Revolt!: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter III
Ten minutes later they were inside the farmhouse. Harold Tidd, the farmer, bustled them back into the kitchen where his wife and daughter, also with laser rifles, were peering out the rear windows. The farmer's two sons appeared moments later, rifles slung across their backs and Patrol blasters stuck in their belts.
The older boy, who topped his father by several centimeters, glanced at the crowd of disheveled fugitives, but spoke to his father. "What d'you want us to do with the 'trols, Pop?"
Tidd considered. "Toss 'em in the cesspool," he decided finally. "We don't want any of their buddies to find them if they come snooping around."
"Right." The two boys disappeared again. The farmer turned. "I've got to fix the door -- at least enough to keep the cold out."
"We'll help you." Roddy stood up, Chris with him. The other boy rose as well. They trooped out after Tidd.
"I'm Jay Wilson," the other boy introduced himself. "Have you heard anything about what's going on?"
Tidd shrugged. "I've been hearing all sorts of stuff on the video." He glanced at the Patrol blaster on Roddy's hip. "Where'd you get all the Patrol gear, Cadet?"
"We clobbered a patrolman in the woods," Roddy explained briefly.
"Good," Tidd said.
They wrestled the door back into position and, with some difficulty, wedged it in place. Tidd surveyed it sourly. "Guess that'll hold it 'til tomorrow morning. Come on back into the kitchen and warm up."
Together they trooped back into the kitchen. Chris found he was shaking a little -- reaction, he supposed. The farmer's wife handed him a steaming mug of coffee.
"Here you go," she said.
Chris accepted, with a smile. The heat of the cup felt good against his chilled fingers. The farmer motioned him to a chair. "Sit down, Cadet; you look shot. Dear, maybe you and Amy should take the kids up and put them to bed."
The woman and her daughter left the room accompanied by the children. Chris sighed and took a big swallow of coffee.
"And now," the farmer said, "Let's hear the story."
Chris began with the news of the explosion in the Rocky Mountains and ended with them crouching behind the fence and seeing the two patrolmen vanquished with the farmer's laser rifle. During the story the farmer's two sons reappeared, looking smug and satisfied. The larger of the two placed two Patrol issue blasters on the table.
"All done," he said.
The farmer picked up the blasters and concealed them in a cupboard behind stacked food containers. "Good work. Now, you and Benny go out to the front and keep an eye out for more 'trols, while Chris finishes his story."
"Okay." The boys vanished again, laser rifles in hand.
"Finish up, Chris," the farmer said.
Chris did so as quickly as possible. The farmer frowned, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully.
"We been listening to the reports on the video," he told them. "The local stations ain't sure what's going on. All we know is that a bunch of renegade 'trols have apparently occupied the town shuttleport, although why, nobody knows. They hijacked several shuttles, and are now running around the countryside, breaking into houses, robbing and harassing folks, and causing all kinds of problems. We've been advised to stay in our homes and stay calm, and all the usual rot to keep people from protecting themselves. Pretty crazy bunch, apparently. One cop that tried to talk to 'em was beaten to a pulp -- and another was killed. The governor has called in the Regional Militia for help."
Chris looked across the table at Roddy. Roddy shrugged. "If these guys are renegades, then there's a renegade Jil with 'em. I'm sure all those people who were being taken for mind probes weren't just making up stories about him being there."
"Maybe they took him prisoner," Chris said dubiously.
"Not likely," Roddy said.
"Not likely a bit," the farmer agreed. "That Jil's in on it with 'em. You can bet on it."
The farmer's wife appeared at the kitchen door again. Like her husband, she was short and slightly plump. Her daughter, a small, slender girl of perhaps fifteen, stepped through behind her.
"The children are all in bed," she told them. "I put them down the cellar behind all those crates I told you to get rid of last year, Harry."
"Thanks, dear." The farmer winked at her. "Well boys and girls, you've had a busy day. Would you like to get some sleep?"
Chris considered the offer dubiously. He ached with fatigue, but sleep seemed very far away. Roddy stood up. "Sure. C'mon, Chris. You'll feel sleepy once you're lying down."
"Okay." Chris accompanied the others down a long flight of steps into a large, cluttered cellar. Lottie Tidd showed them where she had spread out blankets for them on the stone floor, and Chris lay down, pulling the quilts up to his chin. The rock in his back pocket jabbed him as he did so.
