginning of their Practical, a week ago. "That's nonsense, and you know it, Gary! They wouldn't do something like that to people trying to help them! I think we should do something!"
"They didn't look hurt," Lara said, hesitantly.
"But they could be! We ought to find out!"
"How?" Maureen demanded. "By climbing down a cliff in the dark -- and in a snowstorm? Don't be silly."
"We could radio for help!"
"Don't be stupid," Hildebrand said, bluntly. "We use that radio -- for any reason -- and we have an automatic fail. Those guys looked okay to me, too, besides, you can bet the Patrol knows exactly where they are, probably better than we do. They don't need our help!"
"That's for sure," Jack said. "I wonder what it was all about, anyway ..."
**********
The Guardian was jolted out of its watchful waiting by vibrations trembling through the walls of the Citadel. The sensors searched instantly for their source, for a possible attacker. It was the Guardian's business and most important task to protect the Citadel from the Barbarians. It searched methodically for the origin of those sharp reverberations that shuddered through the very stone of the mountain.
Before it could locate their source, another one hit, strong enough to make the walls heave and dance.
This must be the first testing thrusts of an enemy. The Barbarians had at last found the Citadel. Its destruction was at hand -- or so the Guardian chose to think. The programming at last would permit action on its part. The Guardian triggered an initial sequence in the chamber of the First Sleeper.
**********
Lewis Stevens arrived at the station to find Brenda Wilcox and Harris Cane drinking tea in the sitting room. Aaron Waters, politely noncommittal, was standing by the fireplace as he entered. The man's face relaxed as he saw Lewis.
"Colonel Stevens! Everything all right?"
"About sixty percent all right," Lewis reported. "I see my two charges got here."
"Complete with dog, cat and birds." Waters smiled at his two guests. "I'm sorry for your reception, but--"
"Oh, that's okay," Harris said, airily. "Lewis warned us. Could I feed Willis? He hasn't eaten since this morning."
Judging by the size of the dog, the thought was disquieting. Willis looked like he could swallow any one of them in about three bites. The Colonel grinned.
"Sure, kid. Take him to the kitchen. Sergeant Krebbs'll get him something."
Harris disappeared, with the huge, black mongrel frisking at his side. Lewis chuckled.
"Reminds me of myself at that age. By the time ol' Willis there is a year old that kid'll be able to put a saddle on his back and ride him."
Waters laughed outright. "I hope it really is a dog, and not some hitherto unknown life form of Midgard." He switched the subject. "Now, judging from your appearance, Colonel Philips is all right. The Patrol transmissions haven't been too reassuring, but ...?" He raised an eyebrow.
A slim, blond woman appeared in the doorway. "I thought I heard a car."
Waters rose. "Colonel Stevens just arrived. Colonel, my wife, Carol."
Lewis rose as well. "Call me Lew. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Waters."
"Carol." The woman's face broke into a smile. "I'm glad to meet you, Lew. I feel much better just seeing your expression after monitoring those Patrol transmissions! Colonel Philips can't be in too much trouble if you aren't upset."
Stevens smiled fractionally. "I was tuned into them, myself. He's got his shields up, so I can't call him. Probably he's sensed Linthvar in the area."
Waters gave a small sigh of relief. "We were worried. What do you think has happened?"
Brenda Wilcox broke in. "Could I ask what's going on?"
"Oh." Waters recollected his manners. "I'm sorry, I forgot you didn't know. We've been listening to the Patrol broadcasts. Our local government, as usual, is pretending the whole thing isn't happening, but apparently the Patrol aircar Dr. Philips and Dr. Cane were in attacked the pursuing aircar and was blown out of the sky. Now don't worry," he added at the look on her face. "Lew is Dr. Philips' psychic partner. He'd know if anything really serious had happened."
"The only thing that I can think of," Lewis said, thoughtfully, "is that they must have gotten out somewhere and sent the car ahead on auto. Matt would know how to set the car's computer for combat, probably on a proximity trigger. That's almost certainly what he did."
Carol Waters exited at this juncture returning a few seconds later with a mug of steaming coffee, which she handed to Lewis.