He dug it out and surveyed it curiously. It was a rock, and nothing more. Its surface glittered dully in the dim light filtering from the stairway.
Roddy was watching him, his face unreadable. Chris slipped the stone into his side pocket and turned to face him.
"It looks just like a rock," he whispered.
"Looks can be deceiving," Roddy whispered back. "Chris --"
"Yeah?"
Roddy hesitated. "Uh -- nothing. Never mind."
Chris knew what he had been about to say. Roddy was worrying -- wondering if he was truly a psychic. Chris put a hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice to a mere thread of sound. "It doesn't matter. Understand? It doesn't matter."
"It sure does! If those 'trols catch us they'll take us right to that Jil."
"They aren't going to catch us!"
"They might. Good grief! What if I am?"
"Look, Roddy, we don't know."
"My mother was a psychic. Do you know what they did to her when they caught her? And psychic talents run in families --"
"But your father wasn't a psychic."
"I don't know that he wasn't." Roddy shook his head slowly. "He died when I was only ten."
"But -- look, he was probably a pretty big guy, wasn't he? I mean, psychics are all small people --"
"He was maybe six centimeters taller than Mom," said Roddy. "Just a smidge taller than I am now. Maybe."
Chris hesitated. He wanted to convince Roddy and himself that their suspicions weren't true. "Look, Rod, all small people aren't psychics."
"Sure, I know." Roddy shrugged.
"Besides, you can't tell what I'm thinking, can you?"
Roddy looked uncomfortable. "I can a lot of the time."
"Well sure -- but I can with you, too -- and I know I'm not a psychic. It's just 'cause we're good friends. We know each other well."
Jay Wilson's voice spoke from the darkness. "What are you two whispering about?"
"Nothing." Chris's heart jumped. "We'll shut up now. Sorry."
"That's okay."
Chris lay still, staring upwards into darkness. Mrs. Tidd had extinguished the stairway light, while they were whispering, and the room was pitch black. *Oh man!* he thought. *What if Roddy is a psychic? He's killed a couple of 'trols tonight, and we're still in an awful mess. What if they catch us and that Jil reads us? He'll find out what we suspect about the rock. They might let me go -- after all, I'm just a dumb kid with a lot of romantic ideas in my head. But if Roddy's a psychic, he's dead --*
Roddy's hand touched his wrist. "Stop worrying," he whispered. "They aren't going to catch us. Besides, I'm probably not."
Chris gulped and caught his hand in a firm grip. Roddy returned the handclasp reassuringly.
"Don't worry," he repeated. "Go to sleep."
Strange, Chris thought, that Roddy, who had initiated the conversation, had now become the comforter. It was like a dying man reassuring his loved ones that everything would be all right.
They lay still in the darkness. Chris closed his eyes and tried to will his mind to go blank. He was terribly tired and needed to sleep. Tomorrow promised to be no less dangerous than today had been.
After a few minutes he began to relax, and Roddy's breathing became deep and regular. Tomorrow would take care of itself. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof --" That had been in Brother Dominic's sermon today, hadn't it? But he hadn't listened to the sermon --
Chris slept.
**********
Chapter IV
The voice of Harold Tidd awoke them. "Now look here! You got no right to come busting into my home in the middle of the night --"
"Shuddup!" It was another man's voice, loud, and decidedly unfriendly. "We do what we damn please, farmer, and there's nothin' you can do about it. Now keep your mouth shut, or you and your ol' lady are gonna end up dead."
There was a bang, and light flooded the cellar. Roddy eased the blaster from his belt, noticing that Chris was doing the same. Booted feet descended the stairway and there was a thump, and then the tinkle of broken glass.
"Hey!" Tidd protested.
"Shuddup!" It was the other voice again, and the words were succeeded instantly by another crash. "You listen good, Mister! We been up all night searching for those damn runaways. If we find you're hidin' 'em --"
"I ain't seen anybody!" Tidd snapped.
"So you say. Those brats o' yours didn't look too friendly. I'll betcha that bunch is around here someplace."
"Hey, Joe." It was a new voice, "Check over behind all that junk over there."
Roddy tensed, glancing at Chris, who was peering around the edge of the crates. Chris returned his glance and winked. There was another crash.
The other shuttle fugitives were awake, now. The children were cowering back, their eyes wide with terror. Roddy motioned them desperately to silence.
"They ain't here, sir. Dammitall!"
"What's the matter now?"
"Jammed m'thumb on the side o' this crate --" A string of curses followed. "I say we kill 'em all, sir. All of 'em -- except the girl. We can take her along, and dump her body in a ditch when we've finished with her --"
"Forget it!" the other man snapped. "We're in enough trouble."
"We could say they opened fire on us. The Jil ain't gonna care --"
"I said forget it. Besides we didn't find any guns. You got a spare laser rifle to leave on the scene to prove your story?"
"Ah, hell, sir, I've had it with this!" There was another crash, followed by another string of curses.
"Yeah, I know. That damned Regional Militia is making a bloody nuisance of itself, too -- but you heard the orders."
"Dammitall! Don't you people know when to quit?" (This apparently addressed to the farmer.)
Tidd cleared his throat. "You fellas been having a rough time of it, huh?"
"Keep that bloody sneer outta your voice, ya li'l twerp!" It was Joe again. "Yeah, we been havin' a rough time, all right, an' if the Sarge wasn't here, I'd --"
"Joe." It was the other patrolman, his voice quiet and firm. "Get your hands off of him."
There was a muttered oath and then a thump as the farmer was apparently dropped to the floor.
"Finish the search."
"Yessir," the other man growled.
The sergeant spoke to Tidd. "Have your wife and daughter make us some coffee. Hurry up."
"And somethin' t'eat, too," the other man snarled.
Tidd grunted a reply and his footsteps ascended the stairs. After awhile the patrolmen followed, leaving the light burning. Chris let out his breath.
"Okay, they're gone, but keep quiet until Mr. Tidd tells us they've left the house."
Wyatt Benson nodded. "Nice guys," he commented.
"For sure," Jay said.
The little boy began to sniffle. "I want my mama --"
One of the girls bent put her arms around him. "Sh! You mustn't cry, Mark. I'm sure your Mom's okay."
The sobs became louder. Roddy moved closer to the little boy, giving him his best smile. "Hey, kid, I'll bet this is going to be some story to tell the kids at school!"
Mark quieted at once, looking thoughtful. "Yeah!" he said.
"And your big brother," Roddy said.
"Yeah!" The little boy smiled. Roddy lay back, grinning a little to himself.
Chris glanced toward him, not speaking, and suddenly Roddy knew again what Chris was thinking. How had he known that young Mark had an older brother? The kid hadn't told him. He was sure of that!
The door above opened again and they all tensed, but the footsteps descending the stairs were the light, graceful ones of a girl wearing bedroom slippers. The farmer's daughter peered around the crates at them. "Everybody all right?"
Chris and Roddy nodded.
"Are they gone?" Jay asked.
"Yes. Took their coffee -- mugs and all -- and left." She chuckled softly.
Roddy found himself smiling. "What did your mom put in the coffee?"
The girl looked innocent. "Why Mr. Atkins, how dare you accuse my mother of such a thing!" She giggled. "Besides, it was nothing but a little laxative."
The laughter welled up in Roddy's throat. He heard the little boy asking one of the girls what a laxative was, and the girl's laughing reply. The little boy giggled shrilly. "Guess they'll have to use the bushes!" he piped.
The farmer's daughter flashed them a smile. "Go back to sleep. It's still three hours until daylight."
Roddy lay down as she instructed, Chris beside him. Two of the children began to whisper and Benson shushed them into silence. Roddy lay still, trying again to relax. The adrenaline had been set into motion again with the coming of the 'trols, and he could feel that Chris was tense and wakeful, too.
"Go to sleep," Chris's voice said from the darkness.
"I'm trying."
**********
He never did succeed in sleeping again. The first dim light of day was filtering through the window when he heard the sounds of motion upstairs. Instantly he was sitting up, the blaster ready in his hand. Chris, who had also been unable to sleep a second time, peered around the edge of the crates.
"It's okay," he whispered. "It's just Amy."
Soft footsteps descended the stairs, and crossed the cellar floor. An instant later the girl appeared, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, her hair falling disheveled over her shoulders. She smiled.
"Good morning," she whispered.
Wyatt Benson came to one elbow with a start. Jay Wilson also sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Hello there," he whispered.
"Want to come up and get some breakfast? Mom's fixing it."
"Sure." Chris glanced at the children and two girls still slumbering peacefully beneath their quilts. "I guess we could let the kids sleep awhile."