"Thanks." He accepted the offering and moved to the fireplace. The temperature outside wasn't exactly freezing, but it was cold enough to make you notice, a distinct change from the temperature of earlier in the afternoon.
Aaron Waters was eyeing Lewis appraisingly. "Somehow I didn't think of Dr. Philips as the sort. Are you sure he's never done anything of this kind before?"
"Positive," Lewis said, grimly. "I think he's having fun playing Alan Westover to the hilt, but he's going to run into trouble when Linthvar and his pet goons get there."
Waters grinned. "Looks to me like he's doing okay, so far."
Lewis gave a short laugh. "Okay, I admit he's sort of surprised me, too, but I can't quite see him dealing with a Jil and a gaggle of 'trols. I need a couple of your men to go with me to help bail him out."
"You got 'em," Waters said at once. "Krebbs and Alvarez are ex'trols and work as a good team. You can have them. I'll issue you the equipment at once."
"I'll go," Brenda said, instantly.
Lewis and Waters chorused a simultaneous and emphatic, "No!"
"You are an untrained psychic," Waters cut across her automatic protest. "You'd only increase everyone's danger. Colonel Stevens and my men can handle things. Get moving, Lew."
**********
"How far now?" Lyla gasped. They were through the evergreens at last. A narrow canyon, carpeted with a mat of tiny, purple flowers was the exit from this valley. Rock walls rose steeply on either side. From somewhere far ahead came the merry tinkle and splash of running water.
The stray shaft of sunlight that had briefly illuminated the canyon disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Matt Philips glanced up. Except for one clear patch dyed pink with the colors of sunset, close to the western horizon, the sky was a layered mass of storm clouds. A cold wind, sharp with moisture, cut at his exposed face, and a fine mist fell, punctuated by an occasional hard grain that might be ice. At a higher elevation -- and not so very much higher, he judged -- it would be snowing.
"As I figure it," he replied to Lyla's question, drawing back among the evergreens and out of the rain, "Hel's Canyon should be about five kilometers north of us -- as the crow flies."
"You're not a crow," Lyla said, dampeningly, "assuming that you've ever even seen one."
Philips gave her a look of mock disgust. "Of course I have. I've been to Earth. But I'll bet you've never seen a Bellian parrokat."
"Sure, I have," she retorted, in exactly the same tone. "They had one at the New York Extraterrestrial Zoo."
"Touche," he surrendered. "Got a hood on that cape? If you do, you'd better put it on." He was groping at the area of his cape just in front of the collar as he spoke. An instant later he unsealed the seam there and pulled out the waterproof hood that went with his cape. By the time he had tied it into place, Lyla had adjusted her own.
"All ready," she informed him.
"Good. According to my navigator, and the map I studied, this place we're in actually connects with Hel's Canyon, near the northern end. The canyon is a little to the northwest of us, We're almost on top of it, though. We follow this little canyon until we come to a stream that's actually an offshoot of the Fjorm -- probably what we're hearing up ahead -- then go upstream from there. Nothing easier."
"Why do I always worry when people say things like that?" she remarked, whimsically.
"Superstition," Philips retorted. They started northward.
The way was rocky, not easy going, but not impossibly difficult, either -- it merely required patience, effort and care. They rested frequently. On one such rest, after a stiff scramble up a sharp incline, Lyla eyed the rocky path extending ahead of them and sighed.
"I thought you said this was going to be simple," she remarked, sinking onto a large, round boulder. One hand was scratched and bleeding slightly, and her knuckles were skinned.
Philips laughed a bit ruefully. "Never trust aerial maps," he said. "But we *are* closer. Listen."
The tinkle and gurgle of the stream was considerably louder now. Lyla nodded, but showed no disposition to move.
"That's okay. I'm in no rush."
Philips didn't hurry her. It would be awhile before Lewis could arrive anyhow, and they were as safe here as anywhere. After a time they rose to resume their trek. The path began to slope downhill a short distance on, and they found walking easier. The light mist had turned into a gentle rain, that showed no sign of stopping. Overhead the sky was as black as the inside of a coal mine, and around them it was becoming difficult to see details.