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea. They need it." The girl led the way back up the stairs. "There's a bathroom down the hall there, and on the right. If you feel like a shower, go ahead. I put Dad's razor in there, too."
"Thanks a lot," Roddy said.
"Thanks," Chris added.
She dimpled at them. "Sure. I'll see you at breakfast." Turning, she ran lightly up the stairs toward the upper floor.
**********
Roddy finished his shower and stepped out, toweling himself dry. He glanced disparagingly at his torn, dirty clothes. Well, there was nothing to do but put them back on --
A tap sounded on the door.
"Yeah?"
Chris stepped through, shutting the door behind him, and tossed Roddy a pair of slacks and a shirt. "Here. Compliments of Mr. Tidd."
"Oh man!" Roddy grinned and began to pull on the tattered jeans and flannel shirt. "Mm. Feels great." He tucked the shirt into the pants and put on his own belt, cinching it tight. The pants were far to broad for him, and dragged to the floor, but at the moment he didn't care. They were dry and clean, and that was all that mattered. He bent, rolling up the legs as Chris got in the shower.
Ready at last, he headed for the kitchen. On the way, he passed Harold Tidd, who was peacefully repairing the broken door.
"G'morning, Cadet. Now let me see, which one are you?"
"Roddy Atkins, sir."
"You can call me Harry, Rod." The farmer grinned at him. "Quite a night, wasn't it?"
"It sure was. Thanks for the clothes, by the way. Our bags sort of got left behind at the shuttleport."
"Sure thing," Tidd said. "They look sort of big. Sorry. My wife's a good cook."
"That's all right." Roddy stepped over to him. "Can I help you with the door?"
"Nah. I'm almost done. Go on into the kitchen and have some breakfast. You look like you could use it."
Mrs. Tidd looked around as he entered and smiled. "Good morning, Roddy. Here, sit down."
He obeyed, and she set an enormous plateful on the table. "Want some coffee?"
Roddy accepted the mug and sipped, then dug into the eggs, bacon, fried potatoes and toast that she had placed before him. *Man!* he thought, *if Harry eats like this every day, it's no wonder his pants don't fit me.*
Mrs. Tidd turned up the videoscreen. "Stirring times, Roddy."
Roddy nodded with his mouth full. "What's been happening?" he managed.
"Oh, all kinds of things. The Regional Militia has moved in on these so-called renegades, and so has the Planetary Peacekeeping Force. I think the Jils have bit off more than they can chew this time. More coffee?"
"Thanks," Roddy said absently, his eyes fixed on the screen. A young man was framed there, speaking excitedly into the news cameras.
"The latest report is that the fighting has moved east, concentrating now on the border of Lake Melrose." The screen flickered to a scene showing smoke billowing from a large, crumbling structure, and two black clad bodies sprawled on the ground before it. Behind Roddy, the kitchen door opened and Chris entered, his dark hair combed neatly. He was also wearing a pair of the farmer's jeans (with the cuffs turned up) and a blue checked flannel shirt. He looked about fifteen in the sagging attire.
Mrs. Tidd placed another plate on the table. "Here you are, Chris. Coffee?"
"Yes. Thank you." Chris was already looking at the video. "My gosh! How did they get that shot?"
Roddy looked back at the screen. The picture was a close-up of a patrolman crouching behind what looked like an ancient threshing machine. He fired, then ducked back as a blaster shot hissed close.
"My goodness," Mrs. Tidd said.
The newsman was back. "Ten renegades have been flushed from their hole up in an abandoned barn. These ten have surrendered and are now in custody pending notification of the Jilectan Autonomy. Many more, however, are still roaming the countryside, and sporadic fighting continues. The Sheriff of Jackson County has declared a state of emergency, and citizens are advised to remain indoors. The Planetary Peacekeeping Force and the Regional Militia expect to have matters under control soon. Military spokesman advises citizens to remain calm --"
From some distance away came the sound of gunfire. Roddy jumped.
Mrs. Tidd went to the window and peered out. "That's getting too close for comfort."
"Where's it coming from?" Wyatt Benson was in the doorway, also clad in the farmer's clothing.
"Near the lake," Mrs. Tidd said. "We've been hearing it off and on all morning. Sit down, Mr. Benson, and have some breakfast."
Benson obeyed, and reached for the coffeepot. "Wish I could call my wife," he said. "She's probably worried sick by now."
"We can try," Mrs. Tidd said. "I tried to call last night, but the lines were jammed. Might be better now. There's a videophone over there on the wall."
"Thanks." Benson went over to the phone, coffee cup in hand. From outside there came another explosion.
Jay Wilson appeared in the doorway, the two teenaged girls beside him. Behind them trailed the children who had escaped with them the night before.
"Heard blaster fire," Jay said. "What's going on?"
"Fighting nearby," Chris told him.
"Thought so." Jay entered the spacious kitchen. "Planetary Peacekeeping is probably here by now, huh?"
"Yes." Roddy finished his breakfast and picked up his coffee cup, relinquishing his place at the table to one of the girls. Another, louder explosion sounded, accompanied by the muffled crack of blasters. He went to the window and peered out. A moment later Chris joined him.
Benson turned away from the phone with an exclamation of disgust. "The lines are still jammed. I could be at this all day and still not get through!"
"Listen!" Chris said sharply. "Somebody's coming!"
Roddy heard it, too -- the pound of footsteps, running. In the hallway there was a clatter of feet. A dog barked excitedly.
"What on earth --" Mrs. Tidd had started for the kitchen door when the dog burst through, followed instantly by a second, dangerous looking mongrel. One of the children screamed.
"Mom!" It was one of the farmer's sons, a large, brilliantly plumed, highly indignant rooster clasped in his arms. "Dad says you and the girls and the kids are to go into the cellar. Barricade yourselves in!"
"Why? What's going on?"
"Hurry!" The boy had his mother by the arm and was pushing her toward the door. "There's a bunch of 'trols coming! Hurry, kids!"
The girls caught the children by the hands and ran. Chris and Roddy followed.
The farmer's other son was perched on a stool by the living room window, a laser rifle in his hands. A goat was lying in the middle of the rug, chewing placidly.
"Hurry!" the boy called. "Here they come."
"Where's Harry?" the woman demanded.
"He's upstairs, keeping an eye on things. Move, Mom!"
Mrs. Tidd obeyed, ushering the children before her through the cellar door. The boy spoke to Chris and Roddy. "You two better go back into the kitchen. You can see the front door from there -- just in case they try to come in the house." He glanced meaningfully at the blaster stuck in Roddy's belt.
"What about Jay and me?" Wyatt Benson asked.
"Better go upstairs with Dad." The boy turned back to the window. "He's got an extra laser rifle and a blaster up there."
"Right!" Benson and Jay ran up the stairs while Roddy and Chris hurried back into the kitchen. Roddy eased open a window, unfastened the screen and leaned carefully out.
They were protected by a large, leafless bush that grew against the side of the house, but through the tangled branches they could see the narrow road leading up to the front door. Several figures, clad in the black and scarlet of the Viceregal Patrol, were coming along the road at a trot, and in the midst of the patrolmen was a much taller, slimmer, redheaded figure clad in torn silvery robes.
"What the devil is that?" Chris asked.
Roddy knew. "That's a Jil."
"Huh? Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. I saw one once before in Los Angeles."
"Oh man! Roddy, if you --" He broke off.
Roddy knew what he was thinking. Jilectans, the ruling species, condemned Terran psychics as inborn degenerates and criminals. If it were true that Roddy was indeed a psychic, the Jil might sense him -- probably would, in fact, if he got close enough. And Roddy had seen more than one Terran psychic die on public video. It wasn't a pretty sight.
Here came the patrolmen past the fence and into the yard, the Jilectan still in their midst. Behind them on the road, Roddy could see at least four vehicles of the Regional Militia in rapid pursuit. One of the patrolmen ran swiftly up the steps and raised a booted foot to kick in the door.
It didn't work, for the farmer had reinforced the panel with steel during his repair efforts that morning. The patrolman swore and tried again and then drew the blaster from his belt.
And suddenly Roddy was angry. On impulse, and in spite of Chris's cry of warning, he leaned from the window, took careful aim, and fired.
Someone else, probably the farmer, fired at the same instant, for the reddish beam came from above, missing by centimeters. But Roddy didn't miss, not even hindered as he was by the bushy growth beside the window. The patrolman staggered back clutching his shoulder, and half fell down the porch steps. Feeling suddenly very good, Roddy took aim at another patrolman.
There were shouts of warning, and the men scurried for the barn, half carrying their injured comrade. Roddy fired a shot after them, and someone yelped. Chris also fired, obviously aiming for the Jilectan. The big alien ducked and vanished into the barn.