"Wish I dared show a light," Philips said. "The sun will be down in fifteen minutes and it'll be like pitch out here."
"We'll just have to be careful," Lyla said, voice sounding a little muffled, coming as it did from inside the enveloping rain hood. "Too bad we haven't any night glasses."
Philips stopped, with an exclamation of disgust. "I am an idiot!"
"Why?" she asked reasonably. "Just because you didn't bring everything you might need ..."
"The 'trols survival pack!" Philips shrugged it clumsily from his shoulders and began to pull it open.
Sure enough, inside were four pairs of night glasses. Swearing to himself, Philips handed Lyla a pair and fitted on his own. At once, the landscape became visible. The lenses of the night glasses concentrated the small amount of light available to them and gave them vision almost equal to full day. The glasses possessed by the Patrol were, he noticed, quite superior to those available to civilians, both in the Confederation and the Autonomy.
Still swearing under his breath, he closed the pack and shouldered it.
"Take it easy," Lyla advised him, and he could hear the amusement in her voice. "I didn't think of it either."
"Yeah, but I'm supposed to know things like that! I'll bet Alan wouldn't have pulled anything that dumb!"
"But you're not Alan Westover," Lyla said, quietly. "You're Matt Philips, who isn't used to this kind of thing. I think you've done a remarkable job so far."
For some reason, her praise made him feel better. He grinned in the darkness. "Thanks, Lyla. You're good for my ego."
He heard her chuckle. "Anytime, Matt. Tell me, you've mentioned Alan Westover a couple of times. Do you know him well?"
"Yeah, pretty well." He stood up, gave her a hand to her feet, and they started on again. They progressed for a time in silence. The way was getting steeper, a sharp downhill slant, littered with loose, and now wet and slippery rock. If it had not been for the night glasses one or both of them might have taken a bad fall. The sun had set completely, and without the glasses they would have been walking in pitch-blackness.
At last the slope leveled out. Lyla dropped wordlessly onto a boulder, breathing hard. Philips sat down beside her, reflecting to himself that he would have to start working out at the base gym three times weekly instead of twice. He'd thought he was in pretty fair condition until now.
Lyla's begoggled face turned toward him; the hood she wore dripped moisture. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Alan Westover, of course. You say you know him. What's he like?"
Philips grinned. "He's very nice."
She made a small sound of exasperation and he laughed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Everybody's heard about Alan Westover," she defended. "They flash his picture on the video at least once a week, and there's all kinds of incredible stories about him. Naturally I'd be curious."
"Is that all?"
She wiped dampness from her lower face; for a moment he thought he thought she wasn't going to answer, then suddenly she spoke. "All right, I do have another reason. I used to know him. I was eight years older, and I used to babysit him. He was always such a well-behaved little boy. It's hard to believe the things the Jils say about him, now."
"Hard to believe?" Philips asked.
"Well ... sort of." She let her voice trail off. "It just seemed so unlikely, that's all. Did he really kill Salthvor ... or did the Strike Commander do it?"
Philips hesitated a moment, then countered with a question of his own. "Is that all, Lyla? You used to babysit him?"
"Well, no," she admitted, reluctantly. "Not exactly."
"You're a relative of his, aren't you?"
A long silence. "How can you tell?"
"Oh, come, now! I spotted it when I first saw you. It's the eyes, mostly, I think," he added, honestly. "You're a lot better looking."
Lyla chuckled suddenly. "Well, that's reassuring! You're right, Matt. His mother was my sister. We were second cousins to his father, Matthew, so we had the same last name. I guess there's no reason to hide it ... I just got into the habit of being cautious, that's all -- I mean, if you're a psychic, the last thing you want is for other people to know that you're related to Alan Westover!"
"I guess it would be," he admitted. "Especially if you were trying to hide."
"Exactly. I always hoped he'd find me after ... well, after it became known that he belonged to the Terran Underground. But he never did."
Philips nodded. "I know who you are now," he said, quietly. "He's talked about you. He tried to find you after his uncle's family came to the Underground, but you'd disappeared. He thought he was too late. He blamed himself for a long time. You're Lyla Westover."