Roddy grabbed his arm. "No! Not the Jil!"
"Why not?" Chris's eyes were shining.
"What if he is a prisoner? We'd get everybody here in terrible trouble if we killed him!"
"He's no prisoner -- oh, all right." Chris shrugged. "I won't shoot at him any more. Doesn't look like I'll get a chance to, anyway."
The rest of the patrolmen disappeared into the barn after their master. Roddy peered out again, seeing the Regional Militia vehicles jolting to a halt just outside the gate. Men clad in green and brown mottled uniforms began to emerge, taking cover behind the vehicles. Somebody appeared at the door of the barn and fired a shot. Roddy also fired, and the man dropped without a sound.
The Regional Militiamen were inching forward cautiously, crouching behind fences and scrubby growth. Two more patrolmen appeared around the side of the barn, firing. Someone screamed, and there was a barrage of return fire. One of the patrolmen fell, and the other dove for cover behind the fence that surrounded the chicken house. There was a frantic squawking, and feathers swirled upward. Roddy felt Chris laughing silently.
The Regional Militiamen were still creeping cautiously toward the barn. Roddy watched, blaster held at ready to cover his fellows should the need arise. The militiamen were, of course, afraid to attack too directly. If the patrolmen were flushed from the barn, a far more determined effort might be made to enter the house, which would put in jeopardy the lives of the people barricaded inside. Besides, Roddy was fairly sure that the militiamen, too, wanted to avoid injury to the Jilectan if at all possible. Their orders would be to capture -- not to kill -- unless there was no other choice.
"Roddy," Chris said suddenly.
"What?"
"Do you hear something?"
Roddy listened. Chris was right. Over the crack of blasters outside, he heard it -- the faint scrape of boots on wood.
"Someone's trying to get into the house!" Roddy turned from the window. "We've got to warn Mr. Tidd!"
"I'll go!" Chris ran for the door. "You stay here and keep an eye on things."
Roddy nodded. "Okay. Be careful."
"I will." Chris bounded up the stairs, two at a time.
**********
Chris Powers ran up the steps, gripping the Patrol blaster in one hand. Again came the sound -- the scrape of feet, and then a soft thump. He looked frantically around for the farmer. "Mr. Tidd! Where are you?"
Tidd appeared in a doorway, a laser rifle gripped in one hand. "What's the matter?"
"I think someone's trying to get in the house. Listen!"
The farmer did so. Chris tensed as the soft thump of a foot on tiles reached his ears. "They're on the roof! Don't you hear 'em?"
Tidd stared at him. "I don't hear anything -- except blaster fire. Are you sure?"
"Yes!" Chris could almost see the figures in his mind's eye, inching across the slanting roof toward the attic --
The attic!
Chris caught the farmer's wrist. "Is there an attic window, sir?"
"Yeah, there is." The farmer stared at him oddly. "I guess they might climb the old apricot tree and make it to the roof."
"Where is it?" Chris felt his nerves -- his whole body screaming for haste. Tidd gestured suddenly.
"Come with me," he said, and ran down the carpeted hallway. They went up a narrow flight of steps and paused before a large slanting trap door set in the ceiling. Tidd started to reach for it, and Chris grabbed his hand, pulling him back.
"Wait!" he whispered. "Listen!"
The scrape of feet came clearly through the closed panel. Chris tugged at the farmer's arm. "Come on! Quick!"
Tidd followed him down the stairs, no longer protesting. Chris pulled his companion behind the stairs. "Sh!"
The farmer nodded. "You think they're already in the attic?" he asked.
"Didn't you hear them?" Chris stared incredulously at the man.
"Nope," Tidd said. He smiled a secret smile. "But I'll bet you did."
Above, the attic door creaked faintly and then slid back. Chris and the farmer faded farther into the shadow of the stairway.
Two patrolmen, each holding a blaster, descended the stairs. They stepped into the hallway within plain sight of Tidd and Chris.
"Hold it right there," the farmer said.
The patrolman nearest Chris spun, his weapon lifting. Chris's blaster cracked and the man was thrown back to crash ungracefully against the opposite wall. The other patrolman did nothing so foolish. He remained frozen for an instant. Then the blaster dropped from his hand.
"Don't shoot," he said.
"I'll check out the attic," Chris said. "You cover him."
"Right," Tidd said. "Be careful, Cadet."