She admitted it. "I guess I covered my tracks too well, huh?"
Philips shook his head. "Be glad you did," he replied, seriously. "If you hadn't, they might have found you first." He stood up. "Let's go on. To answer your question, Alan shot Salthvor. Mark Linley had double-crossed the Jilectans and was helping him escape. Salthvor ordered him killed. Alan outdrew the Jil to save Linley's life. We found the two of them on Shallock a week or two later."
"So Mark Linley really did defect," Lyla said, slowly. "When I heard the story, I couldn't figure out why the Strike Commander of a Jilectan battlecruiser would desert his command like that. I still can't."
"There was a good reason. Alan can tell you the whole story, himself, when you see him." Philips dodged the question adroitly. "As for what he's like now, he hasn't changed that much. He's matured quite a bit, of course. You grow up fast in this business, and Alan's gone up through the ranks fast too -- mostly because of what he is. Our people tell us he's still the most powerful psychic in the Underground. There's only one other who can match him. He's had a lot of responsibility dumped on him very young, but he handled it well. He gives credit to Linley for that. Mark taught him a lot about command responsibility. He's not the naive kid he was fourteen years ago -- but he's still Alan."
"And the stories?"
"Oh yes, the stories." Philips grinned to himself. "The stories are generally true -- exaggerated quite a bit, of course. The Underground let it be known he was a member, on purpose. The propaganda value was tremendous. It let the common folk know that the Jils weren't gods -- that they can be killed, too. It shattered the myth of the invincible Jilectan -- a necessary thing, may I add. They're physically very impressive people, you know, and it's very easy to accept that they possess godlike powers. Alan cut the myth down to size."
"He did, didn't he?" she admitted, slowly. "After Salthvor, I never thought of them as quite so all powerful again. But they're still frightening."
"Oh yes." He nodded emphatically. "Don't ever stop being afraid of them, Lyla. A Jilectan can be incredibly dangerous. They may not be demigods, but they're stronger and faster than we are -- their home world's gravity is 1.54 Terran gees, you know. Their females average between two and two-and-a-half meters and the males can sometimes hit over three meters tall. And don't ever think they aren't every bit as intelligent as we are. A lot of their upper class is a bit decadent, but plenty of them aren't. They got where they are by the ruthless use of force and they're as willing to use it now as they ever were. So keep right on being afraid of them. It'll make you more cautious."
"A thoroughly sensible attitude," the woman said, lightly. "Don't think I won't be."
"Good," he said emphatically.
They went onward. The last of the light disappeared and Philips was profoundly thankful for the night glasses. The rain was no longer gentle; the rocks underfoot were slippery and uneven, and their boots were slimy with mud. Philips could no longer hear the stream over the sound of wind and falling rain, and so when they rounded a short turn in the canyon wall to see the rivulet practically at their feet, it came as a total surprise. Its sound, no longer blocked by rock wall, burst suddenly about them.
The vigorous little stream was tumbling merrily along its rocky bed, swollen almost to the top of its banks by the rain. It rolled past for ten meters, then dropped over a ledge in a three meter fall to go sliding out of sight behind a jutting rock escarpment. Philips turned upstream, keeping close to the rock wall. If an aircar showed up they might be able to escape detection that way.
He hoped one wouldn't show up. Lew must be on his way by now, no doubt in Colonel Waters' Patrol car. With any luck they would be out of danger before long.
He checked his chronometer. Five hours now since they had abandoned their stolen aircar. He and Lyla would pay for their unaccustomed physical activity tomorrow, he reflected, philosophically. Oh well, he'd just have to work out more vigorously from now on. Maybe Lyla played tennis.
"About another two kilometers," he informed her, at last. "We'll rest if we get tired. No use wearing ourselves out."
"What do you mean, 'if'?" she panted, whimsically. "Don't you know we doctor-types aren't supposed to do more than play golf on Sunday?"
"I like golf," Philips said, cheerfully. "I also like hiking."
"So do I," she admitted. "But don't you think the conditions are a bit overdone?"
He couldn't repress a laugh. "You'll make it. Do you play tennis?"
"Sure do. We put in a court in Ragnarok last year."
"Great. So do I. We'll have to enroll you in our tennis club back at base."
"You have a tennis club?"
"Of course," he responded, mildly surprised. "Most of the people there never leave -- they're there for safety! We can't have everybody go stir crazy from boredom, you know. Nova Luna is a big community, just like most towns on Terra -- except that it's under air domes, and extends for a long way underground." He grinned. "We have a local theater group too -- the New Globe Theater; your notorious young nephew acted in A Comedy of Errors last week. He was great as usual -- a born actor, which is useful in his job, I guess. And we have a Tri-Dee theater, and swimming pools, and library -- every form of recreation you can think of -- even a null grav dome for stunt tag aficionados. You should like that."
"I would," she admitted. "Are there schools?"
"Of course. Everything from preschool through college. It's small, but sufficient. We have some of the best educators in the Confederation. Most of them were psychics who had to run for their lives." He didn't include the military academy in his list. That could come later when they were safe. "And a medical center. All the comforts of home."
"It sounds like you're really organized," she admitted. "Not that I'd have refused to come under any circumstances."
"I know." He paused. "What was your husband's name, Lyla? If he had relatives on Terra we'll try to put a trace on them. That's how we find a lot of undiscovered psychics; through relatives."
"Harris Channing. That's why I picked Cane as a surname. I figured I'd make fewer mistakes if my initials were the same."
"That's interesting," Philips said. "There's an Adrian Channing and his family at the Nova Luna station. Picked out of Germany back in the sixties, I think. Know him?"
"No," Lyla said, "but it could be. My husband's family used to live in Germany. He did have a brother -- a married brother -- who disappeared there, along with his family. He called him Addie. It could have been Adrian, I guess. It was before I met Harris in '73. I don't suppose it's too likely."
"More likely than you might think," Philips told her. "Adrian's family was rescued from the Patrol in '68 or '69 -- I remember him talking about it. The Jils try to trace psychics through their family trees, just like the Underground does. That may have been how they found Harris -- tracing him through his family. You may find your husband's relatives are waiting for you at the base."
They hiked on for a time in silence. The rain had become a heavy downpour and the sky overhead looked like the uttermost depths of the Pit. Rain blew into their faces despite the hoods, and the wind was sharp and cold.
The noisy little brook was their guide and assured them that they could not become lost, but its babbling gurgle also hid any sounds in the vicinity. Philips was not as familiar with the fauna of Midgard as Lyla certainly must be. He hoped they wouldn't run into anything hungry in the dark, for with his shields up he would have little warning. He was feeling a trifle uneasy as it was. Could it be his precognitive ability speaking up, or just nerves? That was the problem with this particular talent. Often, you couldn't be sure. He hoped that most of the big animals would be discouraged by the downpour.
The narrow walled canyon opened up suddenly and all at once they were standing at the bottom of a huge depression in the ground. Above them, rock walls soared toward the black sky. They must rise a good three or four kilometers, Philips estimated, peering upward into the dark and rain. The open space extended north and south as far as his begoggled eyes could see, and before them rose a sea of evergreens. The brook ran away to the west to vanish among the trees. Ahead, the babble and gurgle of the water had changed. Instead, Philips could hear the rushing thunder of a much larger torrent than their small guide. The Fjorm lay ahead, the huge river that flowed out of the mountains to the doorstep of Muspelheim and on south to the ocean. They had reached Hel's Canyon.
The huge gash in the mountains ran north and south for six hundred kilometers according to the map he'd studied, filled with evergreens and undergrowth. The rain was coming down steadily, mixed now with little flakes that melted as soon as they touched the ground. Philips surveyed the rock wall beside which they stood.
It was jagged and uneven; an occasional spindly plant clung precariously to little pockets of dirt here and there on its near vertical expanse. With luck, they could find some sort of shelter here.