"I will." Chris went cautiously up the steps. No sound could be heard -- no rustle of feet, or hiss of an incautious breath. The attic was deserted. Quickly he stepped through and switched on the light.
Nothing but piled boxes and discarded clothing met his eyes. The window, however, hung open, the bolt melted, probably by a blaster on needle beam.
He closed the window again, and heaved as many crates against it as he could, blocking it securely from the inside. Then, after a final glance around, he descended the narrow steps again, leaving the trap door open behind him. If any more attempts were made to enter that way, they would be heard more easily through the open door.
Harold Tidd was waiting for him, the patrolman's blaster in his hand. The captive lay face down and unconscious at his feet. Chris noted that the farmer had secured the patrolman's hands behind him with a set of restrainers, no doubt taken from the man's own belt.
"All clear," Chris said. "I wedged it shut."
"Good boy." Tidd lifted the man's heels and began to drag him down the hallway. Chris helped him, and together they heaved the limp body through the bedroom door.
Wyatt Benson and Jay Wilson glanced around from their respective windows. Benson's eyebrows went up. "Well, where did you find him?"
"Trying to climb through the attic window," Tidd grunted. He let the man's legs fall with a thump to the floor. "Hold on." He dug through a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of panty hose. "This'll do." He proceeded to bind the man's feet. "You better get back to your post, son."
"Yessir." Chris started toward the door. Roddy appeared in the doorway, face flushed, blue eyes wide.
"Listen!" he hissed.
Chris obeyed. "Oh gosh!"
"What?" Jay asked.
"Scraping -- That apricot tree, Mr. Tidd -- does it pass near any windows?"
Tidd didn't answer. He went past them down a hallway and through another door.
"Careful!" Roddy called, hurrying after him. Chris followed, too, his blaster held at the ready.
They entered a small bathroom. The scraping was louder now, and, as they watched, a hand appeared, gripping a branch of the apricot tree outside the window. Chris relaxed, glancing at the farmer. "He's all yours."
Tidd strode over to the window, stood to one side of it, and pressed a control. The glass slid sluggishly upward.
"Hold it" Tidd said.
The man in the apricot tree froze. Tidd stepped from concealment, the Patrol blaster aimed at his face. "C'mon in Patrolman. You got a buddy? Yes, I see you do. All right, climb in -- real slow, and don't try anything. You're covered from three directions."
Slowly the men complied, scowling and muttering under their breath. Roddy came quickly forward to remove the blasters from their holsters. "Okay, down on your faces."
When the men were safely secured, Roddy and Chris marched them back into the main bedroom with Jay and Wyatt, while Tidd stayed behind to secure the window. The two cadets fastened the patrolmen's feet with more pantyhose, and secured them to the big, four poster bed. Tidd reappeared as they were tying the last knot.
"Okay, I've barricaded the window. You boys better get back downstairs. Sounds like things are getting pretty hairy down there."
"Yessir." The two boys started for the door.
"And Cadets --"
"Yessir?"
Harold Tidd's blue eyes twinkled at them. "If you 'hear' anything else, let me know about it right away. All right?"
"Right," Roddy said. He looked a little uncomfortable. "Uh -- Mr. Tidd --"
The farmer raised a hand. "I don't want to know any secrets. The less I know, the less I can spill -- if it comes to that. Now get going."
"C'mon, Roddy," Chris took him by the arm, and together they ran back down the stairs.
The scene without had changed somewhat since Chris had departed to warn Tidd of the patrolman attempting to enter the house through the attic. Several bodies lay strewn around the yard -- bodies of both militiamen and patrolmen. The man who had taken refuge in the chicken house had blown a hole in the enclosure and was peeping through it, firing sporadically. The militiamen, from what Chris could see, were mostly concealed behind the picket fence and a small shed that stood to one side of the house. The situation appeared to be a standoff.
"Man," Roddy said. "This could go on all day." He glanced at Chris. "That blasted Jil has the advantage here, you know. He's probably got the C.O. pinpointed and is reading his mind. That means he'll be able to anticipate just about any moves our side makes."
"Yeah," Chris said slowly. "But if he's reading the C.O., he's probably not paying much attention to the people in the house. He probably thinks we're pretty much immobilized, anyway."
"And aren't we?" Roddy asked.
Chris's eyes strayed toward the pantry. "Maybe not --"
**********
tbc