He turned and began to walk north along the canyon wall, looking for a likely spot -- a small cave or overhang, or even a depression in the rock where they could get out of the wind and falling water. Pitching a tent out in the open was out of the question, so if they didn't find some kind of natural shelter it was going to be a cold, wet night for both of them.
They had walked perhaps a kilometer when he saw the cave. It reached to waist height and extended some way back into the rock wall. Philips squatted down and peered within.
Darkness met his gaze. For a couple of meters into the opening he could barely make out the rock walls, but beyond that he could see nothing. Even the night glasses were useless here. For a moment he hesitated, then shrugged. Very cautiously, he lowered his shields, ready to snap them back up at the first sign of Linthvar's mind. His neck prickled as he did so, but nothing happened. Actually, it was quite possible the Jilectan was sound asleep at this hour. He searched the area mentally, but could sense nothing. The cave was almost certainly empty. He put his shields back up.
"Well?" Lyla asked.
"Empty." He looked around. A broken branch lay a short distance away, and he appropriated it. Getting down on hands and knees, he crept slowly into the narrow passage. A couple of meters into the rock, he paused, eased his shields open, and concentrated. The twiggy ends of his branch began to sizzle and steam. A dull glow came from them. As he concentrated, the glow became brighter, then with a pop and a hiss, the branch burst into flame, revealing a small room beyond, where the passage walls widened into an area perhaps two meters by two and a half. Not exactly roomy, but certainly adequate. Philips shielded his eyes from the light until they adjusted, then, holding the torch over his head, he crawled into the wider space.
Lyla was on his heels. When they were able to stop and sit down she regarded the blazing branch with a certain measure of respect.
"My goodness," she remarked, "I didn't know anyone could do that."
Philips grinned. "Even us staid medical types like to surprise people once in a while. I found out I could do this a couple of years back. I don't think even Lew knows I'm a pyro, come to think of it." He planted the branch firmly in a pile of stones and braced it with a couple of large rocks. "There. There's probably a heating unit and a hand light in this survival pack somewhere. Help me find it before the fire goes out."
Together, they spread the pack out on the stony ground. Four small hand lights and extra power cells were located in short order, a heating unit about the size of two fists was also present, ration cakes, a sealed canteen of what purported to be purified water, two more pairs of night glasses, a taster, medical supplies, a pair of distance viewers, four lightweight, highly compressible sleeping bags, two emergency blankets, a collapsed bubble tent with CO2 cartridge and emergency flares, all in the light, easily carried pack. Lyla set out the items, with the brandy bottle and jewelry bag as well. As they were examining them, the torch flickered several times and went out. Philips snapped one of the Patrol torches on low. Lyla set the heating unit on medium and began to dig out rations. Within a very short time the cold little room had warmed enough for them to remove their dripping cloaks and boots and drape the garments over rocks to dry. They ate, sitting crosslegged on the stone floor, their clothing steaming slightly in the warmth from the unit, with the sound of the rain and the river filling the night outside. If not for the probability that the Jilectan with his patrolmen were still out there somewhere, searching, it would have been almost pleasant.
They made their beds as comfortable as possible by brushing small rocks and debris away from flat areas of the floor and spread out two of the sleeping bags on the spots so cleared. It was during this procedure that Philips found the ration can.
It was obviously old, the label faded by time, its plastic surface brittle and cracked. The plastic would have long since disintegrated had it been left outside. But it was obvious that they were not the first to use this cave.
"I wonder who it belonged to," Lyla said.
"Probably a hiker or explorer," Philips said. "Interesting coincidence, though."
During the night, he was awakened by a sound like a blaster shot. He sat bolt upright. Again the sound, and he relaxed. Thunder. There was a tremendous electrical storm going on outside. Beside him, Lyla was also sitting up.
"What's going on?"
"Thunderstorm," Philips said. He lay back again, and heard her settle down beside him in her sleeping bag. For a long time he lay listening to the storm. Somewhere, deep within his mind, he was feeling uneasy. Too vague to be called precognition, too undefined; call it a hunch, perhaps, although that wasn't right, either. Whatever it was, he knew that somewhere out there in the night was danger. What it might be, or even if it was aimed at th
